Monday, December 26, 2011


Our winner: Renee!

I hope that everyone had a great weekend, whether it was Christmas for you or not. For haiku Friday, I could not help picking (for the first time) a set of haikus that I thought hung together particularly well, by Renee:

What comes in the night
We do not expect,Tender King--
You come a child,poor.

They tell us to look
For the large,for powerful
But Love sleeps in straw.

Our own children come
To teach us who you are,Lord--
Rare...Abundant Joy.

Which means that it is time for her biography:

Though her present is well known, Renee's origins are mysterious. Some say that she was born on a plantation deep in the tidal bays of South Carolina, while others say she was born in the shadow of mountains among the towering pines of the northwest. Some claim that she was born into a family of traveling minstrels; others point to evidence that she was a child of land, helping with the harvest. There is some basis for believing that all this might be true.

Nonetheless, at this time we know her to inhabit the borderlands between the north woods and the high plains, a land that has given us legions of folk singers, street preachers, storytellers, and nearly any type of true believer. She is true to her habits, loyal to her own heart, and has successfully claimed her freedom enough times that it is no longer questioned. Those who have been to her lair say that everything there is there for a reason, though only Renee may know what that reason is.

Plus, she has a lot of hats. A LOT of hats.

Only God knows how very close you came this time;though I have adored every biography you have written of me. Bearing this in mind,I have instructed my baby brother,Larry Eugene Reynolds,saintly chief Musician,to compel you to read this beside The Creek,when I have departed this veil of instructive,kind sorrow and ineffable joy. Thank you for this honor. I find that because of this weekly haikanoeing,I have been working my craft on a weekly basis. The syllabic discipline is a challenge and a game. I have always believed that poetry is like the distillation of mead. One starts with masses of soul honey in the form of words,and ends with a rare liqueur of just the right words and,with any luck,your readers become drunk with beauty.
P.S. You will read my biography wearing a loden fedora,rust leather band.
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