Global Haiku • Spring 2018
Dr. Randy Brooks

Midnight Moon Pie

by
Rory Arnold

As a writer, I find that each variation of an art—no matter how seemingly distant from one’s central focus—helps complement the overarching creations kept close to my heart. In the midst of the last four months, I have engaged with the haiku, studying its layers, its meanings, the history, as well as its production. In doing so, I have found that this art has defined the muscles of my poetry, giving meaning to the idea that less is absolutely more and that wonder is engaged through serenity.

While I wouldn’t say I’ve mastered this art (or any written art for that matter), I can assuredly say that I better understand the fluidity of the haiku than ever before. The building blocks of this three-lined form come from patience, reflection, the world around us, and the power of imagination. Each haiku in this collection comes from my own imagination, reflecting upon the short days, one moment after another, until it creates my singular vision of the larger picture.

In the following pages, you’ll rise with the morning, see magic, nature, the sweat and powers of labor, move through the changing of the sky until it turns orange, then red, then black. The moon will rise, too familiar but still extravagant, and once you put your head on that pillow, you will see that even it is changing. The pie of the night sky is filled with memories, yearning for the past where midnight snacks are forbidden, and the delight was never in eating them, but the thrill of hiding them under your pillow until everyone was asleep, and you could sit in the precious silence of the dark, seizing the moment that’ll soon pass over with the turning of the earth and the sinking of the moon. Only in those forgotten fragments do we complete our lives, moving through the days toward eternity.

from the empty rooftop
we dance
bright city lights

candle lit dinner
under crescent moon
over crescent rolls

the silent porch
cigar smoke dances
toward the stars

wine-stained white shirt
mumbling
that I love her

a breath mint
won’t save
the date

moss covered steps
                       we descend
                              towards the creek

dark evening mist
we carry the canoe
towards the quiet lake

like the skull kids
we wander through the woods
in search of ourselves

pile of firewood
wets
with melting snow

Frosty’s carrot nose
   now resting
       below his waist

snow flurries
litter the empty parking lot—
this is the promised land

     shoebox
 under inches of dirt
     cemetery garden

hidden secret
the magician
cheats on his wife

lights go dark
the magician
couldn’t pay the bill

port-a-potty
     flipped onto its side
     Mardi Gras

backyard football
pushes turn to tackles
as the sun falls red

     after a win
        the tight end
gets whipped by a wet towel

hail Mary pass
the crowd gasps
as it nails a cheerleader’s head

high-pitched whistle
again, again, again . . .
never ending heat

game-winning touchdown
coach
still isn’t happy

crucifix hangs
over his jersey—
he breaks the runner’s leg

harvest moon
shines high
over stadium lights