Published Work (Haibun)

​

​

​

A Gate Left Open

​

In a large field, tall headstones sink in the snow. I wonder, when I take my last breath, will I remember words at all? More than words, I want to hear a stream of voices and see the faces of everyone I’ve loved.

 

On the dark road, the only sound is the car engine muffled in pouring rain.

 

a bridge

over the river's darkness

the memory of stars

​

​

Contemporary Haibun Online (cho) 19.1, Winter 2023 issue

Link: Jacob D. Salzer, A Gate Left Open - contemporary haibun online

​

​

***

​

The Next Chapter

 

I wander into the forest as the full moon hovers in the northern sky. The spruce trees quiver gently as my body brushes against their snow-laden branches. Making my way through thicker foliage, I sink with each step in knee-deep snow, as I return to a place I have missed, but not forgotten. At the crest of a hill in the clearing, I see the verdant beings, standing like guardians in the moonglow.

 

"You've grown. You've changed,” I whisper to one of the trees, still adorned with a few decorations from past Solstice ceremonies. In the spaces between, from deep within, a flutter.

 

"So have you.”

 

turning the page

a silhouette disappears

in the fog

 

 

Prose: Michelle Hyatt

Haiku: Jacob Salzer

 

Under the Bashō, Haibun 2022

Link: Under the Basho - The Next Chapter

​

​

***

​

A Fork in the Road

 

“There were two paths you could take in my day. You could become a farmer or a mechanic. I liked machines and fixing things. I chose to be a mechanic.” He pauses, pulls another blueberry and drops it in the metal can. “You know they’re ripe when they come off easily.”

 

college graduation—

a butterfly disappears

without a sound

​

Contemporary Haibun Online, cho 18.1, April 2022

https://contemporaryhaibunonline.com/cho-18-1-table-of-contents/jacob-salzer-a-fork-in-the-road/

​

***

​

Stardust 

​

In a sold-out Living Room Theater, the air lingers with half-eaten hamburgers, French fries, and pitchers half-full of beer. Under dark leather seats, we quickly sweep up comet trails of candy and galaxies of crushed popcorn. As the movie credits end, I pour a glass of wine into the trash, check the schedule, and glance at my watch—

 

the ant disappears

in a hole in the wall

summer wind

 

Drifting-sands-haibun.org, January 2022 issue

​

***

​

Patience

​

On my desk, everything sits in silence. Waiting. My new passport. A wooden Buddha statue. The small stone turtle. My open checkbook. A stack of books filled with innumerable voices wanting to be heard. 

 

I set down my pen as someone reads a haibun on Zoom over two-thousand miles away.

​

vacation itinerary — 
the water in my glass
becomes still

​

​

Drifting-sands-haibun.org, issue #12, 2021

​

***

​

The Eye of a Storm

​

I’m sitting next to my classmate who has seizures. He says he got a new job as a Lot Attendant and has to ride his bike home, rain or shine. He can’t drive because of his medical condition. He said he once had a grand mal seizure and went into a coma for three days. Thanks to his part-time job, he can now pay for his medication.

​

shadow-born—
a moth flickers
under the porch light

​

​

Drifting-sands-haibun.org, issue #11, 2021; Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

***

​

Gravity

​

In grandpa's basement, the musty air lingers with motor oil, dirt, and metal. I slowly wander through decades of his life. A stack of rusted paint cans. A wall full of wrenches and screwdrivers. Rows of ladders. Windows. Buckets. Shovels. Boxes overflowing with nails. A large inventory of ropes and chains. All useful things. All things that people threw away.

 

The scent of firewood lingers on my jacket, as I leave a house that he made with his own hands . . .

 

moonless night

a bird disappears

into the birch tree

​

​

Drifting-sands-haibun.org, issue #10, 2021; Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

***

​

Night Shift

​

They call us the lantern people. Instead of tents, they brought a nice house on wheels. We set up our tent at a safe distance.

 

At sunset, about fifty feet away, I hear the loud sound of their RV generator. Lights turn on and a small T.V. flickers inside. I slowly rotate a marshmallow until it’s slightly burnt. Soon, I will be fast asleep.

 

an orb spider

rebuilds her web

sound of rain

​

​

Contemporary Haibun Online (cho), August 2021 issue; Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

***

​

Traces

​

In the dark corner, a spider scrambles behind an unopened box. My flashlight filters through remnants of his life. The rusted, red metal tool box. His car maintenance outfit, stained with motor oil. A stack of Playboy magazines from his uncle. Receipts from China. Devices. Blueprints of unfinished projects. His grandmother's typewriter that belongs to no one.

 

I look at photographs of him and my mother before I was born . . .

 

a heron settles

in the dead tree

autumn wind

​

​

Drifting-sands-haibun.org, Issue 9, May 2021; Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

***

                

Portal 

​

Silent silhouettes recede into darkness as I walk deeper into the woods. Dry yellow and orange leaves mark my footsteps until I reach a dead end. I slowly walk past the names and dates of many souls chiseled in stone. At sunset, at the far end of the cemetery, I stop and look into the doe’s eyes…

​

                the rattle
                of the Shaman’s necklace
                made of bones . . .
                dancing around the flames
                her children’s shadows

​

​

Drifting-sands-haibun.org, Issue 7, January 2021; Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

***

​

ORIGINS

 

There were power plants here. Coal power plants. Three-hundred billion tons of carbon dioxide have been released into the pale blue sky, powering generations, creating an intermittent hum within over ten million refrigerators, providing power for two billion computers, as streams of electricity spread underground and above us, reaching into our laptops, charging over four billion cell phones. Billions of faces glow in artificial light, reading over two-hundred billion emails sent and received each day, creating a constant hum for over one billion TVs flashing in over one billion houses around the world, running comedy shows, documentaries, sports, movies, and breaking news, much less mental programming, powering over thirteen million microwaves, and over one million electric stoves and ranges, providing heat for homecooked meals, not to mention our fancy electric heaters and fans, and light bulbs.

 

Now the coal power plant stands like an empty cage. Out of a block of concrete, rusted exhaust pipes reach into a pale orange sky.

 

forest light the burial of my dreams

 

 

Drifing-sands-haibun.org, Issue 4, October 2020; Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

​

***

​

​

Encounter

 

In the coffee shop, a homeless man is scribbling on a notepad, uttering syllables to himself. Another homeless man walks in, probably in his mid-fifties. He says to the man scribbling, “It’s getting cold out there.” About ten feet away, my co-worker sits comfortably with me, as she places her hands around a warm cup of tea. “So, where’d you grow up?”

 

parallel worlds

on a divided highway

sound of traffic

 

​

Publication credits:

​

drifting-sands-haibun.org, Issue 3, September 2020

jar of rain: The Red Moon Anthology of English-Language Haiku

Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

***

 

Shadow

 

There are only a few ways he could have entered my apartment. He could have slipped in through the back door when it was open, briefly. He could have crawled his way through openings in the floor, behind cabinets where power cords disappear into the void. But no. I think this guy took the ultimate route, on a secret mission to paradise. He held his breath, then swam in the dark, through intricate pipes in the walls and finally emerged from the toilet into the bright lights of my bathroom, gasping for breath. He then dried himself off with my towel, grabbed some leftover crumbs of cereal on the kitchen counter, then sat back and relaxed under my couch as he listened to me play guitar. A free concert. With front row seats.

 

Now he has disappeared once again, this time beneath the oven, out of sight, like a secret agent. Like 007.

 

               cracks

               in the old brick wall

               sound of wind

 

 

Drifting-sands-haibun.org, Issue 2, August 2020; Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

***

​

​

IN THE TRENCHES

​

All along, I saw gardens as peaceful places. But now, as I maintain one, I simultaneously see them as a war zone. Invasive weeds re-emerge from the dark soil. Insects chew holes in many of the leaves. The snails try to escape the organic pesticide, leaving behind small trails of their existence . . .

 

old cemetery shadows become still

 

 

Published by Under the Basho, 2020

https://www.underthebasho.com/current-year/haibun/3329-in-the-trenches.html

​

Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

***

​

​

SHADOW

Father and I arrive at the Native American reservation. There is no one in sight. Sunlight filters through the dusty windows of a closed gift shop. Dead grass leans against weathered houses. Peering inside a house, it is dark and empty, as if no one has lived there for years. I wonder where the people are… Distant waves crash against the shore as a totem pole disappears in the fog. Outside the elementary school, an American flag rustles quietly in the faint breeze…

abandoned cemetery
the wounded warrior’s
untold stories

​

​

Published by Under the Basho, 2020

https://www.underthebasho.com/current-year/haibun/3330-shadow.html

​

Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

***

​

​

THE INTRUDER

You stole her computer, her jewelry, and her credit cards, and bought things from companies around the world.

Yes, they cleaned up the shattered glass you left behind. And they have a new alarm system now, with a fence that nobody can climb.

You too are bound by the laws of karma. I just hope the seeds of karma will soon be destroyed before they grow into a vast, criminal tree.

morning mist . . .
the prisoner’s breath lingers
above barbed-wire 

 

​

Contemporary Haibun Online, January 2020; Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

***

 

 

Past Lives

 

In the bookstore, the wood floor creaks in certain areas where several generations walked across it. Some books are organized alphabetically by last name on steep shelves, while others are stacked on tables and desks like Leaning Towers of Pisa or rest in random places on the floor.

 

Many lifetimes sleep here, distilled in closed books, waiting to come to life again. Sometimes the dark ink bleeds through the pages, while other pages whisper or scream.

 

Opening the first page of The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway, I hear the ocean crash against me, and feel the cold wind skimming across my face, as if the words have somehow touched hidden scars. 

 

all that's left

of the campfire . . .

sound of rain 

 

​

Contemporary Haibun Online, October 2019 Vol. 15 No. 3; Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

***

​

​

Origins

 

Buried in darkness, streams of electricity stretch for miles forming an invisible grid. Innumerable power lines connect at a single street post and expand in all directions.

 

distant shadows reaching into earth

 

There was a man who always wore a black coat in the concrete lecture hall. Under bright fluorescent lights he talked about coal power plants. As he spoke I imagined dark clouds rising into sunlight.

 

deep ocean sounds we never will hear

 

My friend lights a cigarette in the dark; her visible breath merges with smoke under bare moonlight.

 

the night train rolls on a steady beam of light

 

​

Modern Haiku 47:2; Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

​

***

​

​

Gramps in his elements

 

He stands on the hill looking over his property, filled with shadows and innumerable trees. With a pick axe he makes a new footpath on the slope, asking himself how long he will be able to do this. Even with two knee replacements and a wife with memory loss, nothing slows him down. With his hands he built a house using fallen trees and things that many people threw away. The garbage site is a treasure hunt in his eyes. 

 

Every summer we cut logs into smaller pieces and stack them beneath a shelter so he and Grandma can stay warm year around.

 

a wooden house

becomes a home

Grandpa's hands

 

 

Chrysanthemum 19, 3/24/2016; Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

 

​

***

 

 

Night Route

 

Riding the bus, I see the faces of generations, and young souls speaking foreign languages, but I remain quiet in the midst of their conversations.

 

There is the bus driver yelling in his interrogation, demanding to know why I was on the bus again, and his face boils in his anger as I get off the bus without a sound.

 

There is the sound of the bus engine, and the sound of an accordion door closing with a sense of urgency.

 

On the long, dark road, there is nothing left but the sound of rain. Between each step, even the “I” thought comes and goes. At night, all the trees disappear into each other, under the star-filled sky.

 

moonlit alley

a large shadow engulfs

my own

 

​

Prune Juice (Senryu Journal); Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

 

​

***

 

 

The Legend of Zelda

 

I grew up in the suburbs, and remember long hours were spent playing The Legend of Zelda for both Super Nintendo and N64. As a child, video games were an escape into another world. In this world, I was a hero. I explored new terrain, solved puzzles, fought monsters, and defeated villains. Within seconds, I would forget about my homework.

 

long pause . . .

mother unfolds

my report card

 

​

Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​

​

***

​

Side Track 

 

During my first year of college, I lost some credit due to late nights reading poetry and playing tabla with Nick, but it was worth it. He taught the basic tabla rhythms using Sanskrit syllables. Then, I started making compositions of my own. My favorite rhythmic cycle or taal was a 12-beat cycle called Ektaal:

 

Dhin Dhin DhaGe Teriketa Tun Na Kut Dha DhaGe Teriketa Dhi Na

 

light rain…

the rhythmic sound

of the washing machine

 

​

Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

 

​

***

 

 

Ascension

 

Gramps lives on over twenty acres of forest. He has created a vast network of trails, but as I climb the hill, the trails have disappeared, and I am alone. I steadily climb the steep hill through the thick brush. With each step, I’m reaching closer and closer to the sunlight. At the top, I encounter an old logging road that makes a sharp turn out of sight. A chill goes up my spine, to see this abandoned logging road through a lingering silence…

 

climbing

into unseen heights

sea fog

 

​

Origins: Haibun by Jacob Salzer

​