[Jim Moonan]

.
No longer confined to haibun form...

rv. 2

Two Roses

1.
Today I found a single petal had dropped from the funereal rose I had cut weeks ago and placed in a small cut-glass vase in the center of my round glass table. I had not seen it fall. Only found it lying there. I left it alone, not wanting to interfere. I watched for days and weeks the cut rose slowly slump, top-heavy on its stump of a stem. Over time, the tight-lipped kiss of the closed bud opened to become a labyrinth of red lustrous lips that slowly became slack, loose-lipped as old age and shriveled at the edges, darkening like dried blood does in the corners of the mouth. Stem and flower, tautness and slackness, youth and age, beauty, truth, water, fire — all meshed to become a bouquet of thoughts. The water that filled the cut glass vase slowly vanished. The quietus of the rose burned into my memory. I kissed it. I threw it away. The rose.

2.
When I was much younger, I put a long-stemmed rose inside a complete illustrated volume of Shakespeare’s works. I don’t remember where it came from. The rose. It may have been from my wedding. It was a long time ago. It stayed for decades on a sagging shelf. I rarely took the book down to read it. The sheer bulk and weight of it was too much to handle. It became nothing more than a place to keep the pressed rose flattened between pages of Shakespeare. Not long ago, when I was moving to a new place, something compelled me to give the book away to charity. I think about it from time to time. The rose, not the book. I kissed the memory. Felt the prick of its thorn. Bled rose blood.

3.
Cut red rose in water
stem sucking dry every drop
extinguishes itself.
Pressed into darkness
compressed, colorless, confined,
everything escapes between lines.



---------------------------------
.
rv 1

Two Roses

Today I found a single petal had dropped from the rose I had cut weeks ago and placed in a small cut-glass vase in the center of my round glass table. I had not seen it fall. Only found it lying there on the table below. I left it there, not wanting to interfere.
I watched over days and weeks the cut rose slowly slump, top-heavy on its stump of a stem. Over time, the tight fist of a bloom had opened to become a labyrinth of red lustrous lips that then began to fall apart as if pouting, then shriveled at the edges, darkening like dried blood does in the corners of the mouth. Stem and flower, life and death, youth and age, beauty and truth, water and fire meshed to become a bouquet. The water that filled the cut glass vase slowly vanished. The quietus of the rose burned into my memory. I kissed it. I threw it away. The rose.

Red rose in water
stem sucking dry every drop
extinguishes itself.

I kept a rose on a long stem flattened inside a complete volume of Shakespeare’s works. I don’t remember where it came from. The rose. It may have been from my wedding. It’s been a long time. It stayed for decades on a sagging shelf. It was a fixture in my life. I rarely took it down to read it. The sheer bulk and weight of it was too much to handle. It became nothing more than a place to keep the long-stemmed rose. Not long ago, when I was moving to a new place, something compelled me to give the book away to charity. I let it go, along with other things that suddenly seemed disposable. I think about it from time to time. The rose, not the book. I kissed the memory. Felt the prick of its thorn. Bled red rose blood.

Condensed in darkness
compressed, colorless, confined,
everything escapes between the lines



EDITS

LI was: "the rose I had cut to be on a short stem weeks ago"
Various grammatical changes to the opening prose poem.


----------------------------------

ORIGINAL
.
While Paula's haibun sits in detention, I grew one of my own that may or may not be a true haibun. My petals are beginning to drop. It's too late to concern myself too much with form…


I Looked For A Long Time

Today a single petal dropped from a single rose I had cut weeks ago to be on a short stem and put in a small glass vase of water on my table. I did not see it drop. Only found it lying there on the table below. I left it there, not wanting to interfere. I have watched for weeks the cut rose slowly droop in the glass vase, and always come away with teeming thoughts of life and death and the connection between the two. I watched as the tight fist of a bloom opened to become a labyrinth of impossibly red lustrous petals that turned a deeper, impossible red and begin, over time, to fray at the edges like dried blood does in the corners of a mouth. I watched the water disappear. It burned into my memory. I kissed it. I threw it away.

Fire in the water
sucking dry every drop
extinguishes itself.

I once kept for decades a rose on a long stem flattened to be a keepsake bookmark in the middle of a complete volume of Shakespeare’s works. I don’t remember where it came from. The rose. It may have been from my wedding. It’s been a long time. Once, when I was moving to a new place, something came over me and I gave the book away with the rose inside, along with dozens of other books I abandoned. I think about it from time to time. The rose, not the book. I kiss the memory; am pricked by its thorn; bleed.

Condensed in darkness
colorless, odorless, gone
nothing lasts forever

.