scarf
lands on the floor
small eyes glance
from across the room |
going
through the tunnel:
the girl looks at her reflection
so do I
|
colorful
powder
on the butterfly's wings
a child's finger |
old
coloring books
afternoon shadows darken
the colors |
|
going
through the tunnel:
the girl looks at her reflection
so do I
|
colorful
powder
on the butterfly's wings
a child's finger
|
|
|
colorful
powder
on the butterfly's wings
a child's finger
|
|
| |
laying
in the grass
we take off our shoes
and eat sandwiches
These
are each very good, very gentle, and a sense of season—summer,
specifically—pervades both. While the second is quite
tactile, I find the first even more so, perhaps because the
butterfly and its powder have such a weightless fragility
to them. Between them and the tiny finger, our tenderness
is corralled.
The
second is direct and simple, yet graceful, but the "we"
is maybe too open. Friends? Siblings? Lovers? On balance,
I have to say the first is superior.
Bob
Reed
The
first. One can see the child’s plump finger and visage
pointing in wonderment to the butterfly, fake or real, just
colorful, beautiful, even if a mere representation.
The
second. Grass, felt between toes, ants taking a journey on
a nail as the tickling wind stops by for a tease. Overall,
visceral. The second is better.
Haether
Aymer
|
|
|
warm
summer night
a happy face
painted by the fire
|
laying
in the grass
we take off our shoes
and eat sandwiches
|
|
hot
summer breeze
takes my breath away
cool fingertips
|
warm
summer night
a happy face
painted by the fire
|
laying
in the grass
we take off our shoes
and eat sandwiches |
sitting
on
moolit water
his arms around me
|
colorful
powder
on the butterfly's wings
a child's finger
The
child is curious, which in turn makes us curious. Is the butterfly
landing on the finger, or is the finger prodding the butterfly,
in the innocent yet possibly very destructive way of children.
It is a careful and concentrated image, with enough ambiguity
for the reader to complete the story to their own satisfaction.
A champion. —Bob Reed
the
off-ramp curves
toward familiar trees
glowing porch light |
side
of the road
the field of wildflowers
pulls her over |
concrete
warm
under bare feet
"starlight, starbright" |
first
kiss
his car drives away
spinning in the starlight |
|
side
of the road
the field of wildflowers
pulls her over
|
first
kiss
his car drives away
spinning in the starlight
|
|
|
side
of the road
the field of wildflowers
pulls her over
Wildflowers
pull at her mind with such urging. Immediate, full sensory experience
of this field is pounding her heart, to damn it, if the urge
is not carried out. The movement, the reader feels it as they
skid and slid to the next line, pulls us to this haiku in preference.
Heather
Aymer
|
|
| |
Autumn
wind
through the branches
caw of a crow
A
woman out for a directionless drive? Or maybe to visit a gravestone,
and she realizes how much she’d like to bring some wildflowers—she
never liked the pretense associated with roses and carnations…
This
first haiku supplies a sense of moment, of impulse. But the
opening line somehow stops the scene before it can fully unfold,
i.e. we are at the side of the road Before she pulls over,
rather than with her as she does so. The second is spare and
straightforward, and the better of the two thanks to its precision.
Bob
Reed
|
|
|
Autumn
wind
through the branches
caw of a crow
|
sticky
corn tassles
I reach the end . . .
of my row
Tassels,
sticky, pulling out cobs, ribbing fingers and hands, the tassel
designed to protect, to deter, until necessary fruition. The
finality, the hope of ending the de-tasseling session, squashed,
in the realization to have to keep going.
Heather
Aymer
|
|
Autumn
wind
through the branches
caw of a crow
|
ocean
of tiger lilies
waving in the breeze
a wisp of hair breaks free
|
swift
moving storm
no where to go
but further down stream |
sticky
corn tassles
I reach the end . . .
of my row
|
|