[stylist] Travels of lip balm, a reverse haibun

[KajunCutie926 at aol.com]

Traditonalists and purists may say that it is not but  as one who has done 
her own experimenting with the form I would say it is  excellent. I love the 
whole concept of the piece as it reminds me of my children  watching their 
dad emptying his pockets because they never knew what might be in  there.  I 
say well done!
 
Myrna
 
 
In a message dated 5/16/2012 10:16:38 A.M. Central Daylight Time,  
Shawn.D.Jacobson at hud.gov writes:

Here's  something I thought up a couple of days ago, a prose poem with a 
haiku at the  end.  Is this a reverse haibun?

It's based somewhat on recent  experience with the laundry and with things 
that I put in my pockets and don't  get around to dealing with.  I hope you 
enjoy.

Travels of Lip  Balm
by Shawn Jacobson

The drier door opens and I fall out
after  traveling the drum.
Unopened, my essence stays with me
instead of  covering clothes with which I journey.
He picks me up, his daughter will  want this.
He returns to folding clothes.

Screams from above Bug!  his daughter cries.
Big bug! she wails in abject terror.
Maybe it is  Mothra, maybe perhaps will eat Tokyo.
He bolts from the laundry pounding up  the stairs
all else is forgotten.
It is a spider.

A cube farm  mourning,
he checks the newspaper.
How badly did the Twins lose? he  wondrs
as Email breeds in his inbox.
He feels his back pocket; here I  am.
Why had he forgotten me? a giant spider from Mars?

In the  restaurant's hectic chaos he orders
the usual a burger and some fries,
a  drink to wash it down,
some sugar cookies for dessert would be nice.
He  pays the bill, and in vain rummaging for pennies
he finds  me.

Deacons meet in the conference room,
the agenda drones on, the  stove, the van,
who will count, who will usher.
The kitchen cleanup is  brought up for discussion.
He pulls a restaurant receipt from his back  pocket
finding me again.

The weary day is done he comes back  home.
The phone rang in his absence.
Forgotten life returns to his  agenda,
He must handle this now.
He does the trash and makes tomorrow's  coffee.
He finds his rest,
forgetting me.

The drier door opens  and I fall out
after traveling the drum.
Unopened, my luck is  holding
his clothes remain uncovered by my essence.
He picks me up his  daughter will still want this.
Sheepishly, he returns to folding  clothes.

We seldom notice
small traveling companions
who journey  with us.


Shawn Jacobson
Mathematical Statistician
Phone#  (202)-475-8759
Fax#  (202)-485-0275

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