Haiku and Fish Sticks

While studying medieval Japan this week, we made Japanese fabric carp kites (dubbed fish sticks by my 3 year-old nephew.) We also read lots of Haiku poetry. Then we went on a Ginko, or Haiku nature walk and everyone tried their hand at writing some poetry. Although they are not all traditional Haiku, I think they are all beautiful.

Dog Behind Fence by Steve L.

Barking frantically,

The hysterical brown dog

Warns off intruders.

by Daniel

With 2 cousins we made fish kites,

all colorful and white.

We went to a field

scattered about with leaves.

We had lots of energy and ran here and there,

with our kites above and

just behind us they flowed.

by Janey

I am a daisy

born in the spring.

I pop up when

the birdies sing.

by Ellie

When the grass is dead

and the trees don't have leaves,

We go to the dinosaur museum.

The Patient Watermelon by Noreen

(Note: My friend Jennifer, who's 8 year-old son is undergoing chemo, posted a heart felt poem on her blog this week. It gave me the courage to share one of my own. When I tried to journal this experience in New Zealand, it just had to come out as a poem. It surprised me, since I hadn't written a poem in almost 20 years.)





The Patient Watermelon

Dropped a ball again
Tears of frustration
A sincere prayer for help

I hate when I forget that I said that I could help!

I remembered to buy the watermelon early.
My son helped choose a luscious round one for his team.
It sat patently waiting all week on the counter,
ready to be put into service.
By Saturday Morning the watermelon was forgotten,
buried behind last night’s dishes.

Three kids fed, dressed, with hats, shoes, water bottles and mitts
and out the door with their dad by 8:30.
A sigh of relief –

Until I see it – just moments too late.

The patient watermelon.

Only one car
No cell phone
Lifestyle choices I enjoy-
Until a moment like this.

I picture my son’s face at the end of the game, when someone asks,
“Where’s the snack?”
and he remembers the watermelon,
hand picked-
the one his mom forgot to send.

Then my tears come,
Helplessness
Disappointment
Frustration

Then my prayers come
Heartfelt and
Earnest
Searching for a solution.

I place calls to my friends, my visiting teacher, my neighbor.
No one’s home on this busy Saturday morning.

Another prayer for help
A plea to be rescued

Then it comes –
A name leaps off the phone list. Somebody’s home!

An angel in a sedan- who hardly knows me – gives a half hour out of her morning
for me.

I arrive at the ball field, laden with my largest white bowl-
filled with patient watermelon.

I find my son’s team in time to witness the last batter run home. My son sees me approach with my load.

The smile on his face is priceless.

He excitedly relieves me of my burden.
The one in my arms and
The one in my heart.

Feeling important, he hands out the watermelon,
Never aware that I almost let him down.

A ball rescued
Tears of joy
A prayer of Thanks.

The Glen by Whitney

Dark, and silent.
But in a way so loud you can not bear it.
Trying to imagine what is happening,
that you have not been blessed with the ability to hear.
Close-set and foreboding. Jealously guarding its secrets.

The learned one makes it his path.
The predator, his hunting ground, the prey, its shelter.

So hostile, yet somewhat tame.
So mysterious. Not knowing, knowing all.
From it, nothing is hidden. Yet it willingly hides,
all.

(Note by Mom: Whitney is away at our Ward's Girls' Camp this week, but I have included this poem of hers that she wrote in New Zealand. She said the "learned one" made her think of Bro. Solomon, a man in our ward that was a talented bushman and taught Whitney how to catch eels.)