Prosimetra

The word prosimetra is pronounced pro-SIMM-eh-truh. Prosimetra are writings that mix prose and poetry. This collection of short prosimetra contains snapshots of my experiences.


foggy morning

One morning, a few days ago, a dense fog settled in. The dim light made it seem as though the sun had paused its rise, resting half above the far horizon. The dull shadows in my room drew me to a window.

look through the blinds –
fog gently rests between
black wood branches

sunlight scattered
in the echoed voices
of invisible birds

 


the wind’s song

I took a break from working at my desk and opened a window to let some outside in. A breeze flowed through the window carrying the sounds of a neighbor’s wind chimes.

wind plays a song
on the dangling chimes –
the trees dance

 


darkness hugs a window

I happened to look out my window one autumn night. Dimly lit tree branches dressed in brown leaves swayed in the cold breeze. Wanting to see more, I left the comfort of my couch and walked to the window. My fingertips pressed gently against the cool glass.

darkness hugs a window,
its cool embrace
slowing soaking in

 


a child’s funeral

I once attended the funeral of a young girl. When the funeral service ended, the father leaned over the young girl lying in the casket, held her hand, and stroked her hair. He said “I love you” and “goodbye” over and over again. Then, with trembles of a terrible realization that the moment was about to pass, the father whispered his final words and stepped back.

tearful eyes stare
at eyes closed forever –
a last goodbye

unwilling to end
the mournful caresses –
a war against time

 


winter afternoon in Texas

I peeked through the little windows near the top of my front door. The winter afternoon was quite sunny. Opening the door, I stepped outside far enough to catch the sunshine.

nowhere a cloud,
empty blue sky
invites my eyes

a warm and unseen
caress on my face –
the afternoon sun

 


green explosion

Waiting in the line of a drive thru one night, a light rain slowly filling my windshield with tiny drops, I let my eyes wander. The line moved forward a few feet. The headlights of a truck suddenly lit up some fern leaves in the landscaping along the curb.

bright headlights
shine on the leaves of a fern –
green explosion

 


boy at an airport

Early Saturday morning, waiting for my flight to leave, I walked to a shop to buy some coffee. A mother with three young boys entered the line before me. The youngest boy stomped his foot several times, his face growing red and his eyes tearing up. “I don’t want to do this!” he said several times. The mother gently rested her hand on the boy’s head and pulled him against her body. “Daddy isn’t here,” she explained. “We have to get on the plane first and fly to Maine. Daddy will be waiting for us there.”

so eager to cross
the space between here and love –
red face and wet eyes

 


a stranger’s gravestone

I grew up in a funeral home. My father would take me to the cemetery when he set new grave stones. I enjoyed exploring the cemetery, sometimes looking at the farm fields or timbers along its edges, sometimes gazing on a grave stone that caught my eye. The stone often had carvings that tried to capture the hopes of grief. More often, though, the names and dates on the stone entranced me. I imagined the people to whom the names belonged, what their lives where like during the years they lived, and what now remained of them in the ground.

old gray stone
planted in the grass,
what lies underneath?

who were you
every day that passed,
loves that beat your heart?

 


always home

Curved gently in the cushion of my bed, a book about the journeys of Basho the poet laid against my knee. Basho felt at home the most when walking roads afar. I wondered how a sense of home could be so many places, scattered everywhere. A home like this, I thought, must always be “right here”—in any room around my bones.

So I wrote:

every
journey starts with
one foot stepping forward
how then does one start a journey
to a home from which one
never parted
presence

 


writer’s meeting

On the first Thursday of December, I attended an evening meeting with local writers at the Lamppost coffee shop. The sun had set before I started my trip. The charcoal gray clouds reflected the glow of city lights as they wet the roads. The roads were heavy with cars, some heading home from work, others heading to stores or restaurants to finish up the day.

stoplight’s crooked red reflection
smeared across the dark wet road
interrupted briefly by
the shadow of a passing car

 


clouds in mountains

When clouds bend low to the mountains, some assume the mountains scrape the sky. The clouds are simply having a little fun.

jumping across mountains without names –
a light cloud

 


dim morning

The cool wet days of winter in Austin, Texas, begin with dimly lit mornings. Rays of light from the morning sun lose their way in the thick clouds and fog. The rays that find their way to my house do little to wipe the sleep from my eyes.

through my window comes
the dull light of morning rain,
my room half awake