Introduction to tinywords issue 11.3
Welcome! tinywords 11.3, the “journeys” issue, is about to begin. Intro by guest editor Kathe L. Palka.
Category: Issue 11.3
shallow stream
we cross a bridge
of stars
immigration line
a red thread caught
in her teeth
just this morning
the first magnolia buds
opening—
my mother?s unwed initials
on the suitcase she brought east
he thinks again of turning leaves her hands
autumn leaves
lipstick red
her brand new path to herself
South Coast, Aqaba
We stand on the shore, a plastic bag of fins, masks and snorkels on the sand between us… (haibun continues)
sunlit lake
not a ripple
in my thoughts
west wind
the rain arrives
without you
row boat—
we float deeper
into dusk
friday evening
the last car to board the ferry
in front of me
thunder
at the bus stop
the posture of rain
rainfall
a feather on the pond
changes course
backstroke the sound of my mother’s womb
platelets—
the trip we were planning
to plan
pub. credit: Modern Haiku 41:2 (2010)
anniversary
roses in a vase
drying together
light falling everywhere ? ? ?in its own place — summer’s end (haiga)
migrating geese—
wind flaps the scarecrow?s
empty sleeves
leaves changing a language i can’t fully grasp
Skype—
my parents describe
the harvest moon
home from the city–
waiting at the station
Orion
milkweed
leaving everything
behind
waltzing matilda two beats ahead of the rain
my journey begins:
a few snowflakes
flutter in the breeze
how do they manage
migrating geese taking only
their shadows
airplane window
mountains move
slowly past
Slime trail—
glancing back at
the glinting
just because
the sky is navigable—
thistledown
alone at last
she chooses the road
less travelled…
in her wind-blown hair
salt air and wildflowers
(haiga)
scenic route
i brake
for a maple leaf
moonlight on aster
i take
the long way home
early bus—
catching my reflection
in the police van window
the climb
over barbed wire…
trumpet vine
just past mauve ? ? paddling hard for a dark shore (haiga)
loneliness
the boat finding
its own way
at the top of the hill
I am still
the same size
Missouri highway
this night there?s only me
and a radio preacher
thoughts unspool
with the white line
road trip
straight furrowed fields
all the things I wish
I could unsay
across the blue dome of the great basin mustang’s eye
no Perseids yet—
just the Milky Way
and a million stars
half the sky
a deeper blue
mid-life birthday
at a crossroads
summer wind
through prairie grass
the road home each bend unwinding an earlier version
anniversary
on his bedside table
a thin film of dust
in the apartment
that he never tried to leave
a map of the world
jet lag
she unravels
his half-finished sweater
Sunday afternoon
jammed between a bus and truck
we glimpse the silver
water tumbling down
Agatsuma Gorge