Haiku by Ibe Ware Desu, LC The Society August 4, 2013 Beauty, Poetry 1 Comment Nearby a wasp lights, twitching its pointed stinger in the summer heat. As I drive my car, an eagle flies overhead. How far have I come? An ant climbs slowly up the old man’s hairy arm. He flings it away. Continuously, the rooster crows all day long. He is barely heard. The price of rice falls and rises constantly in the heat of summer. A man’s eyes tear up. He is eating hamburgers with sliced white onions. A robin pauses atop a neighbor’s link fence, a moment’s respite. After lawn mowing, a sparrow searches for food in cut blades of grass. I am awakened by a neighbor’s idling truck. I close the window. The bright, full, round moon at the touch of a finger— electricity. Ransetsu observed the Milky Way at midnight— a spray of fireworks. Rectangular bales fill fresh-cut fields of hay in the heat of summer. Shining orange pink, sun’s bright-beaming rays light up peach tea in a glass. He sat high upon the chair before the counter, as the rocket launched. Mount Saint Helens was, in my youth, as perfect as Mount Fuji now is. Featured Image:Mount St. Helens, Columbia River, Oregon by Albert Bierstadt Views expressed by individual poets and writers on this website and by commenters do not represent the views of the entire Society. The comments section on regular posts is meant to be a place for civil and fruitful discussion. Pseudonyms are discouraged. The individual poet or writer featured in a post has the ability to remove any or all comments by emailing submissions@ classicalpoets.org with the details and under the subject title “Remove Comment.” Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Related One Response Bruce Dale Wise August 6, 2013 After Albert Bierstadt: 4 August 2013 I never once in all my life saw either Mount Saint Helens or Columbia as Bierstadt did in his quaint painting. Still, that’s of no account, unless he was a colour-blind or near-sighted. And yet, I like his strange rendition of ‘t: the purple tint, the luminous snow-fountain, nature’s pyramid, above the misty horizontal, like a tent, and evergreens that mingle with deciduous, cascading downward from the left, touched with a hint of sunlight—neatly done, if not assiduous. Here is no town—no human habitation crowned— just hills and tall peaks rounded with coniferous. Reply Leave a Reply to Bruce Dale Wise Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.