Global Haiku • Spring 2012
Dr. Randy Brooks

Painting the clouds

by
Wanda June

Author’s forward:

They key to a good haiku is to establish some sort of moment in time, one that the reader can connect to and bring part of themselves to. It is an incomplete work of art that requires a reader’s imagined response in order to be whole. Whenever someone discovers a haiku they love, my haiku professor, Dr. Brooks, described it as a sort of birth, since this is the moment when the haiku is finally complete. My hope as a haiku writer is that my readers can complete some of the haiku in the book with their imagined responses.

~Wanda June

Wanda June is a sophomore majoring in Philosophy. Her pastimes include reading, singing, and after taking this class, writing haiku.

first day of class
i double check
this is the wrong room

friends laughing by the shore
my hat flies off—
ah well!

examining O'Keeffe
we are too immature
for the art museum

after grandma's funeral
still                 leaving
space at the table

by the clear lake
my sister in a flowing skirt—
lamenting the wind

spring afternoon
my chipped nails
strumming the guitar

sun through the window
heating the coffee
in my cracked mug

a tender note
from a lover—
falls from his wallet

crescent moon
she runs to the lake
midnight skinny dip

St. Patrick’s Day party
she asks where
my mother thinks I am

in his arms
the next morning
she pretends to sleep

box of chocolates
waiting at home
on the nightstand

the driveway beneath
branches heavy with snow
his car’s tracks

crowded playground
girl on the swing
sings to herself

graduation cake
congratulations
my name spelled wrong

neck brace
Grandma asks to see
her tulips

over ice cream
an old friend
finishes my sentences

gentle breeze
through the window
crickets call to me

miss scarlet
in the library. . .
oh fine, i cheated

two fireflies
lighting the jar
a child’s bright eyes

coffee shop gossiping
the gray haired woman
rolls her eyes at us

dim cloudy bar
the jazz singer croons—
“fly me to the moon!”

our eyes meet
across the table
he moves his rook

front door opens
she sighs
still boot weather

father’s face
as my sister boasts
the loss of her virginity

nursing home on Sunday
gray hairs crowd around
watching the Cubs lose

he grips my hand
just to keep warm
so he says

in the cafeteria
someone waves
to the person behind me

beneath the harvest moon
in the calm breeze
we talk of ghosts

sprawled out together
on leaves of grass
painting the clouds