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Archive for the ‘Haiku and Loku Days’ Category

Haiku and Loku Days-Fig

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2017

 

Years ago I tasted my first fig. I wasn’t sure about it, so tried another. It is an odd fruit, an enigma of dichotomy. It is fibrous and gives the appearance of a matte toughness, yet bruises easily. It offers illusion. It is not overtly juicy, but satisfies a thirst. Even when ripe it presents the freshness of green rooted in the musk of earth.  It draws you from muddy purples to amaranth and orchid bedding a dazzling array of seeded fertility. From poets to scripture, figs have been lauded for healing and as an aphrodisiac, one of the Fruits of the Gods.

 Fig

 
 
Figs by Jo Hewitt ©2017

Figs by Jo Hewitt ©2017

 
 
Much unexpected,                                    
 
Subtle juicy, earthy, green,
 
 
Now an addiction.
 
 

Haiku and Loku Days-Childhood Pretend

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2016

I love nature. I love dawn and dusk, and the twilight times. I love fanciful stories, myths, and fables. I love the magic of that wonderful place where they all meet-childhood. Whether it is the dew drops of a magical early autumn morning, a blanket of snow enshrouded in the darkening purple shadows of whispering winter pines, the sound of freshly green blades of grass singing in the after math of a spring rain, or twilight shadows of a summer evening giving refuge to the scurrying of fairies with lightning bug lanterns, playing hide and go seek with the moon, I love it all. It is a gift, instilled in me, from my mother. But like fairy dust, in a blink of an eye, it can be gone all too soon.

But, in those rare magic moments-of slivers of moon and glistening of snail trails, of quiet star mornings in winter tales, I reach for a small piece of it, a small piece of my mother, to hold close to me, always.

 Childhood Pretend

 
Much realer than real,
Magic of childhood pretend 
Too soon, comes to end.
 

Girl with Dog at Lily Pond © Jo Hewitt

Girl with Dog at Lily Pond
© Jo Hewitt

Haiku and Loku Days-Thistle

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2016

 

Thistle Blossom-ç Jo Hewitt 2016

Thistle Blossom-© Jo Hewitt 2016

A test of courage and finesse, there was a game we played as kids-sitting on a thistle. Early on as I was learning the names and attributes of the weeds around the farm, were they friends or foes, I learned to distinguish the thistle from another weed which, for awhile, I confused with the thistle. I don’t remember what the other weed was, but the thistle has stuck with me. I was amazed that from a plant so hard to touch, to hold, emerged such a beautiful and elegant blossom. And later, it transformed into wisps of magic, silken seeds, whispering farewell, off to the unknown, on the cooling winds of the shore of autumn.

I understand why it is looked upon with such disdain as a vile plant. I know it is prickly. But the blossom is so lovely and the seeds so soft, like butterfly wings and gossamer with dew. I defy the common wisdom; I let a few grow and bloom among my roses.

Life is not so unlike the encounter with the thistle. There are people who are prickly, who are hard to know, and stand alone on the edge. Maybe, given a chance, they will begin to bloom, to yield something special. Maybe life is like maneuvering to sit on the thistle. One has to have courage, finesse, to maneuver to find a way to sit on, or stand and function among the prickles of it all.

In some ways, we are not so different than the thistle. We start out in what ever soil or rocks in which we landed. We are tender and green, but sometimes develop prickles as we go through life. Hopefully we get a chance to bloom and show the world our potential and beauty.  And in the end, our essence, like silken sunlit seeds, wisps of spirit, lift away on the wind.

Thistle

 

Green growth, purple hope 

 

Thistle-prickle, silken seed, 

 

Wind-seed send-begin.
 
 
 
Thistle Seed Pods in Sunlight -© Jo Hewitt 2016

Thistle Seed Pods in Sunlight -© Jo Hewitt 2016

Haiku and Loku Days-Whispered Farewells

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2016

 

We had been snuggled in a quiet snow over night, winter stepping quietly back in to softly cover us. We awoke to a winter world flocked in gentle white.  The SSB Drever and I went for our walk this morning. At one point, a slight wind whipped the flocking of snow off a tree from across the street. It landed on us and on the pavement like dainty dollops of cream. We paused our steps to just to be and to enjoy this beautiful offering.

I don’t know if March came in like a lion or a lamb. We had experienced temperatures near 70* last week, (single digits the week before that) and now it was cold again. Yesterday was blue sky and cold sunshine. Today, more of an early February feel with big flaked snow. In a few days it will be back in the 60’s and close to 70 again.

It is almost as though winter has a passive-aggressive relationship with us, maybe not unlike some of our relationships with people, relationships with the seasons of our lives. Somehow, you know that, no matter what it was-passionate, intense, violent, calm, serene, disengaged- there are subtle signs it is coming to an end.  Even though today is blanketed in snow, spring is peeping through in the change of light and tips of green poking through the thinning layer of dead leaves. There are signs when other relationships-people, places, and our place in time- in our lives are coming to an end and change is on the way. We see them, but we don’t. We just keep going on thinking whatever is will always be.

Not unlike a person taking the significant one out for dinner to soften the blow of ending a relationship, or to deliver any bad news, maybe winter wanted to leave with a soft memory today. A gentle day to obliterate the memories of harshness and cold. Maybe at the end of it all, all the memories we have will have softened like this gentle winter day.

Whispered Winter Farewell

 

 

Snow Covered Tables At Henry's

Snow Covered Tables At Henry’s -© Jo Hewitt 2016

Soft fluffy flocking 

 

Freely falling off, downward, 

 

Soft, whispered farewell.

Haiku and Loku Days-Stones in My Pockets

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

Calamitous life events. During mine, I asked someone, “Does the pain ever go away?” “No,” he said. “But eventually you find a way to put it in a little box and store it away where it doesn’t hurt as much.” Another friend likened the hurt, the painful memories, to a stone in your pocket.

Stones in your pockets. You revisit each stone, taking it out, turning it over and over, looking at it from every side, scrutinizing it, analyzing it, holding on to it, holding on to the pain and then putting it back into the dark to weigh you down, you not ready to let go. Maybe you hold onto it because you feel you have nothing else to hold or hold onto.

You take it out again and  again. Each time cutting your heart on the shards of  broken illusions. But each time the edges smooth a little and then a little more until the stones of sorrow diminish, slip away, stone after stone, your life pieced as a path cobbled from those sorrows, from those stones.  The stones that had weighed you down were stepping stones, all along, to lead you to your life.

 

Stones in My Pockets

Time’s fingers reach for,
Turning over and over,
Stones in my pockets.
 
Rounding edges of
Heart shards aftermath pain path, 
Stones in my pockets.
 
Time alone softened stone
Let go echoes cobbled stones
Fall from my pockets.
 
 
 
Pebbles by West Country Photographic

Pebbles by Westcountry Photographic

 
 

Haiku and Loku Days-Cicada At the Edge of Grass and Concrete

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

The SSB Drever and I were walking the other day.  The humidity is up and it is hot by eight. It is mid summer again. The din of cicadas is in the air again. They are emerging from their shells, mating, and dying, leaving their progeny, again. Cycles upon cycles. Emergence. Shedding shells. We rest still where grass meets concrete.

.

Cicada

 
Winged green meets concrete
 
Din of time lies still, passage
 
Silent marks our clock
 
Cicada at the edge of concrete and grass. © Jo Hewitt 2015

Cicada at the edge of concrete and grass. © Jo Hewitt 2015

Haiku and Loku Days-Threads of Sorrow

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

As the SSB Drever and I were heading from the house toward the garage to leave for a morning walk, I looked across to see my neighbor standing in her yard. I said hello. We each walked closer to the fence to talk, I with The SSB in tow.  I sensed something was not right. As she reached the fence, instead of facing me, her body aligned with her gaze, looking far off and away, searching.

“Jo, is your mother alive?” she asked.

“No. She died a little over two years ago,” I answered.

“My mother just died.”  She paused. “Does the pain ever end?”

I paused.

“It, it gets better,” I responded, as tears welled, hers and mine.

I listened. Her words spilled out with her tears as she told of her mother’s journey of deterioration and death, of her qualities and quirks, memories of younger years. I echoed back to her my experience. We shared the emptiness that we felt with the passing of our mothers. Her mother was just past 64. Mine was three days short of 97. There never is a good age or a good time to lose your mother. We talked of people knowing it was their time to go, of the souls waiting to receive them, and of connections to the spiritual realm. She had cared for her mother those last months, weeks, days and moments. She knew her mother would be waiting for her, to care for her. It gets better.

Threads of Sorrow

Take threads of sorrow.
Weave with remembrance. Draped, soft,
Solaced tomorrows.
 
 
 
Portrait of Anna Akhmatova by Nathan Altman 1914

Portrait of Anna Akhmatova by Nathan Altman 1914

 
 
 

Haiku and Loku Days-Amidst Morning Clover

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

The SSB Drever and I took our morning walk at the park today. It has just enough wildness, excessive manicuring kept at bay, such that its carpet of grass is sprinkled with a confectionary delight of clover. I love the look of clover. I love the smell of it. As a child, for me, it was the perfect bed for dreaming under butter milk blue skies.

Amidst Morning Clover

 

2015-06-05 15.46.05 copy edit 1 
 
 
Humble and gentle,
Subtle, whispered summer scent,
On childhood thought plays.
 
Sunlit fragrant haze,
Clover blossom path beckons
Back to childhood days.
 
 
 

Haiku and Loku Days-Memo to the Parks Department

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

This event and haiku are from 2012.

The SSB Drever and I ran across something today on our walk that I wish we hadn’t.  Someone had dragged a picnic table into a tree covered ravine/gully and now it was being use for some “extra-curricular activities”. There are some trails that pass through the gully between the grassy areas, running right by the table. Thank goodness I was alert to noises. We did not take those trails; therefore, fortunately we were not exposed to the full monty in action.

The participants had driven their scooter right up to the treed area so they could high tail it out of there when they were done. The funny thing was that they made a few rounds on the streets that border the park before finally leaving the park area. Maybe they were trying to dry out, air out a bit before they headed home.

I think the City Parks Department should know about this. So…

 Memo to the Parks Department

 
Park Picnic Table by Angela Ooghe

Park Picnic Table by Angela Ooghe

 
 
 
Thought unseen ravine.
 
 
Picnic nookie nook, lark at
 
 
Ellenberger Park.
 
 

 

Hailu and Loku Days-Outliers

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015

 

Growing up in a family who sat outside of society but holding on to its norms, some good-be polite, work hard, do well in school, some not so good-racism, blind support for war and the military and in general, don’t speak out against the government, I stood apart from society and from them. I questioned (and I stll do). I questioned the war, I questioned the the treatment of women, I questioned racism and a bunch of other isms. I questioned words of the Sunday school teachers and the ministers. I questioned the treatment of the earth. For that time, I was an outlier, an anomaly on the graph, outside the line.  Now there are so many points outside the line. And there are points still where the line used to be, congregated, dark, thick, and intense. Where do we draw the line? Do we draw lines? At some “point” do we stand back, squint our eyes, look at the graph and maybe, just maybe conclude we are one big point of humanity and life with the earth, connected in ways we may never see.  It is an experiment worth considering.

 

 Outliers

 
The outlier may be an indication that some unknown process is at work and should be closely examined. Many scientific dicoveries have been made by investigating data that does not fit the pattern.

The outlier may be an indication that some unknown process is at work and should be closely examined. Many scientific dicoveries have been made by investigating data that does not fit the pattern.

 
A panoply of                            
 
Anomaly. Who is “you”
 
 
And who, who is “me”?
 
 

 

 

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