Cradled Moon.

Fossombrone, Italy. Photo credits: Oana Maria Cercel.

Thursday, April 10, 2025

John Hawkhead

later-life issues

I wonder if the nurse

has a boyfriend

—John Hawkhead


another year

snowflakes fall

more quickly

—John Hawkhead


Google Earth

revisiting the places

I’ve never been

—John Hawkhead


lost in our own thoughts

so long since we kissed

with open mouths

—John Hawkhead


child bride

the soft plaintive cries

of a collared dove

—John Hawkhead

Vaishnavi Pusapati

new nest…

mornings begin early

at my window

—Vaishnavi Pusapati


laughing at nothing,

the sitting baby

falls over

—Vaishnavi Pusapati

Nicholas Klacsanzky

second baptism . . .

the magpie’s call

returns to the river

—Nicholas Klacsanzky


Sarah Mahina Calvello

young love

mellowing fast

the floor tangerines 

—Sarah Mahina Calvello


Belinda Behne

along the dark path

 a flash of light

 albino squirrel

—Belinda Behne 


Wednesday, April 9, 2025

Martina Matijević

shop handbag

caught on its white pearls

echoes of starlight

—Martina Matijević

Helen Sokolsky

dinner talk

candle flames

burn quickly

—Helen Sokolsky

Monarchs, a haibun by AJ Johnson

Returning from the river trailhead in early spring I don’t notice them until they are fluttering all around me like dozens of orange-black leaves blown heavenward. 


clouds part

I chase rainbows

on Rose River




A live reading (Oana Maria Cercel).


Kavita Ratna

kneading dough

mother’s fingerprints

on every roti

—Kavita Ratna

Tuyet Van Do

waxing gibbous moon

in the kitchen

the sound of dripping water

—Tuyet Van Do

Jiel Narvekar

misty light

ceaseless cawing

of a crow at my window

—Jiel Narvekar


Carmela Marino

lunar orbit

a tan line

on my ring finger

—Carmela Marino


Gerald Friedman

March sun

a purple nama seedling

has one tiny flower

—Gerald Friedman 


Sunday, March 30, 2025

Susan Lee Roberts

morning sun

in a tiny glass jar

pussy willows spring 

—Susan Lee Roberts

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

Haiga, by Oscar Luparia


 —Oscar Luparia

Saturday, March 29, 2025

Douglas J. Lanzo

vast mountain skies

the hope

in my father's voice

—Douglas J. Lanzo

Hasan Aspahani

lamp light 

shadows running 

across the puddles

—Hasan Aspahani

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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