Matsuo Kinsaku, or Basho, as he is more commonly known, born 1644 in Japan, considered to be the master of Haiku poetry, would today perhaps take a liking to the camera, especially the iphone and smaller mirrorless cameras. They could easily have been transported in his backpack on a trip into the north country of Japan — but would it have changed his poetry?
Cars were my passion as a little girl. The world outside the window of my parent’s car in the late fifties and early sixties was filled with colorful, moving three-dimensional sculptures that featured the best designs that American engineers had to offer. It was a time before seatbelts and car seats — being so small I was able to stand on the back seat and lean on the rear dash watching all of the great works of American Art roll past me on the road.
Frank was dead. His white apron was now soaked with red all the way down to where it lay partially submerged in a puddle beneath him. Two large trays of fresh doughnuts sat in the tray on the table above him, sprinkled with his blood.
It was the year the cicadas emerged in Kansas after seventeen years of silence. His buggy tottered swiftly along the dusty road to home, through July corn that once stood as tall and lusty and green as his eldest son Todd until the last two years when severe weather and drought moved through the area. He passed reddish-gold fields of evening and watched as a few strands of wheat left from the June harvest caught a soft breeze and twinkled on and off with the last remnants of light.