2025 Touchstone Awards for Individual Haibun – Awarded Haibun

The Haiku Foundation is pleased to announce the Touchstone Awards for Individual Haibun, honoring haibun published in 2025. Two hundred seventy eight haibun were nominated by poets, readers, and editors around the world, from dozens of journals, books, and contests. After much deliberation, the three panelists narrowed the field to a Long List of 15 haibun, then a Short List of nine. This third and final round recognizes three haibun with the highest honor of Awarded.

These Awarded works represent the very best of the English-language haibun that were published last year, and the overall high quality and creative diversity of the nominated works made the selection choice an enjoyable challenge for the panelists. Thank you to all the editors who published or otherwise showcased haibun in this past year and individuals who published/read and nominated haibun this past year. And thank you so much to the hard-working haibun panelists—Lorraine A. Padden, Billie Dee, and Richard L. Matta —for their time, effort, and expertise in making these selections and writing the commentaries.

The panelists’ commentaries for these Awardees will be shared one at a time over the next few weeks, interspersed with those of the Awarded Individual Poems and Distinguished Books, so the Touchstone party isn’t over yet!.

Please join us in congratulating the awarded poets!

Vandana Parashar,
Coordinator, Touchstone Awards for Individual Haibun

WINNERS

Dandelion Wishes

—- Rich Youmans, Frogpond Vol. 48.3, 2025

Checkout Girl

— Farah Ali, Modern Haiku, Vol. 56.3, Autumn 2025

Hungry Little Girl

— Peg Cherrin-Myers, whiptail Issue 13 June 2025

Dandelion Wishes

Early Stages: The Visit 

She told me to have another and held out the box of chocolates,  the name of each on the raised lid. It had started to rain again,  softly, the high windows becoming teary and the room taking on  a ghostly pale. I picked one and she smiled. “Mom liked pralines  too,” she said, her voice bright. “They were one of her favorites. Remember how, every anniversary, Dad came home from work  with a box of pralines and a single rose, and Mom kept the petals  as they faded and fell.” “Just like Mom,” I said, and we stayed  quiet for a bit. She then smiled and talked about my nephew,  Danny, her only child, who was studying to be an architect. She  brought up the old neighborhood, each rowhouse identical as if  it were a clone, and how we’d ride our blue bikes around the  block and not ever tire. “Mom would wave from the front porch  every time we sped past,” she said. “Imagine, sixty years ago,” her  voice as soft as the rain before turning bright again. “Remember  when I was nine and sick in bed with jaundice—my eyes had  turned yellow. You brought me a fuzzy dandelion from our lawn  and told me to make a wish… I remember so clearly, it was the  middle of May—May 16.” I laughed. “I wish I had your mind for  dates.” “I wish I still had the dandelion,” she said, looking at me  with that face she sometimes got. Just as I was about to ask when  Mom died, the nursing home attendant appeared and said  visiting hours were ending.

Middle Stages: The Fading 

She told me to have another and held out the box of chocolates,  the name of each on the raised lid. It had started to rain again,  softly, the high windows becoming teary and the room taking on  a ghostly pale. I picked one and she smiled. “Mom liked pralines  too,” she said, her voice bright. “They were one of her favorites.  Remember how, every anniversary, Dad came home from work  with a box of pralines and a single rose, and Mom kept the petals  as they faded and fell.” “Just like Mom,” I said, and we stayed  quiet for a bit. She then smiled and talked about my nephew,  Danny, her only child, who was studying to be an architect. She  brought up the old neighborhood, each rowhouse identical as if  it were a clone, and how we’d ride our blue bikes around the  block and not ever tire. “Mom would wave from the front porch  every time we sped past,” she said. “Imagine, sixty years ago,” her  voice as soft as the rain before turning bright again. “Remember  when I was nine and sick in bed with jaundice—my eyes had  turned yellow. You brought me a fuzzy dandelion from our lawn  and told me to make a wish… I remember so clearly, it was the  middle of May—May 16.” I laughed. “I wish I had your mind for  dates.” “I wish I still had the dandelion,” she said, looking at me  with that face she sometimes got. Just as I was about to ask when  Mom died, the nursing home attendant appeared and said  visiting hours were ending.

Late Stages: And Yet 

She told me to have another and held out the box of chocolates,  the name of each on the raised lid. It had started to rain again,  softly, the high windows becoming teary and the room taking on  a ghostly pale. I picked one and she smiled. “Mom liked pralines  too,” she said, her voice bright. “They were one of her favorites. Remember how, every anniversary, Dad came home from work  with a box of pralines and a single rose, and Mom kept the petals  as they faded and fell.” “Just like Mom,” I said, and we stayed  quiet for a bit. She then smiled and talked about my nephew,  Danny, her only child, who was studying to be an architect. She  brought up the old neighborhood, each rowhouse identical as if  it were a clone, and how we’d ride our blue bikes around the  block and not ever tire. “Mom would wave from the front porch  every time we sped past,” she said. “Imagine, sixty years ago,” her  voice as soft as the rain before turning bright again. “Remember  when I was nine and sick in bed with jaundice—my eyes had  turned yellow. You brought me a fuzzy dandelion from our lawn  and told me to make a wish… I remember so clearly, it was the  middle of May—May 16.” I laughed. “I wish I had your mind for  dates.” “I wish I still had the dandelion,” she said, looking at me  with that face she sometimes got. Just as I was about to ask when  Mom died, the nursing home attendant appeared and said  visiting hours were ending.

—- Rich Youmans, Frogpond Vol. 48.3, 2025

Checkout Girl

neon enhances merchandise turns sallow skin
sallower dark circles cheap concealer layers acne
ugly blouse shiver fridges too close. shift starts hi
scan beep boyfriend beep exams beep clothes beep
broke beep pinch belly fat beep check collarbone
beep don’t beep think beep don’t think about beep
things you don’t beep want to think about beep here’s
your change. lonely men talk beep pretend beep to care
beep what does your name mean beep Joy beep pretty
like your eyes Joy beep smile beep cash card receipt
happy-rest-of-the-night watch darkness swallow them
whole. trolley squeal basket stack precarious clatter
splash rain drip overcharged who moved cereal. glass
bottle reflection window blank faces conveyor belt
jerks hi scan beep yawn beep notice everything beep
vegan-vegetarian-halal-lapsed beep comfort eats beep
new diet beep migraine beep addiction beep allergies
beep paranoid beep postpartum beep trying to conceive
beep light-medium-heavy beep angry beep sad beep
rich beep married beep breadline beep would take you
anywhere beep if you touched their hand and asked.
bags coupons baskets crash smirk told you so shelf
stacker tidies numb feet ache homeless bellows huddle
shrink shudder not paid enough to deal with this shit.
restless knuckle temples gnaw teeth scrape glitter nails
first last endless hour. get coat up down aisle marbled
plastic flesh red pink white mince steak thigh breast
liver scales gills reek gag outside stumble sewers bare
concrete trees sirens distant breathe pray ignore grubby
silver coin moon.

solar plexus unknotting the milky way

—- Farah Ali, Modern Haiku, Vol. 56.3, Autumn 2025

hungry little girl

after putting in                                                                            s
my contacts,                                                                                 t
i feel                                                                                                i
the weight                                                                                    l
of a soft                                                                                          l
wetness under my right eye
and imagine                                                                                s
an upside-down                                                                         k
hot air balloon                                                                            e
teardrop-sized,                                                                            l
hanging on                                                                                  e
in the dark                                                                                    t
sunken bed                                                                                 a
of my eye.                                                                                     l
i apply retinol cream
to pointy cheeks,                                                                        b
chin, forehead,                                                                            o
and bend                                                                                     d
at the waist                                                                                  y
with my head still up
not looking                                                                                   c
down, balancing                                                                         h
the tear                                                                                          e
while lathering                                                                            c
cherry blossom                                                                           k
lotion into atrophied                                                                  i

calves and thighs.                                                                       n
i’ve never                                                                                       g
held a tear this long,
how proud                                                                                    l
my father                                                                                      o
would be,                                                                                      v
how he’d like                                                                                e
me now, becoming
the son                                                                                           i
he didn’t know                                                                            n
he already had. i didn’t let
the tear spill,                                                                                t
didn’t let it win,                                                                           h
only to look                                                                                  e
at myself realizing
this tear,                                                                                        m
a fallen lens,                                                                                  i
dry and wrinkly,                                                                           r
sitting upright                                                                             r
full                                                                                                  o
of emptiness.                                                                               r

— Peg Cherrin-Myers, whiptail Issue 13 June 2025