USA

  • Jamie Wimberly


    for all those
    left behind …
    falling leaves

    alone
    last dandelion stands watch
    autumn’s gate

    sometimes
    the weight and weariness –
    setting sun

  • Jan Cronos


    thunder
    an infant stirs
    wide-eyed

  • Janet Lynn Davis


    heartache
    upon heartache
    these parched leaves
    curl ever tighter
    into themselves

     

    spindly and bent
    toward the sun...
    I prop up
    this lavender plant
    with a heart-shaped stone

  • Jay Friedenberg


    ragged breeze
    a cocooned butterfly
    jerks in the web


    covid-19
    the wind blows a mask
    down an empty street

     

  • Jeanne Lupton


    nessun dorma
    my heart opens at high C
    George Floyd is there
    the sob of a wild turkey
    the cry of a mourning dove

     

    for my cat
    who likes order
    I make the bed --
    at the SPCA
    she knew I was her person

     

  • Jennifer Carr

    toy gun my son suspended

     

    the itty bitty shitty committee between my ears won’t shut up

     

  • Jenny Ward Angyal

    buttercup petals
    cling to my bare feet—
    a hint of what I am

     

    deep green dreams
    breathing inside me
    the forest

     

    out of the mist
    a heron unfolds
    the koan

     

  • Jianqing Zheng

    春日落——

    老人手中举着

    红纸风车

    spring sunset—
    the red pinwheel in an
    old man’s hand

    喀布尔黎明——

    花盆里开着一朵

    黄雏菊

    Kabul dawn—
    in the flower pot,
    a yellow daisy

    待售房——

    梨花盛开

    越围墙

    house for sale—
    pear blossoms over
    the fence

     

    春晓——

    蜘蛛丝

    忽现忽隐

    spring dawn—
    the spider strand's glow
    sporadic

    春天奏鸣曲——

    还是昨天那只

    红雀?

    spring sonata—
    the same cardinal
    from yesterday?

    Jianqing Zheng lives in Mississippi State, USA. His haiku's been published in a variety of publications. His book on Richard Wright’s haiku is forthcoming from the University Press of Mississippi in May 2011.

  • Jill Lange

    with heavy rain and rising wind the night train

     

  • Jill Lange

    after-storm light
    wisteria shadows
    on snow

     

    stepping stones
    in the river . . .
    the choices we make

     

  • Jim Krotzman

    missing rooster
    an owl watching
    from the weather vane

     

    long lines at the border
    a shrunken pumpkin
    guarding seeds

     

    a string of fish
    the scent
    of summer rain

     

  • John J. Han

    Buddha’s Birthday . . . 
    even a monkey sits still
    seeking answers
     

    sleeping Buddha . . . 
    two squirrels chasing
    each other
     

    spring night . . . 
    puppy’s belly rises
    and falls 
     

    autumn wind . . . 
    the name tag on a lost
    cat’s neck
     

    start of winter…
    inch by inch, the fog
    swallows the sun

    John J. Han is Professor of English & Creative Writing at Missouri Baptist University and a haiku instructor at Washington University in St. Louis. An award-winning poet, he has authored three poetry volumes: Little Guy HaikuChopsticks and Fork, and Thunder Thighs.  His Japanese-style poems have appeared in the Mainichi Daily NewsMariposaGEPPOThe Laurel ReviewConfluenceSpare Mule,Grist, and numerous other periodicals and anthologies. 

  • Johnny Baranski

    GOING HOME

    Up to my eyeballs in a spring weekend haiku conference full of ideas, poetry, and art the spirit of Kerouac starts whispering, “It’s time to get back on the road.” That is on the road home. And so by noon Sunday I’m in my automobile tooling north on Highway 97 toward junction Highway 20, the Santiam Pass and the long descent on Highway 22 from Bend, Oregon’s dry high desert country to the lush Willamette Valley. I’ll miss the old friendships renewed and the new friendships made in the last few days and all this magnificent scenery, but it’ll be good to return to where the air is richer and easier for me to breathe. On my left between the towns of Tumalo and Sisters, Broken Top, the majestic Three Sisters Mountains, and Mt. Washington, ride along with me for awhile. To my right a sign I haven’t seen in twenty-five years - “Lazy H Ranch” - a place immortalized in a haiku  of the same first line I wrote and published in  Modern Haiku magazine in the autumn of 1986. What a kick, as if time stood still. After a burger and coffee for lunch I enter the mountain pass. A light mist dots my car’s wind screen and there’s an electronic warning sign at the side of the road flashing, “Carry Tire Chains.” But it’s too warm even at this elevation for any new snow. I take in the views all around me as best I can without being distracted from my driving. Who knows if I’ll ever get back here again.

                                            a vintage log truck
                                            rusting just off the highway
                                            logs still on its back
                                            who will outlive the other
                                            in a race against time

                                           

    Johnny Baranski started writing haiku and its related forms under the tutelage of Lorraine Ellis Harr (Tombo) in 1975 and has been widely published since. He credits a Margaret Chula workshop for introducing him to the art of writing haibun in 2006. His latest chapbook, "just a stone's throw," was published by Vincent Tripi in his Pinch Book Series also in 2006. Mr. Baranski resides in the Portland, Oregon/Vancouver, Washington metro area.

  • Josh Bunin

    regrets and
    armfuls of flowers...
    it doesn't change
    the tint of your cheek
    the steel in your eye

    Josh Bunin lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, USA.

  • Julia Bogen

    Drifting shadows speckle the ground
    I look up to see
    Shimmering cotton


  • Karen Cesar

     

     

     

     

     

    Karen Cesar lives with her husband, John, in Tucson, Arizona. She began writing haiku in 2006. She also writes tanka and renku. Her haiga in honor of Svetlana Marisova are her first published haiga. 

  • Kat Lehmann

     

    first hike the white trail the white trail

     

    sunset window the tree becomes my face

     

    each breath between the raindrops nothing

     

  • Kat Lehmann

    earthworm
    the angle
    of the robin’s head

    Frogpond volume 42.2 (2019)

  • Kaufmann, Barbara

  • Keith Polette


    thick morning fog—
    the thousand year old call
    of a red deer

    “Best Haiku,” Shamrock Haiku Journal Readers’ Choice Award, 2018