George Swede
read the following haiku
during a Summer Evening in Dublin,
Ireland
windowless office
a fly buzzes against
my glasses
(Iron, 1995)
what ebb tide left
in this tiny shell
still holds the sky
(2nd Prize, Mainichi Newspaper's
125th Anniversary Contest, 1997)
bridge
at both ends
mist
(Modern Haiku, 1993)
where the path stops
my shadow doing something
in the bushes
(Blithe Spirit, 1996)
almost unseen
among the tangled driftwood
naked lovers
waving goodbye
to the father a clothesline
of children's shirts
on the face
that last night called me names
morning sunbeam
alone at last
I wonder where
everyone is
children's day at the zoo
I find myself watching
the children
passport check
my shadow waits
across the border
at the height
of the argument the old couple
pour each other tea
each haiku
another piece in
an endless jigsaw