Chen-ou Liu

in late night chill

these rusting staples

on a bulletin board

below the missing puppies

a missing pink-haired teen

—Chen-ou Liu

unpacking

boxes in a dusty corner

of the attic ...

faded photos buried deep 

in my immigrant heart

—Chen-ou Liu

Stephanie Zepherelli

dry cornfields 

the cold shoulders

of scarecrows

—Stephanie Zepherelli

a late farewell

lilies on her grave

still blooming

—Stephanie Zepherelli

Senka Slivar

tiny flowers

by the chardak’s fence

from its shade

red roses climbing

to her window

—Senka Slivar

 

(A chardak is a traditional Balkan wooden house.) 

tall grasses—

sweet promises

of a lover

gnarled boughs of a fig tree

bearing fruit in silence

—Senka Slivar

Richard E Schell

the old dog

still guarding the yard

from passing clouds

—Richard E Schell

Kathryn Haydon

a study 

in greens

august ravine

—Kathryn Haydon

Randy Brooks

church couple

the one in the coffin

more outgoing

—Randy Brooks

Zuzanna Truchlewska

morning yoga –

all thoughts concentrated

in one dewdrop

—Zuzanna Truchlewska

Mohua Maulik

petrichor

the room overflowing

with his laughter

—Mohua Maulik

Bryan Rickert

alone on this trail all of us

—Bryan Rickert

sun on my back

the intensity

of locust song

—Bryan Rickert

Tea Swamp Park, a haibun by Isabella Mori

Each day I get closer to the swamp that used to be where I live now. Over 170 years ago, the land that had been home for 10,000 years to the Musqueam, Squamish and Tsleil-Waututh was “no longer considered to belong to them.”  

There’s a little commemorative park now, the size of two big lots, and in it the creek that used to run through the whole city is outlined by rocks for about fifty feet. A coffee shop sits where the beaver dam used to be that created the swamp.

And each day, the waters of the creek that somehow still run underneath whisper to me louder. Each day it is easier to imagine the labrador tea plants, or me'xwuchp, which gave the little park its name, still growing all around me.

 

ear to the ground

footsteps echo

from the past

Marie Derley

lime tree samaras

a new father lost

in family life

—Marie Derley

 

samares de tilleul

un nouveau père perdu

dans la vie de famille

—Marie Derley

Joe Wells

change of guard

soldier’s watch returns

in a box

—Joe Wells

Ann Sullivan

October garden a path through dying

—Ann Sullivan

Jamie Wimberly

fall equinox

white band of skin

where the ring was

—Jamie Wimberly

Douglas J. Lanzo

curling into sunset

elephant trunk

tied to mother’s

—Douglas J. Lanzo

Tomislav Maretić

two years on ... on the menu nothing new —Tomislav Maretić

Up in Smoke, a haibun by Robert Witmer

 “For my days are consumed like smoke.”

 

A word collector. Every Sunday at dawn. He carries them away in a battered blue van. Just the man who collects them, not those who dispose. However they do. A furnace. A landfill. Each one a snowflake in a winter’s tale. The mystery of rhyme. Hymns like hoar-frost hanging on the trees. The breath of spirits dreams are made on. Puffs of smoke that rise like wisps of larks, whispering to the clouds, twisting to the stars. Blank verse.

 

abandoned school

chalk dust

the teacher’s words

Working..., a haibun by Antonio Mangiameli

I was called for a consultation in an intensive care unit, I visit the patient, prescribe tests and say I‘ll return tomorrow to re-evaluate. I'll come back if the patient is still here. 

    flower stand —

    all the lilies 

    sold 

Alvin B. Cruz

 grief the length of a summer rainbow

—Alvin B. Cruz

Sharon Ferrante

midnight crickets getting louder my weeping 

—Sharon Ferrante