Haiku Horizons: Play

Bloody mud piles, play

dig your mean gut, soul, under

Won’t cry over you.

Playful pup, mint grass
Going home with family
Kisses with trust, joy.

 The play begins, hush
song notes are dancing like brides
tiptoe in white gowns.


Watching My Baryshnikov

It was like watching Mikhail Baryshnikov springing across the stage,so handsome, so technically perfect; exactly like that, as I

drove my old clunky gray car down the street and gasped. A beautiful, strong deer with antlers danced right in front of me, crossing the road. I slammed hard on the brakes, very hard, not to injure this beauty. I hadn’t really thought of the car or of myself. It was like a beautiful ballet dancer I had seen long ago, so gorgeous and delicate yet so strong. I waited to see, with cars honking behind me, if more of

the family was about to cross as well but no, this deer had crossed the road by himself.

The Turning Point was one of my favorite movies when I was young. The romance, the intrigue, the ballet. A girl growing up to be a woman, a mother and her best friend, secretly jealous of each other, egos fighting egos. The best friend trying to mother the other woman’s daughter. Comparing lives as if they were comparing tastes in a food competition. The daughter learning to grow up and realize the truth about love and being in love and people and their true characters.

My Baryshnikov danced across the street to an admiring audience of one.

Mellow Yellow Monday

English: Corn Chamomile - Anthemis arvensis Sh...
When my daughter was very young she took ballet lessons. She dressed all in pink from her tiny ballet slippers, her pink tights, pink leotard and yes, her very pink, fluffy tutu. I still have the image of her, so delectable, so sweet, ensconced in my brain.  My daughter always knew what she wanted and what she liked. There were dance recitals, even at the tender age of three and four where the little girls would perform and parents and grandparents would applaud as if the American Ballet Theatre had just landed in our small town. Our tears flowed and we tried to wipe them away as quickly as possible, but the rims of our eyes matched the little ballerinas outfits.

Relatives of the young ballerinas brought flowers to the performance. Everyone brought red roses for their little star. Everyone but me. My little ballerina did not like roses, her favorite flowers were daisies. Bright, cheerful, white and yellow daisies. While some parents looked at us askance, I knew when I saw my daughter’s face light up with joy and excitement that my precious ballerina was unique. I bought her a big bouquet of daisies and her face was lit up by happiness, her blond hair, gleamed in the sun, and her arms clutched her special flowers. My daughter, now seventeen, still knows exactly what she wants, she has always known. She planned her birthday parties four years in advance and while her blonde hair is now darker, she is as unique as ever, a vegetarian, a unique soul. Though she no longer loves daisies, she doesn’t know what her favorite flower is anymore and there’s plenty of time to figure that out, it’s perfectly alright.

For J.