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Tad Wojnicki, US / TW
 

 

 

 

Haibun

Bean There Dawn That

 

Drizzles drive, mists seep, then drip. A drippy dusk, falling into a drippy night. El Nino starts. For so long I feared I might burn. Burn again. No fear now. The storm means only one thing. I'm gonna' stay. Fires out. Rains in. This time, I'm not gonna' burn.

drowned leaves
spin down the dark
drought break

At the first crack of dawn, I smell beans boiling. The lady upstairs burns burritos. As yesterday and, dead likely, as tomorrow. The beans overburden the balcony over my computer and storm my room through the air conditioner.

daybreak rain
computer and beans
hum along

 

 

Nosh on a Knish

 

We walk into the smell of grilled lamb under an arc of plastic drumsticks. Lawyers flip latkes, doctors bate wings, businesswomen braise briskets, kids sell s'mores, teachers knead knishes, and scribes drive golf carts. Lester, priestly in his apron, works wonders with his cleavers. Marva, virginal in her vest, holds the bank. We offer gelt, getting our sustenance. One gets wings, the other breasts. Then, we can't resist a knish.

We step under the oaks, praying to sit close to the shofar, an ancient
ram horn blown by a rebirther. Burnt-offerings drip into the biting
smoke. The air thickens not only with the burned lamb, smoked karp and boiled kishka, but also with rye bread, potfulls of knish, trays of
blintzes, and piles of sugar-puffed rogaleh my Mama baked so well.

The bubbe and zeyde cooking extravaganza is held at the Carmel Valley, California temple, the former site of the Christmas Tree Farm. The trees seem soiled, stiff, and earth ware against the dust-blown sky. Behind, there flows the Carmel River, now a river of stones.

exodus play
ten commandments delivered
on a handheld device

 

 

 

 

 

Read Additional Poems by Tad Wojnicki

Tanka

 

 

 

 

 

 

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