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    Parker Owens
  • Parker Owens
  • Author
  • 06/04/2018
  • 352 Words
  • 2,136 Views
  • 22 Comments
Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

Disasters, Delights and Other Detours - 24. Haibun from Home

As is always true, the errors are all mine.

I have spent the last week emptying my mother’s house, where she lived for thirty happy years, and where I spent some of the best days I shall ever recall. It is now a chaotic landscape, full of boxes and tagged furniture ready for shipment to distant relatives, or to my own home. Yet even though the house be empty, the memories will remain. There will be a new owner soon, and I hope he will make this place as lovely a spot as it was for me.

 

 

I leave you

laughter in the garden

and winter warmth by the cast iron stove;

I leave you hot summer nights dreaming of unborn

kisses from unreachable lovers;

and October gossip

as leaves turn.

 

I leave you

afternoons of Scrabble

while rain pelts down on the old tin roof;

I leave you two hundred years of town history,

the first tin bathtub in the village;

and stacks of books from the

library.

 

I leave you

bright green early mornings

full of busy light which makes its plans

for afternoons spent on hikes and picnic lunches,

and crisp orange September evenings

singing songs of those we

always loved.

 

 

 

The old house is beautiful in the morning sun. The flowers are about to burst. The new buyer is most fortunate.

 

Classic lines

in quaint Greek Revival

gleam white and green in the late May dawn;

old irises reach skyward to catch each bright ray

and pink pregnant peonies prepare

to bow gracefully down

for sunrise.

 

 

The house is a battlefield, stripped and unrecognizable. Mom’s favorite reclining chair is gone, donated to someone with arthritis easily as painful as hers. Where is her furniture, chosen with joy and care, and imbued with her smile? It is divided amongst her children now, and I possess at least a share of it.

 

At dusk

I sit alone

with three old Shaker chairs:

mismatched, straight backed and rush bottomed,

somber;

with me,

they mourn a life’s dissolution,

bright joys and keen interest

made indifferent

by time.

 
If you can stand the mess, leave a comment or a thought. I would be glad of it.
Copyright © 2017 Parker Owens; All Rights Reserved.
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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Valkyrie
  • Site Administrator
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:hug:  You've captured the essence of mingling memories with moving on perfectly.  When I was much younger, I remember being horrified when my grandmother wanted us to let her know what pieces of furniture or other belongings of hers we wanted when she passed.  I couldn't bring myself to think of losing her.  After giving it thought... I told her I wanted my great grandpa's desk.  I have such fond memories of pulling out bird books from it and guessing them based on descriptions my grandpa gave.  The desk has many nooks and drawers and I've always loved it.  It now sits in my den with a book owned by great-grandpa and my grandma's journal.  It also has a picture of my great grandpa in a nice suit, sitting at the desk piled high with books and papers.  He was a school teacher.  Thank you for the trip down memory lane.  :hug: 

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MacGreg
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Very touching, indeed. This can't be an easy experience... I'm certainly not looking forward to cleaning out my mother's place when the time comes. When my grandmother passed, I inherited some of her old wood furniture, which is still in my house. Your words illustrate sweet memories, Parker, tinged with sadness. I especially love the skyscraper form for each stanza. It adds to the beauty and special subject matter of the poem. And can I just add that the alliteration of " pink pregnant peonies prepare" made me smile? Thank you for sharing this.

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Parker Owens
7 minutes ago, Valkyrie said:

:hug:  You've captured the essence of mingling memories with moving on perfectly.  When I was much younger, I remember being horrified when my grandmother wanted us to let her know what pieces of furniture or other belongings of hers we wanted when she passed.  I couldn't bring myself to think of losing her.  After giving it thought... I told her I wanted my great grandpa's desk.  I have such fond memories of pulling out bird books from it and guessing them based on descriptions my grandpa gave.  The desk has many nooks and drawers and I've always loved it.  It now sits in my den with a book owned by great-grandpa and my grandma's journal.  It also has a picture of my great grandpa in a nice suit, sitting at the desk piled high with books and papers.  He was a school teacher.  Thank you for the trip down memory lane.  :hug: 

 

Thank you, Val. The old house will always speak to me, I think. You are so kind to walk down that lane with me. 

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Parker Owens
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2 minutes ago, MacGreg said:

Very touching, indeed. This can't be an easy experience... I'm certainly not looking forward to cleaning out my mother's place when the time comes. When my grandmother passed, I inherited some of her old wood furniture, which is still in my house. Your words illustrate sweet memories, Parker, tinged with sadness. I especially love the skyscraper form for each stanza. It adds to the beauty and special subject matter of the poem. And can I just add that the alliteration of " pink pregnant peonies prepare" made me smile? Thank you for sharing this.

 

Thank you, Mac. This hasn’t been easy, and there is more to do. Yet sharing the experience eases the burden, lessens the weight. How glad I am that you liked “pink pregnant peonies.” I left them just waiting to pop open. 

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Parker Owens
7 minutes ago, Headstall said:

So close to home... they hit with such poignant beauty I am unprepared for the deluge. Thanks, Parker, for this... I've left this experience alone, never quite ready to put those emotions to paper... but you've done it for me... perfectly.... xoxo

 

These lines were all I could write in a week. Too many things I must leave behind, too many tasks to do, and a whole lot of chores to accomplish. Yet if they help me and you carry the weight, then I am glad they found you. 

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Parker Owens
24 minutes ago, dughlas said:

A task bittersweet I am sure. You have set rememberances both loving and lovely to words that linger like the last touches on things long cherished ... blessed be Parker.

 

Thank you, Dugh. It is bittersweet, yet it must be done. The love in that house will linger long after everything is moved out, as will the cherished memories. 

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Parker Owens
2 hours ago, AC Benus said:

Nothing easy to go through, but perhaps writing poetry itself helps organize these thoughts. I particularly like the poem with the peonies about to burst. 

 

You and your family are leaving a house not empty, but full to the brim with fellowship and love. The new owners are blessed. 

 

The old house was made for joy and hospitality. The silence and cold must have been oppressive to its lovely aged bones. Writing these lines helped me channel the hurts and reclaim the love. Thanks for reading them with me. 

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mayday

I have been wondering where you were. Absent. Silent. When you are here your presence makes itself known.

It pervades every line in your latest poems.They make me feel the transition your home is going through. They hint at so many decisions about the future of items and pieces which possess a wealth of your past. But I also sense a family which is one in its true sense - and all seems to point to the mother you have lost. Tough tasks you went through.

Thank you for sharing again...

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Parker Owens
On 6/5/2018 at 2:29 PM, mayday said:

I have been wondering where you were. Absent. Silent. When you are here your presence makes itself known.

It pervades every line in your latest poems.They make me feel the transition your home is going through. They hint at so many decisions about the future of items and pieces which possess a wealth of your past. But I also sense a family which is one in its true sense - and all seems to point to the mother you have lost. Tough tasks you went through.

Thank you for sharing again...

 

Thank you for your patience with my silence. It is good to be busy, but my writing has suffered, I fear. I am glad you read these, and that they spoke to you. 

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Parker Owens
On 6/6/2018 at 2:53 PM, northie said:

Once again, a haibun seems to be the perfect form for your thoughts and feelings. I think the house will retain an echo of all your good times, its spirit welcoming the next family. It is sad to relinquish somewhere that was so much part of your life, but it will be part of your memories, and your family's. :hug:

 

Very hard to let go, and photos will not suffice. But life changes physical circumstances, even as love and laughter remain. These need no boxes or moving vans. But what will the new buyer make of the dreams that echo in my old room beneath the eaves? 

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Parker Owens
On 6/6/2018 at 7:59 PM, Defiance19 said:

❤️ Having gone through this recently, I know letting go, And packing up is not an easy task. Physically or emotionally.

 

The Haibun was perfect to capture your thoughts and emotions Memories are eternal.. yours sound beautiful.. 

 

Thank you, Def. It has been hard, and the task is not complete. This form helps the poetry flow out, something that has not been easy these days. 

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