THF Monthly Kukai Voting Ballot — June 2026
This month’s theme:
age
Voting for The Haiku Foundation Monthly Kukai
Shortly after the conclusion of the submission period, an anonymous ballot comprising all submitted poems on that month’s theme will be posted to Troutswirl (The Haiku Foundation blog) on the THF site. Any reader of this ballot is eligible to vote for their favorite poems at this time. A voter may vote for up to five (5) poems per theme. A top vote will receive 5 points, a second-place vote 4 points, a third-place vote 3 points, a fourth-place vote 2 points, and a fifth-place vote 1 point.
Please use the Kukai voting form below to enter your selections, and then press Submit to cast your votes. No other votes will be recognized or honored. All votes must be signed (that is, no “anonymous” votes will be accepted, and the Submit button will not be available until both Name and Email fields are filled in), and no poet may vote for his or her own work. No commentary upon the poems will be accepted or published. Votes will be accepted from the appearance of the ballot on the 18th of that month through midnight of the 24th of that month. Readers may vote only once per ballot. Administrators of the kukai are ineligible to vote.
Note: Anonymity is an essential part of any kukai. If you know who wrote the poem then that entry is no longer anonymous. Please respect the Kukai and do not vote for that entry.
The Ballot
1 | [not] too old to be the person i want to be | |
2 | 70th birthday — the flame steadier than my breath | |
3 | A gift Unwrapped Every second | |
4 | a hole in his face on our family photo Alzheimer’s | |
5 | a rusted nail all the parts of me rain-soaked | |
6 | a series of stumbles acting my age | |
7 | a solemn, quite face deep crevices, angled time passes — we age | |
8 | a tawny trace — the bitten cheese a fly’s hum | |
9 | a young father’s pride at her red face of dismay — just two weeks old | |
10 | age another page till the story’s over | |
11 | age I stop at a thong display and the woman that I was | |
12 | age — no guarantees of wisdom | |
13 | age is daily attacking me. And is as mean as can be. And it will win eventually | |
14 | Age of my Earth — fifty-nine years around the sun | |
15 | ageing red wine will power adds more life still ripening | |
16 | ageless stars how much do we know about our souls | |
17 | aging eyes — my younger days a blur | |
18 | air-locked jars centuries of wisdom slow pickling | |
19 | alzheimer’s . . .. walnut tree rings show me how old am I | |
20 | amber millions of years old a mayfly | |
21 | among dark green leaves the last scorched white flower clinging to the tree | |
22 | ancient temple lush branches enfold a dead tree | |
23 | arc of my toothlessness | |
24 | arctic mountain covered with lichens and moss never alone | |
25 | As I pass by, children in the school playground — still there . . . | |
26 | at the age where memory fades life grows smaller | |
27 | attaining celebration wild flower necklace with tortilla chips | |
28 | autumn day — my three-year-old grandson asks to read him a story | |
29 | autumn dusk the arthritic curvature of pines | |
30 | autumn dusk the retirement letter lies unopened | |
31 | bare branches — more sky each year | |
32 | bearded seamen over the blue Ocean lengthening grey | |
33 | birds gathering around an old woman — wispy clouds | |
34 | birthday party the bald girl wishes for more time | |
35 | bodies collecting wrinkles drink wine together speak of what use to be | |
36 | Bright dandelions whose faces dotted green fields now wear soft gray caps | |
37 | candles burning low — halos of shadow | |
38 | carved petroglyphs — our coordination with the cosmos | |
39 | centuries old a mother’s tears for a lost child | |
40 | change from within the hollow of the old stump a seedling unfolds | |
41 | childhood blowing away fluffy flower seeds — making a wish | |
42 | cleaning up your shit one remembers . . . so many springs together | |
43 | courtesan wooden comb fall — a moonlit silver | |
44 | cracked pine table holds welcoming kahwa sixty monsoons old | |
45 | crisp linen wrinkled skin needs ironing | |
46 | crowded train my surprise at being offered a seat | |
47 | crushed lotus bud weathered hands toward me | |
48 | dig we must in our backyard Iron Age pottery | |
49 | dodging sprinklers on home’s midnight lawn childhood again | |
50 | don’t fear pain, says age each check notes which pill, day, time “Walkies” says the dog | |
51 | doorframe mark now at my elbow — same farmhouse kitchen | |
52 | double figures — telling everyone he’s a grown up now | |
53 | Dowager’s Hump She still greets us with a bow (for Naomi-san 1937 – 2026) | |
54 | drafting declared old enough to die | |
55 | Elder hands — Heirloom wrinkles, Weaving wisdom. | |
56 | embracing natural aging Giant Redwoods | |
57 | Every autumn Court yard fills with dry leaves Granny’s sore back | |
58 | fading light old compass points to a different path | |
59 | fireworks factory — on a child’s transit pass age N/A | |
60 | first snow convincing my old man they’re still married | |
61 | first snow she asks me my name again my mother | |
62 | foggy mirror trying to count my new white hairs | |
63 | from stalactite to stalagmite a single drop | |
64 | Frost-shelled buds split, stretch Petals, blossom to berries, Ripen, decay, freeze. | |
65 | going for a walk — the weight of age the stick is bending | |
66 | grandma’s 100th too many candles too many wishes | |
67 | grandma’s visit another tricycle at the playground | |
68 | grandmother’s blue eyes weathered with age as she smiles pink baby wrinkles | |
69 | grandpa leading his granddaughter leading him — two banana smiles | |
70 | great grandmother slumped in her kitchen chair the pen still in her hand | |
71 | grey hair with deep brown eyes first love | |
72 | grizzled dog lying on the cool floor last summer day | |
73 | habeas corpus — from aging parchment ink fades | |
74 | harvest moon — grandfather’s hand on the swing chain | |
75 | hearing aids she learns the song of the chaffinch | |
76 | her sonogram ages another year weeping branches | |
77 | here on my bench I watch the mountains grow older | |
78 | high cheekbones — fingers trace the illusion of diminished years | |
79 | immemorial the first waves’ writing on the shore rocks | |
80 | In every branch the bluejay | |
81 | in the record shop the greatest hits of bands I never knew existed | |
82 | inflamed ankle sprain arthritis tendonitis unending nerve pain | |
83 | into the wind stepping on stones ageless | |
84 | jacuzzi — breasts once young grow firm again | |
85 | knock . . . knock . . . knock . . . my grandfather’s cane all night long | |
86 | La Belle Époque beautiful on the tongue | |
87 | late blooming aster writing a story I’m still living | |
88 | learning the truth about life that family is not eternal | |
89 | life in the margins the sentence for committing advanced age | |
90 | looking at ginkgos in moon light a chiaroscuro silhouette | |
91 | lucid day, we share a romantic dinner | |
92 | mango panicles granny laughs with a sour face | |
93 | marking time in stiffening joints and thinning bone | |
94 | memory club a rusty garden gate cracks open | |
95 | Middle age is when half the funerals are for someone younger. | |
96 | Milky Way — grandma stops counting her age spots | |
97 | modern times silence a misnomer all time mantra | |
98 | morning dew bare feet test courage on green grass | |
99 | mother’s home the last of lilies also plucked | |
100 | my hat vest trousers on the scarecrow shivering old man | |
101 | my hyacinth comes of age . . . sweet smell of blue | |
102 | my mirror never forgets my age | |
103 | my old skin — the wind still kisses it | |
104 | my son explains emojis to my mum — I heart the moment | |
105 | nesting dolls — all the years within me | |
106 | new bookmark a withered blade of grass | |
107 | new mirror in the same place the age spots | |
108 | next birthday same age as Jack Benny . . . and then some | |
109 | ninety not out my father still captains his cricket team | |
110 | not a tree to wear my old knots well age spots | |
111 | Old age means watching your heroes Die | |
112 | old age the mirror catches me | |
113 | old age two siblings share the bruised apples | |
114 | old age the length of an empty day | |
115 | old book the foxing and my father’s hands | |
116 | old book — the spine cracks at my favorite page | |
117 | old moon scarred with age lights path | |
118 | old movie I remember the dialogue too | |
119 | old scarecrow — only the young birds keep their distance | |
120 | older now . . . every week I change all my passwords | |
121 | on the grounds . . . when mom couldn’t quite place me | |
122 | one year tolls aloud single leaf of weeping tree falls in the moment | |
123 | Orchids bloom, then wilt The gift and the price of time Life in the garden | |
124 | out of business the aging town’s school shuts down | |
125 | overripe banana scatter of age spots on this old hand | |
126 | parlor couch . . . the powdery scent of my aging aunts | |
127 | path by a puddle — behind an old duck waddling too | |
128 | photograph fades the boy inside reaches for my hand | |
129 | plastic flowers the sound of clock ticking does not bother them | |
130 | Puddle in the path. My eyes leap it easily but my legs demur. | |
131 | quite unprepared and yet this baby of my baby | |
132 | red hat society wearing purple s(age) | |
133 | rising mist around the care home ancestor dreams | |
134 | rocking chair — the hesitation of middle age | |
135 | Rough dry hands Turning slowly a softly ticking clock | |
136 | rubbing her eyes — grandma shyly avoids declaring her age | |
137 | rust-eaten breastplate — finally old enough for nostalgia | |
138 | rusty yellow chair in the shade grandpa hints at youthful adventures | |
139 | seasons change my hair into moonlight | |
140 | seventh decade looking not a day older mother’s doll collection | |
141 | shedding all pretenses the old barn | |
142 | silver hair husband says now I’m worth more than gold | |
143 | single and sixty-four my caterpillar metamorphosis | |
144 | softening the ancient rock-face tendrils of fern | |
145 | some colors outside the lines crayon stubs | |
146 | spacetime wobbles that song forty summers ago | |
147 | stars and satellites light touch on new age | |
148 | still wearing his Timex he shows his age | |
149 | struggling to learn the latest curricula mature age student | |
150 | such autumn her age requires calculations | |
151 | summer carnival a pink pony carries me back in time | |
152 | summer of love that age of Aquarius senior citizens | |
153 | sunset — so many ages in every shade | |
154 | Sweeping fallen leaves The bent body Grows tired | |
155 | telling everyone her age fingers to spare | |
156 | the clear light of rising Venus what I missed to be | |
157 | the old girl wears a touch of blue sky on her eyelids | |
158 | the old webmaster once a spider in the web has now lost the thread | |
159 | the remedy old mean cat rumbles by my heart | |
160 | this worn coin has passed through many hands — and now mine | |
161 | tides ebbing into the sunset my years | |
162 | tomato pie the tang of aged cheddar on my tongue | |
163 | toothless smiles — cooking back and forth grandfather and grandson | |
164 | tree rings crinkled laugh lines around his eyes | |
165 | tree rings telling a tale . . . typhoon’s trail | |
166 | turn another page become more and more the sage growing in old age | |
167 | turning corner at 70 — green light to memory cul-de-sacs | |
168 | unraveling old sweater her childhood scent — middle age pastime | |
169 | unruly and coarse stuck in time hairdresser | |
170 | until autumn dusk the old woman breaking bread sits beside the ducks | |
171 | waiting by death’s bed foghorns blow their deep remorse | |
172 | watching the landscape speed by too fast senior trip | |
173 | what else but life between golden age and the retirement age | |
174 | white christmas mum finally lets her hair go grey | |
175 | whitening muzzle the soft weight of her years | |
176 | winter dawn — coconut thuds sliding into ripples | |
177 | wisdom beyond our age the world of peony | |
178 | wizened crone composing death haiku in the fading light | |
179 | wrinkles on the skin . . . yet within the eyes there burns an April sunlight. | |
180 | yesterday discussing physics today he can’t find the bathroom |
Kukai Results
On the first day of the following month, results of the tally of the kukai will be announced. The top vote-getters as voted by readers will be posted, along with the number of points each poem tallied, and each poem’s authorship will be revealed at this time. Winners will be invited to select from a list of prizes provided by The Haiku Foundation. The theme for the new month will be announced at the same time, and the process repeated. Poems remain the copyrighted property of their authors, but The Haiku Foundation reserves the right to publish, display and archive all submitted poems for this and other purposes at its discretion.
Congratulations to all our participants!
I’m not sure if it’s part of the verification system that THF is using (Cloud Flare?) but lately I’ve been receiving a lot of “cannot connect to server” messages when attempting to submit poems or in this case right now, votes.
Sometimes I can page back and resubmit, other times I can’t. This is the only site where that’s happened to me.
Just throwing my two cents into the quiet pond.
Greetings. I’m enjoying seeing all of these poems on the prompt of age. They are wonderful. I was surprised to not see mine among them. I submitted it on June 1 using the form and got the response “received” or whatever it says. Here is the poem I submitted. Just curious. I’ve been submitting for years. This is the first time one has not been included on the ballot. Many thanks. It’s a poignant one for me. My former husband and my birthdays were only four days apart. We always celebrated them together. He passed last June. Now I celebrate solo.
turning an age
you will never be
I blow out my own candle…
Jennifer Gurney
US
Jennifer,
You are not the only one. Running through the submissions, I was surprised that mine wasn’t there, either. I submitted one really quickly, if not on the first, then within a day or two of the first.
You are right; your is particularly poignant, and I am sorry for your loss.
Mine was a duostich, which I rarely write, but I’ll save it for some other submission.
My apologies to the volunteer staff; I found mine in the list.