low-flying cloud…
the retired airman clips
his topiary swan
Published by
Helen Buckingham
Helen Buckingham lives in Wells, UK. Her work appears regularly in journals and anthologies including: Frogpond, The Heron's Nest, Modern Haiku, Haiku in English: The First Hundred Years (W.W. Norton, 2013) and nada annunaad: an anthology of contemporary world haiku (Vishwakarma Publications, 2016). She won first prize in the Martin Lucas Award, 2016. Her most recent collection is the Touchstone Award shortlisted sanguinella (Red Moon Press, 2017).
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Helen, I see him clipping through the muse of memory:
this artist flies
in thought of the sky…
a stranded bird
Respectfully, _m
low-flying cloud…
the retired airman clips
his topiary swan
Despite the complexity of language and content, I can feel some sabi – a quiet, solitary beauty.
Hi Helen!
I echo josh’s words.
What I like is that after I have read the haiku it begins to resonate as I think of a retired airman no longer able to pilot a plane, albeit he can be a passenger.
Perhaps also he wishes he could free the topiary swan too.
Good to see your haiku on tinywords again! ;-)
I like it good use of the pun.
Helen,
This is so wonderfully layered. Motionless flight–you convey the notion of clipped wings and a nostalgia for taking to the air beautifully. Thank you for this.
This gave me a smile, Helen,
but there’s also a sense of
nostalgia…very nice!
:)
Lary
pterodactyl gliding
this march dawn
florida crane on thermal winds
–
if i didn’t know better–
i’d swear i’d stepped back in time; seeing this majestic crane, with feature resembling something from prehistoric times, effortlessly gliding cross the morning bay
–
thanks, helen, for firming up my sighting
Bob,
You may have begun a new branch of haiku evolution. Prehistori-ku.
Neolithic thunder
a moment of dim light
on his brow
;)
the keeper
“dawn, low-flying cloud–
out of the thinning fog and back again
pelican at big sur
dreams of desert snowfall
day moon alongside the fading sun
indian summer this false spring
black ants scurrying, all are in a hurry
imagine a nuclear spring
dusk, fallen midday moon leans against the fence–
yellow grass”