We’ve got the winner of our writing prompt here, and the new issue starts on Monday.
autumn morning
the smell of fresh rain
in my coffee
autumn chill
harbor seals
crowd a buoy
campaign sign
the dog registers
his opinion
frost night
so many
last breaths
Indian summer —
stepping into the path
of her perfume
rest stop
after 90 miles of desert
the way green feels
roadside perch the hitchhiker’s distant stare
driftwood
we discuss
our origins
reunion dinner
saying hello
to old habits
homebound ferry
thoughts zigzagging
with the terns
line in the sand
another wave shows me
the way things are
seen through a reef shark my dependency
windswept dunes
the difference between
wants and needs
a river behind the graveyard forget-me-nots
Normandy Beach the screams of gulls
“Nighthawks” — a new haibun by Roberta Beary
the shape
of my sadness
like a cloud drifting
fraying, taking form again
oh, but I love this life
3/4 moon
clouds move
in waltz time
in the moment
a faceless clock
on the mantle
still day…
a dry leaf breaks free
from the sycamore
deep autumn
all the tree tops
full of sky
hunter?s moon
the old tabby
refuses to come in
moving sale …
among the bric-a-brac
the owner?s dog
in a shoebox
all the candles
of uncelebrated birthdays
at the bottom
of the discard pile
?Books to Keep?
years since I’ve
thought about heaven–
the rusted hinge
Christmas Eve-
the sound of one star
blinking
time to burn
the whole candle
holidays
I am a moth too
in the face of light
meditation bell
even the starlings
are silenced
day long drizzle —
in the mailbox
one windowed envelope
full-bodied rain
the wine tasting
winds down
hanging in my closet the person I used to be
gossiping among themselves
their stories
centuries old
(haiga – click through to view)
Zen garden
the tourist dips his toe
in the gravel
wind chimes
the gentle rain
he would have loved
lost
in my own world
ground fog
(a short haibun — click through to read it)
bark beetles
in the Ponderosa pine
these gnawing doubts
where forest was
the old map is thick
with dust
New sheets.
I remember
your hands.
I always thought
mother’s silk pillow cases
a luxury
now that they are mine I dream
silk worms threading light to light
stone
by stone, the river
widens
moon bridge
the wide mouth
of a silver koi
a shivering moon
in the kayak’s wake
wood ducks resettle
obedience school
for the dog
for me
finally
it finds a home
this feral cat
my son brings home
to bury
wildflower . . .
not needing to know
its name
dandelions
all over
again
cowbells . . .
the pasture view
never the same
Siesta
Half-sunk in the undergrowth, an abandoned bamboo swing. Perched atop, a sparrow couple in disagreement about whether to set up their nest here or not. The
a lily’s chalice
brimmed
with the empty sky
as she turns to leave
my mother’s
girlish smile
(originally appeared in Valley Micropress (NZ), June, 2010)
apple slices—
our last words
in the knife?s blade
night shade i close my eyes and disappear
my childhood
is buried in this body?
a flock of whispers,
a sheaf
of pleasant voices
a lecture
on the paranormal . . .
a faint whiff of sulphur
empty house
the deaths hiding
in the clock
there is nothing to do but keep still howling wind
the priest
motions a blessing
aftermath
summer haze
the lost timbre
of dad’s voice
first rain releasing held breath of summer
(click to see haiga)
canning day
apple peels quilt
the table top
hunger moon
a tuft of rabbit fur
on a wire fence
reheating
last night’s soup
our long marriage
hailstones
in the attic the patter
of mice
Gita chanting —
as each stanza ends
the bell