Alvin B. Cruz

full moon

the last sleeping pill

in the bottle

—Alvin B. Cruz

Stephanie Zepherelli

broken buddha

in the graveyard 

tulips blooming

—Stephanie Zepherelli

Wendy Cobourne

your last words murmuring night rain

—Wendy Cobourne

Steliana Cristina Voicu

Christmas morning—

on the fridge door

my sister's ultrasound

—Steliana Cristina Voicu

dimineaţă de Crăciun -

pe uşa frigiderului

ecografia surorii mele

—Steliana Cristina Voicu

Unheard Story, tanka prose by Bhawana Rathore

It's almost past midnight. With the soft tick-tick of the clock in my room and the faint, distant music from outside, I somehow like this moment. Now that nights have grown colder and quieter, and the breeze is crisp, I can even listen to the tree in our backyard.  And I'm inclined to believe my thoughts are being heard too. 

The rustle of a page turning echoes in the room. I set the book aside to look outside again, to hear the tree. Somehow I remember the books in my wishlist, although many on the bookshelf still sit unread, waiting to be opened. 

Yet I seek a new adventure in this mundane and cold night perhaps the darkness reveals its own story too, and it is for me to find mine. 

soft glow

of the streetlamp

in the misty night. . .

the immersion

in our lost sighs

 

Aleksandra Rybczyńska

 passerby's smile

dark thoughts

fly away

—Aleksandra Rybczyńska

harvest time

the village waits

for grandma's dinner

—Aleksandra Rybczyńska

A Dear Habit of Living, a haibun by Alex Drogin

We get very sunny winters here in Providence, which you were always noticing. I've begun picking up on it too. But the light is thin, empty. It doesn't weigh on your back like the sun in New York; it dances, it sings, it whips with the wind which we had also always seen. When it grows too weak the night settles in. Dark chills slip past my walls and through my bedsheets and, without fail, I think of you, though only because I have no one else to think of. 

on the nightstand

dust

and a box of tissues

Every night is the same; frost seeps in from the windowpane, moonlight thins on the ceiling. Eventually I fall asleep. Last night I met someone in a cramped kitchen with big eyes and pretty lips. She made me think of you - she left, as did everyone else, as did I. In the morning the sun fell lightly across my room, as it always does, bringing little warmth. I've been thinking of you less. I'm sure you have too.

dusk

my broken radiator

hissing affirmations

Marie Derley

ants in the greenhouse 

in the crowded subway

I am the smallest

 

fourmis dans la serre 

dans le métro bondé

je suis la plus petite

—Marie Derley 

*

 

small regrets

a boy throwing pebbles

in the lake

 

petits regrets

un garçon lance des cailloux

dans le lac

—Marie Derley

Luciana Moretto

short days...

running out of

things to say

—Luciana Moretto

Pitt Büerken

such wispy fingers 

my granddaughter 

just born; 

and she really 

looks like me  

—Pitt Büerken

falling darkness... 

left lonely on the playground 

a doll

—Pitt Büerken

Randy Brooks

clear winter night

the train horning its way

through town

—Randy Brooks

Martina Matijević

game night 

aunt no longer plays 

memory cards

—Martina Matijević

history lesson— 

heal hatred 

then spread it

—Martina Matijević

Anne Fox

dusty road

her poetry book

back on the shelf

—Anne Fox

Richard E Schell

first date

she chooses the seat

nearest the exit

—Richard E Schell

quiet bedroom

the dust 

on the crib

—Richard E Schell

Patricia Hawkhead

dinner table talk

about our future

crossed fingers

—Patricia Hawkhead

 

sky pollution

we both dream

of lost stars

—Patricia Hawkhead

Oscar Luparia

jisei book

learning to write

the last page

—Oscar Luparia

winter wind

the leaves can't choose

where to fall

—Oscar Luparia

Rohan Buettel

roos sprawled

in winter sun —

watching cyclists

—Rohan Buettel

uber driver 

a new father

shows me photos

—Rohan Buettel

a clearing

in the dense forest —

bald spot

—Rohan Buettel

Shyla Davis

hunting time

deeper burrows 

in stubble fields

—Shyla Davis

Threshold, a haibun by Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

A prolonged cold draught of air from the AC blows on my face. The constant light of the phone screen has left me with dry eyes. Conversations feel like a wheel of fortune about to tumble over. The stillness of the evening yawning into a night brings with it a range of memories. I indulge in work. After a sustained period of activity, just this will to lie motionless…

autumn dusk 

a hedgehog shuffles

through leaves

Perspective, a haibun by Neha Singh Soni

Some mornings it feels as if all the moments have been written, every emotion explored, every leaf already turned brown in someone else's poem, every full moon and every flicker of stars has been captured in three succinct lines.

Then, on the very same day, something shifts and I end up discovering an aha moment, that is unmistakably, undeniably mine. 

3 a.m.

my husband stirs

at the click of my pen

Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

back home

the firm green

of mangoes 

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

wildflowers the ruddiness of her laughter

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

Sam Cassidy

butterflies

the obsessions we had

as kids 

—Sam Cassidy

Chen-ou Liu

alone again

on a seaside bench

tides of childhood

lap against memory

in the quiet of my mind

—Chen-ou Liu

Thomas David

 mountain echo

your voice 

inside my head

—Thomas David

cemetery walk 

remembering 

the forgotten

—Thomas David

Monica Kakkar

tea and sympathy...

mirroring my mood

monsoon

—Monica Kakkar