Over at the poets’ pub, dVerse, Gina asks, “What is the poetic hum in your life? What hums in the background of your life that inspires you as you unconsciously listen while you work and live? Is the drone always there or do you have to cultivate the inspiration?” The prompt led me to a tanka, then on to haibun. Go to the pub for servings of Tuesday Poetics.
What are the colors of white noises, of slick syncopations, benign beatings? Some hum in sensible suits of spreadsheet tweed or accountant gray. Some background noise is the high-pitched whine of machinery, of moving parts dulled only by repetition and wear; some the slow rumble of the millstone grinding its grains, blind to its grist. Some pulse a slippery red, the color of Dr. Williams’ wheelbarrow that waited for him at the end of daily practice. Sylvia’s copper kettles drummed a spiraled blackness, marching to the fore, crescendo in the kitchen. The color of the hole in the roof changes with the weather; listen to the sun trickling in.
Plodding hushed by snow
falling through wintry slumber
dreams a whirr of wings
suddenly spring birds alight