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

Nicoletta Ignatti

foggy night— 

just hello 

my father's speech

—Nicoletta Ignatti

Tilted, tanka prose by C.X. Turner

The morning enters in fragments. Stripes of brightness, flickering beside shadows. At first, I mistake the darker bands for truth, my words thinning as they scatter.

A figure hunched in the chair shifts my pens, moves the steel cup, later telling me I misremembered. Shadows spread across every surface until the only way to stop their pull is to close my eyes.

A click of the front door. The air stays heavy, unmoving. My breath stumbles, chest tight, the walls still leaning in. An echo from the recorder, my voice looping back, flat and practiced.

Slowly, the space begins to widen. The room steadies. Light presses through the narrow gaps, enough to hold my outline.

first frost

the weight of berries

on an uncut hedge

a rook turns its head

towards the unsettled sky

Jharna Sanyal

hooting owl 

in my soup

a dash of dawn

—Jharna Sanyal

Jacek Margolak

cancer remission

only December maples

so bald

—Jacek Margolak

Bona M. Santos

gloaming

what may be 

my last autumn sea

—Bona M. Santos

Thompson Emate

still with me

in an envelope

my grandmother

—Thompson Emate

Chad Lee Robinson

memory care garden . . .

a firefly

just out of reach

—Chad Lee Robinson

Thomas Landgraf

4am

one of the sounds

a magpie

—Thomas Landgraf

Jerome Berglund

first quarter 

the moon

is an alms dish

—Jerome Berglund

Bryan Rickert

motherless

I let the fawn

have the garden

—Bryan Rickert

Susan Burch

birdfeedercam 

only the rain 

comes to visit

—Susan Burch

the cardinal agrees talk is cheep

—Susan Burch

giving birth 

another pink flower 

in the flowerbed

—Susan Burch

 

Susan Lee Roberts

violets in the window

the scent

of grandma

—Susan Lee Roberts

 

Haiga by Milan Rajkumar

 

Ravi Kiran

home from work

the language

of a tail

—Ravi Kiran

Mona Bedi

bonsai garden

mother much shorter

than before

—Mona Bedi

Thomas L. Vaultonburg

quiet street

a leaf and I

cross together

—Thomas L. Vaultonburg

Alvin B. Cruz

you said your love would last plastic roses

—Alvin B. Cruz