Global Haiku • Spring 2014
Dr. Randy Brooks

a little uneven

selected haiku of Alexis D. DeSollar

for Rose

Copyright © 2014 by Alexis D. DeSollar

Preface:

The fact that Alexis just rediscovered her love and talent for writing this year never ceases to astound me. Her way of writing is absolutely breathtaking, while making the readers reflect on their own lives. She will run into my room, notebook in hand and a smile on her face, eager to share with me her newest masterpiece. Her haiku capture the most simple moments in the most beautiful way.

the wind;
God ruffles my hair
into tangles

She has a way with tugging on people’s heartstrings that I’ve never seen anyone else possess. It’s not always blatant. Sometimes, it just sneaks up on the reader without them really knowing. She uses her gift of words to draw people in and makes them want to stay there, memorized by her words, forever.

how sweetly she smiles—
the black picture frame
gathering dust

Being a writer myself, I know that Alexis has a bright writing future ahead of her. I know that many people will fall in love with her work, just as I have. So, dear reader, I challenge you to read through her book of haiku and experience the brilliance and beauty that only her poems can portray.

~Caitlin Husted

~~~

Author’s introduction:

Life is a little uneven.

Carefully examine the book you are holding in your hands. You will probably notice that some words are lopsided, there are ripped pages, replaced pages, ink splotches, and a large amount of obvious elbow grease. Already, in its very creation, this book has been on a journey—it has been ripped, torn, and patched; words have been thought out, crossed out, re-envisioned, and now it has been brought to you, whoever you are.

Perhaps you have been just as ripped, torn, and patched.

Yet, there is beauty in this imperfect way in which you have pieced yourself together so wonderfully—every scar and every mark only shows that you have a history and a story to tell that is so rich. The Japanese culture has a very specific word for this beauty of the imperfect called wabi-sabi, roughly translating into English as “the beauty of ordinary things” or the appreciation for the natural cycles of life.

There is wholeness in brokenness, completion in the incomplete, and beauty in imperfection.

The haiku you are about to read is meant to celebrate this ordinariness and simple beauty. In fact, even the very technique of writing successful haiku involves using this specific simplicity, carefully selecting only the words that need to be used in order to offer a specific but severely open-ended creation to the reader. As a student who only recently embarked on a journey into the world of haiku, I can most certainly ensure you that the following haiku are not perfect, but in them I hope you see this ordinary loveliness and then begin to seek it in your daily life; this is, after all, where it thrives.

A haiku is never read the same way twice, as a successful haiku will allow evolution between readers. Thus, the haiku that you read here an experience that is entirely unique to you.

Life is a little uneven.

It is not made up of only clear waters, solid lines, and unscathed perfection, but of rough edges, broken curves, and a striking, raw, vibrant beauty.

~Alexis D. DeSollar

lunch break—
his callused hands
pluck a wildflower

alone in the dance studio
her first prayer
since the funeral

summer in the Bronx
smooth jazz
from the broken window

gentle tide
she collects her thoughts
with seashells

how sweetly she smiles—
the black picture frame
gathering dust

radiant sunlight
the ring bearer
picks his nose

digging her toes
into river clay
the moon

his breath condenses
in the winter air
jumper cables

a singular snowflake
lost in the white
of her hair

thunder crack;
not as loud
as silent prayer

I run my hands
over ivory keys
dust

the wind;
God ruffles my hair
into tangles

the dead tulips
still reaching
towards the rain

he left me second
I left me
first

the young boy
tugs at his red toboggan
uncharted territory

barefoot
she skips to the dumpster
to toss away her heels

lilacs
forever blooming
in the picture frame

helping dad
I draw a heart
in the sawdust

three a.m.
missing that freckle
behind your right ear

he reaches
for her hand
junebugs

winter moon—
so many things to say
before I sleep

snowflakes
designed by compassionate hands
handle with care

through cracked asphalt
sun-starved faces
of four-leaf lovers

at the stroke of three
she questions his faithfulness
the first frost

cuddled for warmth
under the patchwork quilt
let it snow

glasses clink
she drops a chopstick
on his dress shoe

first love
he whistles a Disney tune
in the shower

tall black boots
lined with fur
momentary ice skates

picking daisies
the young girl wearing
Wednesday ashes

spray painted tic-tac-toe
under the railroad bridge
cat’s game

the dress he bought her
zips with ease
special reservations

summer breeze;
drops of pickle juice
on the open book

midnight snack—
jasmine tea lingers
on her lips

finally spring
a handful of dandelions
in the olive jar

snowed-in
the toddler cries
over his broken train

their every adventure
a pressed flower
falls from the pages

Spanish metro:
Italian boys think
we can’t understand them

daffodils at dusk;
we fall asleep
to the rain