Linda Mitchell posed our Inklings prompt, which was to respond to Kelsey Bigelow’s prompt from Ethical ELA’s September 2025 Open Write: “What is the happiest thing you’ve ever tasted?” I left that idea to simmer, then I read several of the Poetry Sisters’ burning haibuns last week. I found myself fascinated by the form and the process, and consistently impressed by the resulting trios of poems. In a nutshell, a burning haibun is a prose poem that is then used to create an erasure or blackout poem that goes through yet another erasure to end with a haiku. There’s a whole bunch more about the form here. I decided to combine this form with Linda’s prompt.

Writing a burning haibun was an interesting process. If you’ve ever played Bananagrams, you may be able to relate to it. Bananagrams is a kind of unboundaried Scrabble in which you’re constantly shifting your own responses, trying to use all the letters, forming your own game board in front of you. There can come a time when you’re playing, when you have a sprawling grid of words in front of you and a pile of letters to be placed, and you realize, you just have to push all the tiles together and start all over again. Writing this burning haibun felt somewhat like that. More than once. Here’s my current version:

I still remember those long ago days. After school, we dawdled, skipped or trudged, from the bus stop up and down hills, around corners, and all along our road. Sometimes we took the path that wandered through the woods. Sometimes we didn’t. Each season held its detours: the delicious crunch and fling of autumn leaves, the forming and throwing of errant snowballs, and the ever-optimistic plucking of an early crabapple and the bold bite;then, every single time, the spitting out of the bitter flesh. We never learned. I still remember after the long walk, seeing our house perched atop the hill and then launching forward into the final racing ascent up the slope of the driveway. Then, the feeling of opening the door and entering into the welcome of home. Generous and pure. The gentle easing. Sometimes, my mom would have baked, and the air would hint at a random gift for us–still-warm cookies waiting on the counter. In my memory, Mom always stands on the other side of the counter, smiling, patiently waiting for us.  I still see that smile, with the one tooth, slightly askew. In my mind’s eye, she’s framed with the backdrop of the kitchen, walls papered in seventies plaid, yellow, orange and green. It’s pristine. All signs of baking have been erased. The cookies rest there, as if conjured, their scent perfuming the air. Even now, remembering, my hand curves around the imagined weight of the cookie, feels its residual warmth. Such pure, true anticipation! And, oh that first taste! How my teeth slowly breeched the crust to sink into the crumble of each bite. Such innocent, sweet happiness! All tender butter and soft chocolate. In my mind, the cookies are always still warm. Always delicious. And my mom is always there. Waiting. 

I still remember those long ago days. After school, we dawdled, skipped or trudged, from the bus stop up and down hills, around corners, and all along our road. Sometimes we took the path that wandered through the woods. Sometimes we didn’t. Each season held its detours: the delicious crunch and fling of autumn leaves, the forming and throwing of errant snowballs, and the ever-optimistic plucking of an early crabapple and the bold bite; then, every single time, the spitting out of the bitter flesh. We never learned. I still remember after the long walk, seeing our house perched atop the hill and then launching forward into the final racing ascent up the slope of the driveway. Then, the feeling of opening the door and entering into the welcome of home. Generous and pure. The gentle easing. Sometimes, my mom would have baked, and the air would hint at a random gift for us–still-warm cookies waiting on the counter. In my memory, Mom always stands on the other side of the counter, smiling, patiently waiting for us.  I still see that smile, with the one tooth, slightly askew. In my mind’s eye, she’s framed with the backdrop of the kitchen, walls papered in seventies plaid, yellow, orange and green. It‘s pristine. All signs of baking have been erased. The cookies rest there, as if conjured, their scent perfuming the air. Even now, remembering, my hand curves around the imagined weight of the cookie, feels its residual warmth. Such pure, true anticipation! And, oh that first taste! How my teeth slowly breeched the crust to sink into the crumble of each bite. Such innocent, sweet happiness! All tender butter and soft chocolate. In my mind, the cookies are always still warm. Always delicious. And my mom is always there. Waiting. 

I still remember
after school detours
the delicious form
of optimistic and bold
I still long
for the welcome of home
the gentle easing
my mom
a gift
cookies waiting
signs of baking erased
tender
always warm
always there
waiting

after
home, my mom, cookies
erased

©Molly Hogan

In the end, I’m not sure if what I intended came through or not. I don’t often write about my mom, who died far too early at 38 years old, and I find it hard to read this with an objective eye. I do know I didn’t meet all the criteria of the burning haibun. I’d like to fiddle with this some more, undertake some judicious pruning. Still, overall, I enjoyed the process.

Click the links below to see what the other Inklings have done with this prompt:
Mary Lee Hahn @ A(nother) Year of Reading
Linda Mitchell @ A Word Edgewise
Molly Hogan @ Nix the Comfort Zone
Margaret Simon @ Reflections on the Teche
Heidi Mordhorst @ my juicy little universe

Next, stop by to visit this week’s Poetry Round Up, hosted by Laura Purdie Salas.