Canada

  • Naomi Wakan

    will seagulls
    lift my unwritten poems
    from my grave
    and smash them on my tombstone
    until they break open?


     
    virgin poets launch
    themselves loudly and lengthily
    on open stage
    we old hands follow with
    our small, perfect mutterings

  • Susan Constable

    first daffodil
    a yellow-striped snake
    in its shadow
     

    strawberries . . .
    picking a handful
    snap by snap
     

    cattle trails
    on silver fields . . . 
    autumn dawn
     

    snowy beach . . . 
    the long slow sweep
    of a gull
     

    winter kiss . . .
    a pink contrail
    lingering

    Susan Constable is an award winning poet living with her husband on the Canadian west coast. 

  • Alegria Imperial


    grey sky
    the gull’s plaintive cries
    fade into a wave

    Fourth Place, Sea to Sky Haiku Canada Weekend contest, May 2019

  • Angela Leuck

    geraniums
    in my front window
    green leaves
    between me
    and minus 20

  • Aurora Antonovic

    he plans
    a Caribbean vacation
    for all his friends, but
    however would I write angst-filled
    poems amidst such gaiety?


     
    in Egypt
    on the morning train
    while chickens run
    around his feet, Cook asks
    if we want eggs for breakfast

  • Aurora Antonovic

    I'll never forget him
    no matter what else
    comes my way ---
    the surgeon who held my hand
    'til I fell asleep

  • Aurora Antonovic

    winter rain
    washes away rabbit tracks
    in the snow ---
    I refuse to consider
    you won't be here next year

     

    for one short week
    my reality the confines
    of a small apartment ---
    now, on the return flight home,
    the sky seemingly too big
     

     

    Aurora Antonovic is a Canadian writer, editor, and visual artist. She is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, and the editor-in-chief and founder of Magnapoets, a literary publication that seeks to promote the love of verse in all forms.

  • Barry, Aaron

    daisies folding
    under their own weight
    crescent moon


    skipping stones...
    the water's ripples
    scatter the clouds


    the cognac
    you told me never to open
    rainy day


    serenity
    an ant relives itself
    upon my hand

     

    watching another sunset
    from bed...
    fusarium wilt


    the slitting
    of the cat's eye—
    lunar eclipse

  • Bood, Marshall

    summer afternoon...
    her kids chase jackrabbits
    from the yard

     

    hilltop —
    lovers squinting
    into the sunset

  • Chen-ou Liu

    dying embers... 
    reciting Neruda 
    to myself
     

    the Siren sings
    to me from the other shore…
    midsummer dream
     

    between shadows
    on the moonlit snowbank
    words lost
     

    moonlit alley
    my shadow quivers
    in winter gusts
     

    the moon rises
    to a dog's long howl...
    scent of mooncakes

    Chen-ou Liu lives in Canada in 2002. His poetry has been published  worldwide. He's the recipient of 11 awards.

  • Chen-ou Liu

    Our Dreams

    waking from the song
    Mother hummed years ago
    autumn dawn

    I remember the night before I emigrated to Canada. My mother was helping me to pack my luggage, and she began to tell me about the dream she had the night before.

    My mother stood holding me in her arms helplessly, unable to see anything ahead of her, for she was enveloped by darkness. With the passage of time, a pain rose from her feet and gradually up to her shoulders and arms. At the moment when she reached the point of almost despair, suddenly, a spot of bright space appeared by her side. She used her last ounce of strength to put me down while I remained sound asleep. As soon as I was laid on the ground, the earth unexpectedly began to tilt. My place of rest was now a slope. While careening down, I suddenly grew up, and within few minutes was no larger than a speck of dust.

    nine autumns past...
    between mother and me
    the Pacific

     


    Chen-ou Liu was born in Taiwan and emigrated to Canada in 2002. He lives in a suburb of Toronto. He is a contributing writer for Rust+Moth. His poetry has been published and anthologized worldwide. And his tanka and haiku have been honored with ten awards.

  • Chen-ou Liu

    I show Father
    my cover poem from Ribbons ---
    his eyes
    gazing into space
    between T.V. channels


     
    autumn night...
    I bait a crescent moon
    with my mind
    angling in silence
    for her flower heart


     
    the caged eagle
    just those few cubic feet
    of freedom...
    I see in its eyes
    a skyful of my dreams

  • Chen-ou Liu

    moonlit pond...
    a frog penetrates
    itself
     

    New Year's dawn
    Icarus in my dream
    waving his wings


    Moon Festival
    I turn my other cheek
    to the light
     

    memories...
    a blizzard survives
    my dream
     

    winter dawn
    a butterfly wakes up
    in my dream

     

    Chen-ou Liu is the author of Ripples from a Splash: A Collection of Haiku Essays with Award-Winning Haiku and Following the Moon to the Maple Land (forthcoming in July).  

  • Chen-ou Liu

    Poetics of Re-homing 

     

    where are you from?
    maple leaves drifting
    here and there

    Where is my home? Taipei, the capital of Republic of China (aka Taiwan), with its towering glass office buildings, where I was born and raised, the place I used to complain about? Or County of Mount Dragon in Hunan province, People’s Republic of China, a small town surrounded by waterfalls, mountains, and valleys, my father's home that I've never set foot in?

    Taiwan’s moon
    caught in Lake Ontario . . .
    geese gone south

    Or is my home Ajax, Ontario, a bedroom suburb of row upon row of indistinguishable bungalows and front gardens in the richest province of Canada? Here I have a piece of property and continue to struggle with a life in transition and translation.

    treading on
    my white neighbor's shadow –
    illegal alien

    Where then is my home?

     

    Chen-ou Liu was born in Taiwan and emigrated to Canada in 2002. He is the author of Ripples from a Splash: A Collection of Haiku Essays with Award-Winning Haiku and Following the Moon to the Maple Land (forthcoming in July).  His tanka and haiku have been honored with 14 awards. Read more of his poems on his poetry blog, Poetry in the Moment (http://chenouliu.blogspot.com/).

  • Chen-ou Liu

    the dog runs
    in circles chasing its tail
    under a blazing sun
    the shadow and I look
    into each other's eyes


     
    autumn twilight
    I stand against the wall...
    one inch lonelier
    than when I first became
    a poet in exile


     
    three words
    you murmur into my ear
    fill up the hole
    I've had inside my heart
    since that crescent moon night

  • Chen-ou Liu

    Tabla class
    summer rain against
    the window

     

    not a word
    since our last moonlit kiss
    yet autumn...

     

    lamplit snow
    pieces of her letter
    on the wind

     

    holding
    winter moonlight in my hand
    length of the night

     

    chasing the wind
    on the first day of spring
    dragon kite dream

     

    Chen-ou Liu is the author of Ripples from a Splash: A Collection of Haiku Essays with Award-Winning Haiku and Following the Moon to the Maple Land (forthcoming in July). 

  • Chen-ou Liu

    eating alone
    I scribble a few verse lines
    on a napkin . . .
    a long sigh emerges
    from the waitress's pale lips

     

    once again
    the silence of a blank page
    fills me with dread --
    a lone star blinking
    on the last night of spring

     

    late into the night
    unable to sleep again
    I wander
    the corridors of memory
    unable to find EXIT

     

    Chen-ou Liu is the author of Ripples from a Splash: A Collection of Haiku Essays with Award-Winning Haiku and Following the Moon to the Maple Land.

  • Collins, Lysa

    upland gloom -
    the darkness becomes
    an elephant

     

    swallows
    sweep the leadwood tree -
    silence falls

     

  • Dave Read


    almost noon,
    my son’s still asleep —
    I open
    the blinds
    on his dreams

     

    growing small
    in the broad
    prairie sky
    a crow flies
    into itself

  • Debbie Strange

    bioluminescence
    I skip a pebble across
    the universe

    1st Place, 2019 OtherWordly Intergalactic Haiku Competition
    (first publication in Seashores, Volume 2, April 2019)