Stop

Thirty-five and still I travel as I did when I was a child. Head pressed against the cool of the window trying to ward off the carsickness rising within. Asking Dad to stop the car when things threatened to boil over. Mum having to give up her right to the front seat for my spot in the back. Watching the world swerve by in a mess of green as my forehead bumps lightly on the glass. Twirling my hair between finger and thumb, something my husband says I still do when tired. And what I used to do while sucking my thumb for comfort not so many years ago. 

rain-filled
this forgotten shoe
at the path's end 

Contemporary Haiku Online October 2013, vol 9, no 3

Damaged goods

When you have a car accident (although emergency services don't believe in accidents, so they call them car crashes) if the damage to your vehicle is greater than its perceived worth, then it is written off. As I drain my savings account, and that of my parents, seeking to fix what is broken within me, I wonder: is my damage greater than my perceived worth? Maybe nothing is ever an accident . . . 

low moon
the drive home
in silence 

Contemporary Haiku Online October 2013, vol 9, no 3

Persistent Rain

bone marrow biopsy --
through my internal tears
a doctor talks
of the persistent rain
on his summer holiday

Kokako 19 (September 2013)

Thankfully all my treatments (and related procedures!) for leukaemia ended a year ago this month. Although I'm still considered high risk, a label that will stay with me for life, I have remained in remission for three years now, so all is looking good. I have also finally completed my collection of haiku and tanka that explore my journey through this experience. It is now with some very generous readers, and then I hope to enter it in the Snapshot Press Book Awards.

My work has just come out in Kokako, A Hundred Gourds and A Fine Line. I've recently had work accepted for Skylark, Presence and Contemporary Haibun Online. And have submitted work to The Heron's Nest, A Hundred Gourds, and the Australia-New Zealand Haiku Anthology. Now I'm getting my entry ready for the Kokako Haiku and Senryu Competition, as well as making haiku cards to take to the fair. Collaborations are still continuing, with Seanan Forbes writing haiku and tanka for some of my photos from Fiji. Never a dull moment!

Don't forget about the Svetlana Marisova Memorial Kukai 2013 (closing September 14th), which marks two years since Sveta's passing from cancer.

waking 
from a dream --
on my lips
I find the word
arohanui*

*Maori for with love/deep affection
RIP Svetlana Marisova

too much

I wonder what it would be like not to speak aloud for a whole day. No words. From my mouth. For twenty-fours hours. No songs, no soliloquies, no swearing. Out loud. No language of love or lament or loathing. Out loud. Or in whispers.

I'm sure I say more than is necessary. Maybe most of us do. But could I make it through a day without talking? And what would I learn from doing so? Is it possible to be overwhelmed by such an experience, by too much God? Or is there only goodness to be found through such a practise?

chemotherapy all the people I've lost along the way

 

contemporary haibun online vol 8, no 3 (October 2012)