Hints of Autumn arrive in the Nutmeg corner of New York’s Backyard. It’s almost too cold to eat breakfast on the deck. Twilight and Dusk arrive earlier and earlier. The signs of summer’s end are all around—no more so than today. Hello, poets, and welcome to another Haibun Monday, where we blend haiku and prose to fashion Basho’s favorite hybrid form. I am Frank Tassone, your host, and today, let’s talk about Labor Day!

As I once noted on a previous Haibun Monday, Labor Day commemorates the struggles and accomplishments of the Labor movement. Features of modern work, such as an 8-hour day, 40-hour week, paid leave, and even fringe benefits, are legacies for which we can thank past union workers. We only need to view the plight of workers around the world laboring in societies where unions never evolved to witness the impact of Labor unions.

But think of the word “labor” itself. How can any of us hope to survive without the vital work performed by workers of all kind? From the food we eat, to the clothes we wear, to the healthcare we receive, to the levels of education we achieved: we all benefit from laborers.

Then there is our personal labor. Or the labor of our own mothers, without which we would not be here. We have so many ways to ponder labor.

Just as these poets have:

Labor Day

By Joseph Millar

Even the bosses are sleeping late

in the dusty light of September.

The parking lot’s empty and no one cares.

No one unloads a ladder, steps on the gas

or starts up the big machines in the shop,

sanding and grinding, cutting and binding.

No one lays a flat bead of flux over a metal seam

or lowers the steel forks from a tailgate.

Shadows gather inside the sleeve

of the empty thermos beside the sink,

the bells go still by the channel buoy,

the wind lies down in the west,

the tuna boats rest on their tie-up lines

turning a little, this way and that.

Copyright Credit: Poem copyright ©2012 by Joseph Millar from his most recent book of poems, Blue Rust, Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2012. Poem reprinted by permission of Joseph Millar and the publisher.

The Farmer

By W.D. Ehrhart

Each day I go into the fields

to see what is growing

and what remains to be done.

It is always the same thing: nothing

is growing, everything needs to be done.

Plow, harrow, disc, water, pray

till my bones ache and hands rub

blood-raw with honest labor—

all that grows is the slow

intransigent intensity of need.

I have sown my seed on soil

guaranteed by poverty to fail.

But I don’t complain—except

to passersby who ask me why

I work such barren earth.

They would not understand me

if I stooped to lift a rock

and hold it like a child, or laughed,

or told them it is their poverty

I labor to relieve. For them,

I complain. A farmer of dreams

knows how to pretend. A farmer of dreams

knows what it means to be patient.

Each day I go into the fields.

Copyright Credit: W. D.  Ehrhart, “The Farmer” from Beautiful Wreckage. Copyright © 1999 by W. D.  Ehrhart.  Reprinted by permission of Adastra Press.

Source: Beautiful Wreckage (Adastra Press, 1999)

In whatever way we relate to it, let’s celebrate this Labor Day with our own labor of love! Let’s write our haibun alluding to Labor!

New to haibun? The form consists of one to a few paragraphs of prose—usually written in the present tense—that evoke an experience and are often non-fictional/autobiographical. They may be preceded or followed by one or more haiku—nature-based, using a seasonal image—that complement without directly repeating what the prose stated.

New to dVerse? Here is what you do:

• Write a haibun that references labor.
• Post it on your personal site/blog.
• Include a link back to dVerse in your post.
• Copy your link onto the Mr. Linky.
• Remember to click the small checkbox about data protection.
• Read and comment on some of your fellow poets’ work.
• Like and leave a comment below if you choose to do so.
• Have fun!