Michael Battisto

climbing the trail

we used to hike together—

evening mist

falls as rain

beneath the pine trees

—Michael Battisto

Pitt Büerken

autonomous car

the driver’s hands folded

in prayer

—Pitt Büerken

retirement home

the newcomer gets used 

to brown bread

—Pitt Büerken

Joshua St. Claire

first bare branch

there I am

singing again

—Joshua St. Claire

Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

pencil sketch—

the grey of her hair

black

—Vaishnavi Ramaswamy

Gareth Nurden

the wish

i can't let slip

garden weeds

—Gareth Nurden

Jonathan English

blossoming 

in a thousand flights 

bluebird song

—Jonathan English

Amber Winter

hayride 

seeing him with her 

corn smut

—Amber Winter

Monica Kakkar

dining deck . . .

adding to the din

cicada chorus 

—Monica Kakkar

Nancy Brady

birdsong...

coaxing the night

into day

—Nancy Brady

Joanna Ashwell

falling leaves              

lost in the margins

of sunset

—Joanna Ashwell

 

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