The image in my mind for this haiku was given to me in a story told by a friend at work. She spoke about the time when she was a child and her mother grew melon vines over the roof to save space. She would climb up there sit amongst the vines and watch the world go by – I enjoy wondering what she thought, alone up there… thanks Lena.
We’d been dancing around each other for months.
Like a couple of lost planets
trying to recover some semblance of orbit;
neither of us wanting to push this friendship further
for fear of losing what we already had –
On the other hand,
both wanting the situation between us to be more.
We kept kidding ourselves that we were happy.
We didn’t need anybody in our lives again.
I knew that this winter fair was going to be another typical
country pain in the arse.
I’d have to be polite and say Audrey’s cakes were amazing.
Shirley from the dairy across the valley would be there too –
I knew she was keen, but for me, she just didn’t shine.
Maybe it was Smithy’s home brew,
maybe it was the winter moon,
reflected in your smiling eyes,
but as I stood in front of you
on that bare earth dance floor,
I figured it was worth asking.
Heliotrope is a colour,
It’s also a flower.
Orange is a colour,
It’s also a fruit.
Avocado is a colour,
It’s also delicious.
Taupe is a colour,
It’s not delicious.
Icterine is a colour, sort of.
A bird can be Icterine,
But it can’t be just a colour.
French Raspberry is a colour,
Birds eat raspberries.
Moccasin is a colour,
It’s also a snake, and a shoe.
Skobeloff is a colour,
It’s a spring green.
Snakes breed in spring.
Zaffre is a colour,
In powdered glass – behold the Ming vase.
Wenge is a colour,
It’s also a dark timber.
Sweet song of the Dulcimer.
Without colour there’s no light,
Or maybe the other way ‘round.
Chromatography, Colorimetry or Colour Science –
The study of colour.
Rods and cones perceive the light,
I just enjoy the view.
I heard a story just the other day.
A butterfly flapped her wings
deep in the bamboo forest.
Apparently she cause a hurricane –
In Mozambique.
*
He wrote a poem of love and loss
rolled it and sealed it into a bottle
then cast it to the heaving sea.
She read it on a wind-swept beach –
Somewhere near Galilee.
*
I plucked a rose in autumn’s eve
a warmth it brought into my life,
when chills were hard to keep at bay.
It’s warmth soon failed and colour left –
I buried it in Yandanooka.
*
He hit her once or twice, early on.
It soon became her cross to bear
through years of servitude.
She slipped a knife between his ribs –
Hidden in bustling Calcutta.
*
This life, we choose it every day
and make of it, all that we can.
This freedom gives us many things;
Do we always consider the child –
Asleep in Pensacola.
Once again I have used a word that some may find offensive, so please don’t read further if you think you may be offended. I have not used the word gratuitously and I believe that without the word, the character of the senryu would be softened and it’s impact significantly reduced. If you choose to leave I understand and wish you all the best; if you read on, I hope you find the piece meaningful. Kind regards, Andy.
 | Mabel Kwong on Loss |
 | Nelkumi on Loss |
| Mabel Kwong on Prostate |
 | Mithai Mumblezz on Vale |
| Mithai Mumblezz on And then I was Grey |
Poetry is my aeroplane 