A Whispering Sunset Symbiotic {Haibun} Poetry by John[Jack]Byrne

Arm in Arm [Haibun]

Walking toward the stile at the forest entrance I hold her handtightly while leading her up the two steps , we both cross overthe fence and ascend into the forest . Delighted to have my girl beside me I cup her face in both hands and kiss her tenderly onthe mouth. “ I love you , walk with me into the bosom of our love” I whispered softly . Arm in arm we stroll among nature and her wonders

sing, blackbird forwe too are in loveAutumn sun

My First Poem [Haibun]

Today is a fine sunny day, a sky so blue without cloudsyet with a crispy feeling in the air. It was on such a day as this in 1991 when words filled my head .Although different to what I would term “normal” words,I felt these particular words were meant to go on paper and be shared with anyone it was possible to reach. On that autumn day I was planting bulbs in a garden where they would bloom in the Spring.

daffodil __through seedswe are renewed

Solo Flight [Haibun]

On reaching a speed of one eighty two point seven, I gently pull back on the control column and my Cessna 152 fix wing aircraft , softly climbs into thewide blue yonder. Beside me in the cockpit an empty seat, I’m goingsolo, I steadily climb to my cruising altitude of seven thousand feet and feeling excited at my progress .

Looking down on the Wicklow Mountains I see wisps of white cloud covering Lugnaquilla the tallest in the range, a lovely sight from seven thousand feet. Off to my left the blue and jade colours of the Irish sea.Suddenly it happened, a bang followed by engine failure. Finding myself falling fast I try to steady the craft but to no avail, red lights and an alarm signal disaster, I close my eyes and await the inevitable thud . “Better luck next time “my instructor bellows through the intercom of the simulator

with my walking stickI free the cloudsearly frost__

Wicklow Morning [haibun]

I find myself hurrying my breakfast ofthe usual bowl of mixed fruit of apple andorange segment, of sliced pear and banana,sliced thinly by my favourite knifewith the black handle, then grapes, and some sliced strawberry, finished with orange juice.

Feeling very satisfied with my fruit hit andin an excited mood, I’m ready for my weekly trip to the pine forest and the magical world of it’s inhabitants. Rising full and energetic from the table, I grab my hat and all weather jersey, my blackthorn walking stick. A pull of the doorknob and I enter into a mild, but cloudy Wicklow morning, happy with the prospectof being at one with nature

forest stile__a woodlarkpipes me aboard

Decay [Haibun]

While having the opportunity to visit London recentlyI was struck by the deterioration that is evident in the streets of this once great city, streets that were once prim and pristine are now litter strewn, buildingsdecaying for lack of maintenance . There’s a totalbreakdown in the fabric of life in the city that once withstood the wrath of Hitler, evidently there now exists a lack of pride in a once mighty empire. An empire on which the sun never set.

cardboard… in the doorway a huddled figure

Islander Spirits [Haibun]

Heading out from Dún Chaoin [Dunquin] harbour on the Dinglepeninsula the south west tip of Ireland ,the cry of seabirds onthe light spring breeze, I look forward to my twenty minute seajourney to An Blascaod Mór [the great Blasket Island]. With a toot of the ferry whistle we move out into the sound, closely chased by gulls, gentle waves caress the sides of the boat while to the front, playful dolphins lead the way. A blue haze and noisy kittiwakes greet us on our arrival to this magicalIsland, once home to some of the great literati , Peig Sayers, Muiris o Suilleabhain, and Tomas o Criomthain , sadly nowadayssome donkeys and Islander spirits are all that roam An Blascaod Mór.

how quickly they passthese years without you…spring journey

Return [haibun] revised

This road I walk between stone walls has no markingsjust a grass track running through the middle, I am back on my Island where I was born, it’s fifty three years sinceI walked down to the wee jetty and hired the ferry man to rowacross almost four miles to the mainland, where I caught the train to London and my new life. Visiting the ruin of my island home of two rooms one of which is now onlya pile of stone, the memories all flood back of the good, but hard times we had on our island, this small speck of land off the coast of Galway whichis now a home for gannets and puffins. I’m reminded of the three familiesnow scattered to the wind that made a living here, rearing their children on thepotatoes and fish. Leaving from that same wee jetty I make a vow to return soon, just as I did all those years ago.

above the island meadowthe skylarks warninghigh summer__

Motor Car [Haibun]

As I prepare for my Sunday drive into the countrysideI’m struck with the thought of how convenient the motor car is to our generation, and wonder howour forefathers were able to survive without this finemode of transport.It has large comfortable seating, smooth and silentmovement all at variable speeds, along with shelterfrom the elements. Then I realize we are the unlucky one’s in that wecan’t experience the joy of the rush of fresh air intoour lungs, the sounds of nature and the smell of thewild flowers, all to the clip! clop! rhythm of hooves.

early dusk__circling the hawthornsa flock of starlings

Museum [haibun]

On account of this awful summer weather we’re experiencing lately heavy rain and high winds, I decided to take in a trip to the National museum at Collins barracks.Walking through the arch into the barrack square my mind wandered back to my first visit here in the year 1965, when as a young country boy in the big city of Dublin for the first time in awe of his surroundings, I wasjoining the armed forces. I would spend the next ten weeks doing my basic training within these confines . My home for those ten weeks was a room sixty by twenty foot shared with twenty nine other boys. Now, forty seven years later, I’m standing at the precise spot where my bed once stood looking at the Fonthill Vase .

box of memories__his old hat won’t fit

Stoirm Sneachta [ haibun]

Whilst visiting Galway last weekend I took a trip to Inis Meadhóinknown as the Middle Island ,one of the famous Arran Islands off Galway Bay . I was in awe of the one hundred and sixty or sopopulation living on this last cultural stronghold which is predominantlynative speaking. One thing amazed me that with all the history of their island to talk to strangers about , the main topic of conversationwas of the” stoirm sneachta trom” [ heavy snow storm] which hit theIsland at the end of year twenty ten, apparently the first snow to ever fall onInis Meadhóin.

os cionn an tua gealach corrán luionn

[above the thatcha crescent moonrests ]

Takeaway [ Haibun ]

Strolling along the north quay of the harbour I notice a weefishing boat with some music playing, her port and starboardlight dancing on the ripples she created leaving the mouthof the bay, I watch as she slowly fades into the dark sea andbecomes just a tiny musical dot on the horizon. My nostrils detectthe smell of cooking from a small takeaway, as it drifts through the night air, quickly I turn for home and a tasty fish and chip supper.

evening walk__gaining an appetitefrom the breeze

Thief of Dreams [Haibun]

High on the Mountains of Ireland live the wee folk sometimes called the Fairies. Within this community is one called the “thief of dreams” who steals all the dreams of the world, except those in Ireland, only becausethe Irish know when the thief of dreams will arrive. It is said that just before darkness descends, a will ‘o’ the wisp cloud is seen above the mountain, noticing this sign, the Irish refuse to dream that night, thus denying the thief his bounty.

late spring__above the brackenan angry lark sings

John{Jack}Byrne

John Byrne is Irish, a poetry and short storywriter from Co. Wicklow in southern IrelandJohn has been writing for a short few years andhas many publishing successes in Ireland, theUnited Kingdom, and USA, he particularlyhas a fondness for Oriental short form poetrytanka, haiku, haibun, etc., he wishes youto enjoy this small offering of his haibun.

The poems you read within are the sole propertyOf the author and should not be used or Reproduced in any way without the explicit Permission of the author John[Jack]Byrne ©