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