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Terri L. French & Jane Reichhold

Her Dance Card Full

spring clouds
sailing into a new venture
friends 

2.

The first day of Spring.  Tiny pellets of hail fall from the sky beating the heads of daffodils who again this year have arrived too soon.  After the storm I go outside and prop them up, forming a circular hedge of stones around the base of their weakened stems.  The earth is wet with the last of winter. A crocus nose pokes through the softened soil.

an old Farmer's Almanac
on the back of the commode

3.

Finding an old and forgotten book is such a gift for that day. A couple of weeks ago I was looking for a book I was sure I still had in order to share it with a friend. In the search a decrepit haiku  picture album fell off the shelf and scattered photos across the floor – a riverbed of memories. Yesterday the book was published as Naked Rock.

newest entry
in the old journal
mildew

4.

The first time someone asked me to autograph my book of haiku, I was taken aback.  Should I write something clever or profound?  Maybe I should quote another writer or say something inspirational.  I worried about my penmanship, spelling, grammar and punctuation.  In the end I simply signed my name and wrote “Enjoy!”

an open heart
to dot her i's

5.

Resting by the roadside during a walk, my mind centered on one blade of new spring grass. As I stared in wonderment the grass began to speak.

“Have you noticed it is spring? Have you actually seen the glory of this time of year?” “I’m trying.” I mumbled.  “Well, take a good look at me and think how quickly I will fade.” “And I,” I replied. “All that remains . . .”

above the earth
growing and dying
the moon

6.

A small compost bin sits on the kitchen counter next to the sink. In it lies a strata of coffee grounds, banana peels, egg shells and greens that have begun to grow slimy. When the bin is full it is carried outside and dumped into a larger compost pile. This mix will feed the garden which will feed us, with the scraps again joining the morning’s coffee grounds.

tilling the soil
one worm—oops two

7.

“There’s always a pile-up at the bananas,” says an elderly lady. “Why can you never find the perfect banana?” she continues, “They’re either too small, too big, too green, or too ripe.” She sighs and pull two bananas off one bunch and three from another, places them in her cart and heads toward the tomatoes. “There’s always a pile-up at the tomatoes,” she says to the woman next to her.

shopping for one
the tear-drop shape
of a hubbard squash

8.

Left alone. Right in the middle of the job. The carpenter says he has a job in Palm Springs, but I do not believe him. I keep asking myself, What went wrong? I thought this was the perfect work for him, but just as it is getting good – he splits. Men! I can call them, but they do not stay. In the meantime on my porch. . .

party decorations flutter
only the wind arrives on time

9.

He was supposed to be a December baby, with a due date just before Christmas. He was born a week before Thanksgiving. My oldest son has never been one to do what was expected of him. He not only walks to the beat of a different drummer, he bangs his own drum.

recital
a mother’s applause
for all the wrong notes

10.

Three new teachers. Three times it began with middle C. For years the only way I could read music was to hold one finger under each note. It was dyslexia that wove the staffs into solid bars. Then it was discovered that I had no sense of rhythm. Finally my mother sold my piano.

cold winter fog in the valley
all the hurts of childhood

11.

A medium sized white dog of indiscriminate breed lay at her feet, next to an intricately carved cane. The handle of the cane was an eagle, perched with its head cocked. Her fingers, like feathers, lightly brushed over the pages of the book in her lap. I watched as she skimmed over the same page a second, then third time. Finally, she put the book down and closed her eyes. The dog began to snore.

flight delay
a flock of seagulls
cleared from the runway

12.

Eighteen in one year. Only the other day Jack called to say his Mother had died in October. She had been in a nursing home the last eight years for Alzheimer’s so in some ways Elaine had died for me a long time ago. However, to now think that I am on this earth, and she is not, makes me feel very alone. Maybe it is the culmination of so many friends and relatives leaving the planet, and me, in just twelve months. I feel unable to mourn anymore.

wishing to talk to her again
wind chimes in the silence

13.

It was the summer of her 13th year. The phrase “family vacation” filled her will dread. Another long car ride with her grumpy directionally challenged father. Her mother’s off key singing of Aaron Neville tunes. A little brother whose grimy fingers crossed imaginary lines. That summer, beach breezes teased and tickled the new bumps and curves of her body. The scent of sweat and coconut on the salt air suggested romance that–at least for this year—would remain a dog-eared page in a paperback she hid beneath her blanket.

“pinky promise”—
sandcastle moats
full of moonlight

14.

The idea is winning a few opponents for me, but I maintain that the best fiction being written today comes from the much maligned romance writers—most of whom are women. The competition among them is so fierce that they have forced themselves to stretch and grow as writers and thinkers beyond the formulaic efforts of their forebears. Because they are women, their focus is on relationships while they control the murder and mayhem with genuine comic episodes. Thanks to the popularity of the Harry Potter stories, magic is comfortable with steamy explicit sex scenes. And for the grumbler who says, all the romance stories end up the same, I say, “and every crime story has a murder.”

a dream with endless barking
how to kill the neighbor’s dog

15.

They sit there watching me as I dig the hole for her grave. Their tails are not wagging. My golden retriever and black lab mix are outdoor dogs and were not all that close to the poodle, their indoor “sibling.” I read a study that suggested dogs behave much like children when confronted with the strong emotions of familiar people. It was evident to me that they were sharing in my distress. Sweat mixed with tears as I gently lifted the box and placed it into the grave. After covering it with the last shovel-full of dirt, I went in, took a Xanax, and went to bed. I could hear their whimpering outside my window.

heartless
the preacher who said
dogs have no souls

16.

From the pulpit on Easter Sunday came the now familiar sermon of resurrection. Ah, yes! to live again – that is the goal. But many minds were already on the roast in the oven at home. Across the community the women had done their best to add only a little salt and lots of pepper to the leg of lamb, remembering to put in the meat thermometer, placing the cut in the roasting pan in the 325 degree heat and setting the timer. Success was coming home, dressed to the nines and hungry, to the delicious smell that wafted out as the door was opened. In a pen a mother sheep lifted her head and sniffed.

vegetarians watch the cat
eating a still-warm bird

17.

It was the era when John Travolta traded his white suit for cowboy boots.
My friends and I were bookish types, pseudo hippie-nerds, who shunned meat and studied metaphysics. During spring break we decided to hop a train in Windsor, Ontario and ride it to Toronto for a weekend of “wild revelry.” So why was I the one sitting at the table minding the purses and nursing my Sloe Gin Fizz while they danced their still pert behinds off? A young man with thick glasses and a creepy grin sat down next to me. I could feel my self-esteem melting faster than the ice in my drink. He smiled and leaned in closer. “You really shouldn’t cross your legs,” he said, “It causes varicose veins.”

senior dance
the smell of gardenia
from old wall flowers

18.

Idiot! You stupid nincompoop! What a yuppie scum dweeb you are! That’s what you get for misjudging others. A whole morning wasted and a good idea gone forever. All lost because of you. Maybe in the future you will learn to read more carefully and with a more generous heart. Try not to be so eager to find faults in others and maybe there will not be so many in YOU!

a trumpet shaped loudspeaker
rage of the small still voice within

19.

I asked her for a letter of recommendation only because she is the one logical person to do it. She turned me down. Said she was too busy at the moment with guests coming, taxes to do, monthly reports for the gallery to compile and send. Then comes the kicker! Her doctor son works at a competing hospital. How was I to know that? “But for the children,” I plead,” think of the children.”

smoke
the incense unrolls
its hidden self

20.

Not long after the divorce he had started referring to her by her first name, if at all. It hurt. When she was a child she’d have been smacked in the mouth for calling her parents by their first names. But she didn’t smack him. He was hurting too and this was his way of showing it. She knew one day he’d slip, call her “mom” or maybe “mother,” and then, slowly, she would find her way back into his heart.

first words
he gloats over gibberish

21.

Congratulations! I just heard you are to be the new editor of Prune Juice. What a marvelous opportunity for you to really make a difference. With you, and your intelligence, you are in the position to end a forty year old web of misunderstanding. What a joy it would be if you can take the bull by the horns to make the changes necessary in the form of senryu! You now have that power.

crossroads
what a difference a word can make
            in naming this and that

22.

My baby sister just turned fifty.  I called her to wish her happy birthday, console her, tell her fifty was the “new thirty,” etc.  We wound up talking about our bathroom habits.

shit!
all the things that get harder with age

23.

Compiling the new anthology gives new meaning to the word come, but more accurately to pile. As the paper and the print-outs mountain up on my desk I feel I am creating new geography—one that already contains a monster. No matter how many of my hours I feed it, there are still spots demanding attention. Talk about cleaning up messes! It sometimes seems that my own feeding the monster, makes more crap that I have to correct and retype.

because of ice
a young man takes my arm
and my heart

24.

Winters in Alabama are much different than the ones I experienced growing up in Michigan. When I tell people down here I’m from Michigan, the first thing they ask is “Don’t y’all get a lot of snow?” I don’t miss the snow. I’d have to say I’m more of a snow bird than a snow bunny. I only miss the white stuff at Christmas. We had a yard-sized light-up manger scene when I was a kid. Sometimes there were four-foot drifts up the sides of the plywood stable. Christmas hardly seems worth celebrating without a baby Jesus swaddled in snow.

first snow
a peppermint melting on my tongue

25.

There were lots of boys in our church but for me they seemed too much like family to actually date. Besides, by the time I was in high school I was very interested in exploring other religions. Or maybe that was only my excuse. The Mennonite church seemed to bristling with attractive guys. With or without an actual plan I fell in and out of love with the complete roster. It was a small town. I married one.

the sweetness
of trolling for boys
her smile

26.

It’s a little embarrassing telling people you’ve been married three times. I don’t tell most people. The first one shouldn’t count anyway. I was young and stupid—marriages shouldn’t count when you’re young and stupid. He was clingy and possessive and suffocating. The second one was very confident and not the least bit jealous. He gave me plenty of space. At first that felt a lot like freedom, after eighteen years it felt a lot like loneliness. I fell hard and fast for the third one. And even though my hair is now gray, I feel a bit like Goldilocks, having found that bowl of just right porridge. I’m just glad I don’t have to kiss anymore frogs.

bedtime stories—
all the pages mama skipped

27.

Being the best parents they could imagine, mine would not allow me to read any fairy tales. In a Christmas gift exchange at school I was given a children’s version of the Grimm brothers’ stories. I read all night under the covers with a flashlight dazzled by a forbidden world richer than any dream. The next day when I came home from ice skating (and being Cinderella at the ball), my lovely new book had disappeared. In its place was The Upper Room—a devotional pamphlet.

rolled into
my first cigarette
corn silk

28.

Grandma’s attic smelled of old newspapers and moth balls. It was musty and dusty and hot—a perfect hideout. The stairs were steep and I knocked my head on the slanted ceiling’s rafters. Plunked down on the twin bed inhabiting one corner I’d fritter away the afternoon thumbing through copies of my uncle’s old MAD magazines. But, one afternoon, when Alfred E. Newman’s charm wore off, I rummaged through a chest at the foot of the bed. Underneath some hand-embroidered doilies, I uncovered a small book with a broken strap and lock. On the inside cover was written, “Ida Mae Jacob,” in loopy cursive. It was my grandmother’s diary!

smelling of cedar
her full dance card

29.

“If we could blow up the moon we would not have to be bothered by tides.” This one sentence in a Tom Robbins book has given me endless pleasure in thinking about how different our world and our nights would be without a moon. How would lovers behave on moonless nights? Would there be less unplanned pregnancies? Would cities increase artificial lighting? What would that cost? And who would get to watch the moon being blown to bits? Would the fireworks of all fireworks be in our night or that of someone else?

our hands
on shaking knees
waiting

30.

She frowns at her knees while in downward dog. Skin-folds over the tops of her bony knobs smile back. Or perhaps her knees are laughing at the effect gravity is having on her face.

autumn equinox
tree asanas swaying

31.

He weighs his words before speaking. Should he say want she wants to hear? Does he know what she wants to hear? Does she? And if he does tell her, how will his words be interpreted? How will she, in turn, respond? How will he know she’s not just saying what she thinks he wants to hear?

two ducks
at the water’s surface
one dips one dabbles

32.

How to tell my daughter I ruined her ipod. She loaned it to me to listen to some of her audible books. They were great! I loved getting a collection of Tom Robbins’ articles and even some of his haiku. Even a book I would never buy, Worm—the first of the digital wars was fascinating. I was deep into terms and speech that was totally foreign to me when I thought I should recharge the battery again. Bing! Everything is gone. Do I need to buy her a new one? Should I get one for myself? This time I will get the manual.

sun sparkles on the screen
I’m not as smart as I thought

33.

My husband recently received a text message from a stranger asking him to make “whoopie” in his truck.

“I don’t have a truck,” my husband replied, “but. . .who is this?”

“THE MAN,” he responded.

“Who do you think you are talking with?” my husband typed back.

“I looking for lady who has sex for money,” answered the salacious stranger.

“Sorry, dude, you are barking up the wrong tree,” answered hubby.

“Sorry, man, my bad.”

date night
the bowerbird adds some
bling to his nest

34.

For two days the carpenter who was repairing our front deck after a storm, tried to kill the wild lilac bush by the steps. He cut all the stumps as low as the saw would allow, he poured $50 worth of weed-killer on the roots, pounded copper nails in any wood he could reach and dumped other green gunk from his truck on it. Today I was out enjoying the gorgeous May morning and what should before my wandering eyes appear? Masses of shoots from the mangled roots. I think I will enjoy a small lilac bush right there.

giving in to the power of nature
another brownie from the fridge

35.

There are ants in the pantry. Tiny little ants in search of sugar. Grandma called them piss ants. It certainly pissed me off that they had taken it upon themselves “go Krogering” on my shelves. Everyone has their natural remedy suggestions—cloves, cinnamon sticks, vinegar. None of them worked. Finally, I called the bug-man. What would Issa say?

early May
peony blooms in need
of a suckle

36.

The only color in the first gray light of dawn was birdsong. One there. Another from the cedar tree. Unable to sleep I let my soul fly out the window to enter the slender notes. As I turned from the sound of one bird and then to another I began to do a spinning dance. The faster I moved, while not moving my body, the more the songs wove together, wound together, wrapped me in joy, blessings, the aliveness of the day yet to be.

even old folks have needs. . .
finding a nest to call home

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Note: This linked haibun originally appeared in the October 2013 Lynx: A Journal for Linking Poets (Vol. 28, No. 3). Regular text by Jane Reichhold. Italicized text: by Terri L. French. It is based on a traditional kasen renku format, alternating between two- and three-line haiku and incorporating particular content into specific links (e.g., the moon appears in links 5, 13, and 29, an blossoms appear in links 17 and 35).

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About the Authors

Jane Reichhold (1937–2016) published more than 40 books of haiku, renga, and tanka, including Writing and Enjoying Haiku (Kodansha) and A Dictionary of Haiku (AHA Books). and, as translator, Basho: The Complete Haiku (Kodansha). Her many accomplishments including founding AHA Books and, with her husband Werner, editing Lynx: A Journal for Linking Poets.

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Terri L. French is a poet/writer and retired Massage Therapist. She and her husband, Ray, have four mostly grown children and one spoiled dog. They now enjoy the nomadic life of full-time RVers.