Bill Cushing

HAIKU FOR 1989 

Everglades burning,

chemicals crack open sky.

Do not think. Lament.

FOURTH OF JULY 1981

Clouds, like a herd of whales, 

dark bellies passing overhead,

wheel and turn, moving northeast.

I stand beneath that majestic entourage

Watching, at dusk on the Fourth of July,

while the children down the street stop

 

lighting Roman candles, running 

to seek the shelter of porch roofs 

as Nature’s fireworks outdo Man’s.

A CHANTEY FOR CHANTEY (a haibun)

Imbibe a chantey of when I moved from child to seaman. We raised Chantey’s sail, got underway, leaving the bay’s safety for the race—confused waters where sound and ocean meet and churn. Soon, darkened clouds grew over the bay. Swelling white caps slapped our gunwales. Harsh winds approached gale force, pushing Chantey hard over as water washed over gunwales, cascaded through the hatch, and flooded the cabin bay. The squall shrieked through ratlines, cable shrouds, and stays. Bow and sprit rose, dove, and danced between brutal swells. Turbulent currents drove the sound schooner along an uncontrolled bearing. We rode the squall as best we could—wet, cold, and hanging on to any handhold found. Pelted red by a stinging rain, I made my way—hand over hand on lifelines to attend to tearing sails. The storm passed as it rose—a momentary tempest—leaving us quiet in the bay. If sailors are defined by the storms they overcome, bearing down a squall on the Chantey served as my graduation ceremony.

callous Neptune struck

with antagonistic winds

we weathered his worst

Chantey underway in calmer waters