[stylist] Travels of lip balm, a reverse haibun

[Mary-Jo Lord]

Sean, I love this!  Sometimes the small, every day things make the best
poems.  I'll have to check out some of these forms.

Mary-Jo
 

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Jacobson, Shawn D
Sent: Wednesday, May 16, 2012 11:15 AM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: [stylist] Travels of lip balm, a reverse haibun

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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