The online event calendar held endless opportunities. After finding one that suited me, I circled the date on my own calendar, secured my place in the class, and eagerly awaited the end of the week. The instruction would be a Breakfast at Tiffany’s inspired painting. Not flowers or trees or a beach scene, although those appealed to me, too. I went for something that seemed easy enough for a first painting class.
Wine flowed among the attendees while a local artist gave step-by-step instructions. I got a boost of confidence when he stopped beside me and complimented my use of color. A different section of painting, and feeling less secure in my efforts, I faltered, brush poised over the canvas. He said, “Don’t be afraid of it.” I realized my over-active inner critic, and her best friend Perfectionist, had shown up to the painting party. I also let his words swirl like the red liquid before me. It didn’t have to be perfect. Nor was it going to be. In fact, one of the gloved hands of my ‘Holly’ turned out looking like a pointed lobster claw instead of rounded fingers. Upon returning home, I proudly displayed the painting with all its numerous, clumsy flaws in my study.
bubble up in wine glasses
Fall onto a stained canvas.
dVerse – We’re writing about wabi-sabi – the art of imperfection – on this Haibun Monday.
Photo – L. Burton
My favorite candy store. The one that’s tucked away on the Square and takes half an hour to get to, but I’ll drive that far if I’m looking for a special gift or just have a craving. I enjoy the drive. Getting out, getting away. It’s the nostalgia that hits me as soon as I step through the doors. The hum of the refrigerators with old fashioned glass soda bottles. The candy of my youth – Bottlecaps, Cherry Sours. My poet’s heart can’t deny the Shakespeare and Poe novelty items, but what I’m really after is the chocolate and sea salt. My mouth waters as I place a desired amount in a bag and take it to the counter. Seated outside, I people watch while I eat my chocolate treat before it melts.
Sweet salty summer –
air mingles with memories
melts in small circles.
dVerse – It’s a Haibun Monday Free For All.
Summer means road trips. Music, conversation, the letter game with road signs – which I invariably win because everyone else gives up before we’re half way through the alphabet. The city gives way to open road. Restlessness gives way to anticipation. I’m glad to trade the sweltering triple digits of Texas for the cool 80s of Colorado. The frequent early morning rain showers don’t slow us down. Touristy Durango is equal parts vibrant energy and laid back scenic paradise. Within walking distance from our hotel door is the Animas River, rushing and rippling over rocks. Lush green leaves whisper in the breeze. We take a guided river raft ride. Our tour guide is a friendly girl named Edith. I can’t stop looking at her dreadlocks. Further adventures take us on a ski lift to the alpine slides at the Purgatory Resort. I’m not a fan of heights and I keep a death grip on the chair. Somehow I don’t think that will help if anything goes wrong but it gets me through the ride. On the way out of town, I have to stop and take one last look at the breathtaking views.
Scenic summer trip
mountains rise up in the mist
trailing heart behind
dVerse – the pub is writing summer themed Haibuns this week.
My dad retired from the military, went to night school, and did odd construction jobs, but the thing I remember most was his job as a warehouse manager for a sporting goods store. Every six months I sported the latest Nike sneakers, had new swimsuits in the summer, and shiny tennis rackets when I started tennis lessons. For the three years that I played girls’ softball, my dad would practice playing catch with me. I appreciated his involvement.
Because my dad had the opportunity to meet coaches from the local universities, we went to a lot of college basketball games. It’s a wonder I’m not deaf from all the shrill, two-fingered, ear-splitting whistling that he did.
As an adult, I discovered through some of my dad’s old high school information that he’d wanted to be a sportswriter. At that point, I’d been writing for a while, and was thrilled to know that we shared another common interest. I asked him why he never pursued it. He merely shrugged as if it was no big deal, and said, “Oh, I don’t know.” He’s lived a full life even if some of his dreams weren’t realized. I’m still his biggest fan.
the sound of spring in daydreams –
catch a memory.
dVerse – Bjorn is hosting Haibun Monday where he asks us to write about sport. I went a little over the usual required one paragraph (sorry!) which doesn’t happen often but this took me way back and I have lots of fond memories of sports and time spent with my dad.
A fresh coat of paint and nails hammered into place to secure loose boards won’t mend this broken heart. Curl up and wait for you to come home, soak up sunbeams and hide in shadows of the overhead shade tree. When the wind blows, and sets the old chair to rocking, I think of you there, of us, and the way it used to be and it soothes the ache, however slightly. Little by little, I find comfort in memories.
You left in the Fall
trees caught fire, red and orange
leaves blew in the wind.
dVerse – Haibun Monday and Kintsugi: The Art of Broken Pieces.
My mother-in-law’s kitchen held a certain country charm. Red and white checkered curtain over wooden shutter blinds. Chicken décor occupied every available space. It also held a lot of warmth. Warmth in the way her easy smile and soft eyes greeted anyone who entered. And in the way visiting meant waking up to the smell of coffee, the sound of bacon sizzling in a pan. My mouth would water before I ever made it to the kitchen where we’d pile our plates with crispy bacon, biscuits with homemade gravy, the softest, fluffiest scrambled eggs, and fresh fruit salads of peach, strawberry and kiwi. I miss her breakfasts and the love she poured into them.
Early morning sun
mixes with palette of love
and warm summer winds.
dVerse – heating up the kitchen on Haibun Monday.