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January 2022 – Haiku About Imagination
saying nothing
at the funeral
let them believe it’s grief
—Joseph Robello
a whiff of perfume
remembering everything
but the name
—kjmunro
petunia
wishing it could be
a tuba
—RaNae Merrill
raindrops
on salmonberry leaves…
a child’s gravestone
—Kathleen Tice
empty fountain
coins and wishes
left behind
—Roy Kindelberger
yard sale—
buckle rash
on an old fender
—Joseph P. Wechselberger
today
a missing piece is found
just beyond the shadow
—Susie Merrell
music swirling
from a wooden flute
what’s lost what’s found
—Sheila Sondik
in this space
where solitude and I dwell
my folded hands
—Gillena Cox
origami…
the boat in the ocean
in her hand
—Sheila Windson
pale winter sky—
the honor student who never
raises his hand
—Paul David Mena
stiff breeze
she touches the sea
for old times’ sake
—Glenn G. Coats
what remains
after the phone call
raven’s song
—Jone Rush MacCulloch
still unopened
the boxes we moved
from her last room
—Kath Abela Wilson
cloud shadows
scale a wall…
an inmate dreams
—Ronald K. Craig
shattered—
I touch
the stillness
—Angela Terry
bitter frost
the bone chill
of an empty crib
—Jocelyn Ajami
loneliness
one cookie left
on the party platter
—Joan C. Fingon
pussy willow
in a vase of dirty water
the cobwebs
—Jim Rodriguez
yellow leaves the path to our imagination
—Scott Mason
words I regret
scrubbing my sink
over and over
—Christine L. Villa
after the movie
in his old Chevy
confessions
—Peggy Hale Bilbro
the last patch of snow
on the mossy lawn…
a call from home
—Michael Dylan Welch
sparkling lights
along the embarcadero
her glass bracelet
—Dianne Garcia
over the moon
he asks her to walk
in another woman’s shoes
—Terry Ann Carter
pond ripples
what she whispered
before sleep
—Jamie Wimberly
rainstorm in lockdown
only the clouds
are free
—Mike Fainzilber
her call—
the loneliness
in a voice
—Michel Montreuil
shadowbox
medals
he needs to forget
—Jim Haynes
gusty winds
dragging the dark
through the trees
—Leanne Jaeger
river in flood
telling him more
than he wants to know
—Susan Constable
February 2022 – Haiku About Synesthesia
louder and louder the scent of freshly cut grass
—Paul Kulwatno
carillon bells
stopping to listen
to the blossoming plum
—Michele Root-Bernstein
feuillemort—
the color
of his voice
—Corine Timmer
the metallic rasp
of a belted kingfisher . . .
morning mist
—Angela Terry
the Milky Way
its taste
in my mouth
—Stephen A. Peters
everywhere
the scent of green
after rain
—Dina E Cox
up an octave the moonlit sea
—Michelle Tennison
the bells sound white under the green moth darkening
—Scott Metz
just-fledged light
chips of wren song
from the log pile
—Claire Everett
telephoto lens
the loon’s call
comes into focus
—Carolyn Hall
just enough rain
to darken the scent
of the pine woods
—Paul Chambers
in muted colors
the sound of a waterfall
Chinese scroll
—Johnnie Johnson Hafernik
the pen twice as old as me smells of blood
—David Boyer
blending colours the blackbird’s song
—Shloka Shankar
cliff dust
cicadas saw
through the heat
—Agnes Eva Savich
silver night
the soft glow
of highway noise
—Jennifer Hambrick
cattails
the red-winged
wind
—Jeff Hoagland
new moon
a white chrysanthemum
breaks the silence
—Joseph Robello
October fest
too much oom-pah-pah
in the mustard
—Adelaide B. Shaw
new leaves
the old forest
finds its voice
—Rob Scott
on the edge of sleep
the black and white checkerboard
of a dog’s bark
—Julie Bloss Kelsey
leaf color of an old song turning
—John Stevenson
blackbird singing light into the womb
—Stephen Toft
white wind the eyes of the dead seal missing
—Carolyn Hall
whittling pine
I release the shape
of its scent
—John Hawkhead
autumn loud with valley ochre
—Cherie Hunter Day
so greenly history puts forth thorns
—Eve Luckring
Kind of Blue the smell of rain
—Allan Burns
March 2022 – Haiku About Longing and Loss
soft murmurs
of the passing river
mother’s voice
—Meera Rehm
the moon comes gently
on the empty side of the bench . . .
another autumn
—Steliana Cristina Voicu
fading scent
of the fallen pines . . .
mom’s funeral day
—Hifsa Ashraf
the weathered bench
in mother’s garden
her young old voice
—Adrian Bouter
inhale…
all the pine forests
I’ve ever known
—Brad Bennett
widowed…
all those years of wanting
some solitude
—Polona Oblak
sorrow—
the thin skin
of dusk
—Sondra J. Byrnes
coming to terms
with the life I have…
honeysuckle wind
—Angela Terry
scenting the night
with somewhere else
train whistle
—Ann K. Schwader
cocooning . . .
this considerable wait
for wings
—Michele Root-Bernstein
deep winter
in the air
that replaced you
—Jann Wright
birdsong
the day starts
without her
—Ben Oliver Stroud
the depth
of what i yearn for
autumn shadows
—Tyrone McDonald
grief
large stones
at the edge of the path
—Jennifer Hambrick
stillborn
silence slips…
into silence
—Vinay Leo R.
leaf-drip
stillness and tremor
in the fishpond
—Simon Hanson
last night’s dream—
strands of broken web
in the wind
—Martha Magenta
almost Fall
the tree stump alive
with trumpet flowers
—Carol Raisfeld
late frost—
a punnet of whatever
you left me
—Cynthia Rowe
family mantel the ashes I’ll inherit
—Agnes Eva Savich
end of summer
i go fishing
in an old wound
—Keith Polette
hospital wall—
folding the shadows
into a paper crane
—Kristen Deming
lying beside you
i would feel less lonely
alone
— Lev Hart
lonely without you
the togetherness of the leaves
that fall
—Arvinder Kaur
autumn evening
watching his shadow
recede
—Padma Rajeswari
a longing
strays skyward
tree canopy
—Richa Sharma
early bulbs
such vibrant colours
she left us
— Maurice Nevile
broken pot
a handful of earth
to the earth
—Vandana Parashar
your perfume inside our shriveled silence
—Kashiana Singh
rising incense …
what if each breath
were a prayer
— Priti Aisola
storm season
what else have we left
but to lose
—Michael Henry Lee
April 2022 – Haiku About Presence and Absence
hiding in everything plain sight
—Don Wentworth
March in the garden—
my hostess shows me brown sticks
and speaks of flowers
—Sister Benedicta
empty
blue egg shell—
the filling nest
—Mike Montreuil
truck stop
we try to imagine
what Lewis and Clark saw
—Billie Wilson
the rattle
of leftover pills—
we empty her room
—Gary Hotham
rain falling into the silence of nothing to say
—Susan Constable
quantum theory
the universe where
I didn’t lose her
—Bryan Rickert
purple crocus
the colour of bruises
I no longer have
—Sue Mackenzie
heat mirage
semantics
at the vanishing point
—Grant D. Savage
through his late wife’s glasses
nothing but the world
—Bernadette Duncan
reunion
our missing classmates
still young
—Robert B. McNeill
A dinner bell empties the baseball field
—Alexis Rotella
Polaroid photo —
— a little girl swings
out of the frame
—Stanford M. Forrester/sekiro
rock chimney
where the log cabin stood
yellow bearded irises
—L. Teresa Church
cloud shapes
the whales
are disappearing
—LeRoy Gorman
old desk drawer
still that rich aroma
of his cigars
—Pat Benedict Campbell
what I know
what I don’t know
empty wheelbarrow
—Jim Chessing
lights out . . .
I see
silence
—Charlotte Digregorio
wind
I feel the hair I’ve
lost
—Michael Dudley
juggling
the mime drops
nothing
—Ann Goldring
magic show
my son and his friends
disappear
—John McManus
tire tracks
in the snow
all that is left behind
—Terry Ann Carter
All I long for
lies around the bend—
unseen river
—James Roderick Burns
this winter intentionally left blank
—Cherie Hunter Day
unbearably loud
the wordless poem
we never wrote
—David McMurray
in the snow
leading to the mailbox
no footsteps
—Jocelyne Villeneuve
14,000 feet
the mountain disappears
into my breathing
—David Elliott
evening fog
antlers ghosting through
the coulee
—Debbie Strange
from inside the Rembrandt the empty museum
—George Swede
night
the only thing big enough
to hide an ocean
—Claudia Coutu Radmore
May 2022 – Haiku About Early Childhood
deep in
the tidepool
a child’s gaze
—Gregory Longenecker
Saturday morning my daughter breaks out skipping
—Bruce Feingold
tea time
the little girl pours
with both hands
—James Rodriguez
the story ends
my daughter’s eyes wide
with ceiling stars
—Chuck Brickley
rising toward
the slow turn of maple seeds
the child’s laughter
—Richard Tice
custody shuffle
the daughter’s starry eyes
extinguished
—Roberta Beary
winter squall—
my daughter tells me
her doll won’t sleep
—Michael Dylan Welch
christmas morning
children play in the mountains
of wrapping paper
—Elizabeth Crocket
blue whale
the outstretched arms
of a toddler
—Victor Ortiz
grounded
the wings I lost
while growing up
—Bryan Rickert
in the rubble of war lingering lullabies
—Hifsa Ashraf
always with me
the child in me
—Daniela Lăcrămioara Capotă
pretend play which me am I going to be today
—Vandana Parashar
mountain stream
my daughter discovers
her toes
—Genevieve Wynand
windswept clouds
a boy and his dog
chasing shadows
—Susan Constable
tea party
my granddaughter shows how
I must crook my pinky
—Gary Evans
apple buds…
my school chum’s father
demands a hug
—Michele L. Harvey
happiness
the soap bubbles
I can never catch
—Christina Sng
fireworks
my son asks
if heaven could catch fire
—Adjei Agyei-Baah
babysitting—
learning the name
of each unicorn
—Julie Bloss Kelsey
domestic dispute
a young child hiding
in the fairy garden
—Maureen Sexton
girl with a red pail
running water over
her sandy dad
—Geoff Pope
years ago
when I was a boy
large snowflakes
—Mike Montreuil
city bus…
my gray beard
a toddler’s delight
—Manoj Sharma
the two-year-old
tells granddad all about
dinosaurs
—Robert Witmer
belly-flopping penguins
the inner child
I never knew
—Sheila Sondik
dump truck
a boy unloads
his first expletive
—P.H. Fischer
the pond
we’ve never seen—
spring peepers
—C. R. Manley
low lithium levels
she decorates my hairband
with a spider
—Bisshie
sunbathing
a child places mud pie
on father’s back
—Marta Chocilowska
last molar
he leaves childhood
under his pillow
—Annette Makino
June 2022 – Haiku About Familiarity
midnight gas station—
voices of those
who know each other
—Chad Lee Robinson
Mariana Trench
an old darkness
becomes a depth
—Kat Lehmann
your enlistment photograph
as you were
—Scott Mason
this small ache and all the rain too
—Alan Summers
my father and I
a puzzle we’ve done
before
—Peter Newton
sap moon
stepping in moose tracks
to stay on the trail
—Kristen Lindquist
and after such a year
the first crocus
in its usual place
—Anita Virgil
blue nemophila
I still miss the little things
about my sister
—Debbie Strange
jogging track
the fragrance I wait for
runs past
—Arvinder Kaur
first husband’s shirt
second husband’s pants
scarecrow
—Jonathan Humphrey
small town
mamma has a story
for each name
—Ashish Narain
sun-kissed skin
the ghost of her necklace
on this rainy day
—Thomas Powell
mapping myself a garden somewhere south of old lady
—Michele Root- Bernstein
scent of rain
the few things
I still believe
—Ken Slaughter
forget-me-nots
we let her talk to
the wrong gravestone
—Mike White
lost piece of sky
my mother always
wore blue
—Kathabela Wilson
sunken grinding stone
stories told of herbs
that made us men
—Adjei Agyei-Baah
first French kiss —
forty years later the doorway
still there
—Geoff Pope
on the train
no longer in a hurry
to get anywhere
—Alan S. Bridges
she forgets my name
I offer
it back to her
—Elizabeth Crocket
in the parked car
a song too good
to turn off
—Adam T. Arn
feet in stirrups—
the new gynaecologist
her old paper boy
—Carol Raisfeld
just like home
socks
under her hospital bed
—Mark Teaford
spy novels—
inheriting mom’s closetful
of trench coats
—Marianne Paul
scent of jasmine
the dent in the garden gate
still there
—Anna Maris
suspended days
another moon comes
to the window
—Lucia Cardillo
after the wake
the soft tick
of Grandpa’s watch
—Marilyn Ward
morning traffic
slowly passing
the same bus
—Robert Kingston
january rose
my hairdresser tells me
her new name
—Keiko Izawa
on my knee
closer to my mother’s
womb
—Marilyn Ashbaugh
July 2022 – Haiku About Punctuation
Look! Skeletons
in their best holiday clothes
viewing flowers
—Onitsura
forgive me, peregrine, the summit is still a lonely place
—Tim Gardiner
open grave —
the autumn moon moves
across the shovel
—Lenard D Moore
space debris . . .
the newborn foal
finds its legs
—Ferris Gilli
pill bug
—I curl up
Too
—Debbie Olson
abacus:::
he counts Jupiter’s moons
again and again
—Minal Sarosh
The old pond
A frog jumped in,
Kerplunk!
—Allen Ginsberg
too much water
for the drain . . .
it was never love
—Steve Amor
my hand takes them
down the sledding hill,
the legendary one
—Randy Brooks
six crows—
at the bus stop
—south bound
—Linda L. Ludwig
his black and white picture
still in the window...
gray winter clouds
—Raquel D. Bailey
flea…
that you,
Issa?
—Raymond Roseliep
Lily:
Out of the water…
Out of itself
—Nicholas Virgilio
road trip
the first sunrise caught
in thick city smog .!
—Kala Ramesh
still part-furled,
a wing of the butterfly
on his open palm
—Norman Barraclough
just when I thought
the day was grey—a blue jay
swoops over the lilac
—Doris Lynch
get effin’ out of there!
a British soldier screams
. . . post blast silence
—Marion Clarke
red dragonfly
do you like my jasmine
handcream?
—Meera Rehm
sforzando!
he’s using CAPS again
in an email
—Mimi Ahern
snowflakes, snowflakes!
another child
sticks out it’s tongue
—Nadejda Kostadinova
fog. . .
the sound of wings
going somewhere
—Carole MacRury
love or war?
the blackbird’s song
filling the coppice
—Polona Oblak
Santa
putting a finger aside his nose
…he blows
—James Krotzman
duck______socially distanced______from loon
—Richard Bailly
warm night… thunder shudders into the next heartbeat
—Tyler McIntosh
sheet lightning
the face near the top
of the ferris wheel
—Chuck Brickley
punctuating
the silence …
woodpecker
—Ravi Kiran
Dusting of snow . . .
No secret
where I spent last night.
—Sally Biggar
in the shade
of the grape arbor . . .
my heart murmur
—Jim Chessing
my life sentence ends in a full stop.
—John Hawkhead
Eight Brocades
all the students
in sweatpants
—Sidney Bending
August 2022 – Haiku About Early Harvest
strawberry picking
the hallelujah chorus
note by note
—Kat Lehmann
summer—
fresh raspberry stains
on my shirt
—Jill Lange
windrowed alfalfa—
I awaken to the scent
of a first cutting
—Judith Schallberger
mushroom picking
my empty bucket
beside his full one
—Jacquie Pearce
Santa Anna winds—
on the vine
stewed tomatoes
—Seretta Martin
snipping green beans
into equal pieces
summer schedule
—Kathy Goldbach
a fig
in each beak
summer flies away
—Michèle Boyle Turchi
at night they come
zombie squirrels
for my strawberries
—Richard Tice
harvest season
bales of sunlight scattered
across the fields
—Gregory Longenecker
first pine mushrooms
at the greengrocer’s
early dusk
—Leanne Mumford
picking kale—
the darkened veins
in grandma’s hands
—Jacob D. Salzer
Summer evening
eating a peach
the color of the moon
—Sylvia Forges-Ryan
moonlit porch
cooling off
with the blackberry pie
—Chuck Brickley
a small favor
repaid
in zucchini
—John Stevenson
just enough space
between the clouds
to pick blueberries
—Sarah Metzler
another year
we hadn’t planned on
wild huckleberries
—Ce Rosenow
harvested fields
the migrant worker
goes to the food bank
—Helen Ogden
fat raccoons
also enjoying the taste
of ripe plums
—Julie Emerson
alone—
I eat all the salmonberries
on the trail
—Nicholas Klacsanzky
bumper crop:
a bag of mangos
makes the rounds
—David Kāwika Eyre
heirloom tomato
the want ads
rustle
—Aidan Castle
ripe Brussels sprouts
some intended endearments
backfire
—J. Zimmerman
childless . . .
the long walk home
holding farm fresh eggs
—Jim Laurila
hanging
almost within reach—
the ripe persimmons
—Ruth Holzer
“Don’t pick it!”
then picks and gives to me
a garden plum
—Tan Taigi 1709-1771 (translation by Richard Tice)
mother’s garden
the line up
of sealed Mason jars
—Elizabeth Black
dark garden—
the rustle of something
not seen
—C.R. Manley
fresh potatoes
traded for
chocolate eclairs
—Melissa Clarke Ward
absentmindedly
eating a persimmon
in the poet’s house
—Patricia J. Machmiller
season’s end
what we thought would be
a sunflower
—Julie Schwerin
summer’s end
a sudden gust
shuts the garden gate
—Michael Sheffield
September 2022 – Haiku About Country Life
this valley filled
with moon, mist, stars
—who could sleep now?
—Duncan Richardson
campfire
the taste of moonshine
in tin cups
—Laura Davis
village road…
the jingle of bullock carts
in the mist
—K. Ramesh
cloudless sky
the village church
holds up a cross
—John Bird
Sunday dinner –
the flypaper too full
for one more fly
—Marietta McGregor
a procession
of dust clouds …
country wedding
—Joanne Watcyn-Jones
barn dream
picking sparkles of hay
from her hair
—David Watts
years of drought
an old gum wind-whittled
down to its trunk
—Lorraine Haig
furrows etched
in the old man’s brow
failing crops
—Crys Smith
monsoon drizzle…
under the mango tree
a newly born calf
—Mohammad Azim Khan Peshawar
we slow our stroll
to another time
outback town
—Glenys Ferguson
outback bar
an old farmer yarns with a mate
who isn’t there
—Mark Miller
county fair
second place ribbon
in an empty stall
—Joe McKeon
a hundred miles
of dusty corrugate
Saturday rugby
—Kent Robinson
paddock shed
a lean seventy years in the making
—Simon Hanson
small hoofprints
the smell of the herd
still there
—Susana Benet
drought—
the dusty eyelashes
of a cow
—Beverley George
too young
to remember the fires
forest saplings
—Jan Dobb
rain storm
empties the rice field
of dragonflies
—Nina Wicker
bogged tractor
a Kookaburra’s laughter
rings in the valley
—Gavin Austin
early spring mist-
in the valley the clatter
of milking pails
—Janice M. Bostok
early march—
scarecrow in the field
frightening snowflakes away
—Djurdja Vukelić-Rožić
childhood town
the fattening paddock
full of houses
—Quendryth Young
smoke haze…
all that remains
of tree-changers’ dreams
—Lorin Ford
apricot harvest
the branches return
to the sky
—Nazarena Rampini
hazelnuts honey hostas
an alliteration of produce
on the roadside stall
—Margaret Beverland
highway bypass
another country town
crumbles into dust
—Keitha Keyes
wheat—
realizing death as one color
gold
—Uda Kiyoko
what’s left
of the afternoon
empty pea pods
—Kari Davidson
Gurrumul night
we listen to the rain
in darkness
—Gregory Piko
October 2022 – Haiku About Haunting
house clearance
room by room by room
my mother disappears
—Alan Summers
frost shadow…
his barn too, now buried
under weeds
—Michele L. Harvey
animal skull
the child fingers
her eye
—Tom Painting
still there the hook
where the hunting gun
used to hang
—Gilles Fabre
homecoming
the tree swing’s wooden seat
cushioned with moss
—Scott Mason