By Amoolya Kamalnath

empty nest —

a parrot flies past

the setting sun

Amoolya Kamalnath

By Tuyet Van Do

empty chair

on the front porch

his echos remain

Tuyet Van Do

By Adele Evershed

dwindling

in the daylight...

luna moth

Adele Evershed

By Joshua St. Claire

candelabra

we discuss

our options

Joshua St. Claire

By Pat Geyer

intoxicating

giddy fragrance

of mock orange

brings thoughts of springtime

to my still cold heart

Pat Geyer

By Reid Hepworth

ship masts

in a windstorm

the way

we keep each other

at a distance
 

Reid Hepworth

By Adrian Bouter

new beginnings

the smoke screen

of fireworks

Adrian Bouter

By John Grey

sunrise

shadows fall away like egg shell

a lake is hatched

John Grey

By Jim Niffen

winter chill

your silence echoes

off the moon

Jim Niffen

By Jerome Berglund

shadow play

across the cornstalks

one outline passes another

Jerome Berglund

By Tony Williams

morning stars…

kicking salt across

an icy path


Tony Williams

*

 

stiff with cold

the tarpaulins crackle

in their hands


Tony Williams

 

*

 

Cassiopeia

the staggered flight

of night geese

Tony Williams

*

 

depth of winter

needing both hands

to pull a leek


Tony Williams

 

*

 

under a leaden sky

winter reeds

the colour of brass

Tony Williams

By Kimberly Kuchar

old button

filling each hole

with new thread

Kimberly Kuchar

By Keith Evetts

dandelion fluff

trying not to take gravity

too seriously

Keith Evetts

By Sreenath

daybreak

cows head to the fields

jingle of bells

Sreenath

 

*

 

i travel distant places

discovering

my inner spaces

Sreenath

By Chen-ou Liu

laid off ...

my drunken shadow stalking

what's left of the night

Chen-ou Liu

*

prognosis ...

the weight of my friend's arm

around my shoulders

Chen-ou Liu

By Joseph P. Wechselberger

jazz singer

a gardenia

like Billie

Joseph P. Wechselberger

*

blues band

the flash of sequins

when the guitarist sings

Joseph P. Wechselberger

By Chris Langer

broken radio

driving to the sound

of rainfall

Chris Langer

By M. R. Pelletier

My haiku—

   the bulk of them

   unseasoned

M. R. Pelletier