morning sun
in a tiny glass jar
pussy willows spring
—Susan Lee Roberts
Sunday, March 30, 2025
Royal Rhodes
each autumn
out-of-state visitors
search along highways
for the most colorful leaves
not the trees I cut down
—Royal Rhodes
along the coast
the maps I follow
show observation posts
where sea lions echo
in open caves
—Royal Rhodes
a dead fawn
sprawled in the garden
until found
while the indoor cat
sat nearby in silence
—Royal Rhodes
hikers ahead
make a trail for me
brushing aside stones
someone threw
safe now in my pocket
—Royal Rhodes
our family dog
a tired german shepherd
comes close
to show me
how to lie down
—Royal Rhodes
Saturday, March 29, 2025
Ravi Kiran
pastel shades
she stopped using
all those words
—Ravi Kiran
the glow rises
in a child’s eyes
sky lantern
—Ravi Kiran
Splintered, a haibun by Kenneth Arthur
He now existed as fragments suspended above the barren landscape of after work cocktails and idle chit chat. Where time flowed slowly like ripples in the sand. He felt truly lost wherever people gathered for laughs – the one who never got the joke. More observer than participant, alien spaceship that had slipped its moorings to hover in the distance, he barely cast a shadow on the lives around him. No longer belonged. Unwanted. Unwelcome. He’d rather be home alone, disappeared in a favorite fantasy novel. He had no idea how to put all the fragments together again and sink into the sands of life where he might matter once more, or for the first time.
blue sky
in the desert
the sun's glare
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