USA

  • Shay M. Wills


    bean pods
    curl from grass
    earth worms

     

    counting bird songs
    on summer mornings
    lonely listener

     

  • Shea, Pegi Deitz


    November rain
    chipmunks sipping
    acorn caps



    catalpa pods clapping
    thanks
    to the wind

  • Shires, Nancy

    daybreak...
    gulls on the beach
    still half asleep

  • Smith, Robin Anna

    a church steeple harpoons the moon forced childbirth

    Sonic Boom Annual Senryu Contest 2018 - Second Place


  • Smith, Robin Anna

    a field of daisies growing from my pain

     

    the fisherman's line crossing the event horizon

     

  • Spinelli, Joseph

    sidewalk...
          a plastic bag
    floating in the wind

     

    crowded train—
    biting my cuticles
    til’ they bleed

     

    another day done
    sipping cold Whiskey
    in worn out clothes

  • spring breeze


    spring breeze—                           

    the little pool flooded

    with blossoms

     

    a breathless dawn

    lures the prickling earth

     

    pine snow

    thaws in silent

    rainbow beads

     

    the heart of a cello throbs

    through an open window

    --

    strawberry moonlight

    pinks the eye

    of the spotted owl

     

    waltzing together

    with the fireflies

     

    she took his hand

    like a prayer

    under the sycamore

     

    at the airport chapel    

    a thousand tongues 

     

    wild pages

    of a just-penned story

    scatter in the wind

     

    dragonic splendor

    of gathering swifts

     

    the sky shimmers

    a prism

    of holiday lights

     

    a pair of lilies

    carves up the ice

     

    we finally touch

    fingers tracing for a hint

    of what to say

     

    aroma of garlic

    in your long black hair

     

    a quilt of clouds

    wilts like ash

    and the bold moon burns

     

    round the roaring fire

    we each give thanks

    --

    in deep woods

    drift bright chords

     

    take me home ….

    the sailboats fade

    like dreams into dawn

     

    from a lonely cottage

    grey smoke joins

    the Milky Way

     

    frozen streams shatter

    with the pulse of life

     

    Ryland Shengzhi Li, Arlington, Virginia, USA
    Dana Gittings, Washington, D.C., USA

  • stacey dye


    nighttime
    is my suitor. . .
    his eyes, the stars
    his fingers, the wind—
    only the moon gives him away

     

    branches droop
    burdened with snow. . .
    the weight
    of my sadness
    a fifty pound sack

  • Stephen C. Curro


    broken windshield
    all this
    for toilet paper

  • stops along the way

    I've a long-lasting love for Tokyo; I've been there many times. Ever since I took my first ride on the Arakawa Toden streetcar in 1993 I've remained fascinated by its allure.

     

    streetcar window...
    a different world
    at every stop

     

    standing room only...
    multicolored umbrellas
    and the smell of rain

     

    One of Tokyo's last two remaining streetcars, the Toden travels a 12.2 km route back and forth through 30 stops that traverse some of the older parts of the city, areas overlooked by most tourists who search elsewhere for excitement. But, for me, each stop along the way presents a unique atmospheric microcosm of Tokyo life the way it was, is, and is constantly evolving to be.

     

    as worn as the rails
    he hums a sad melody...
    end of the line

     

    down the tracks
    receding into the past
    Tokyo trolley

  • Taylor, Christine

    rose petals
    quiver through the storm
    summer blood

     

    freezing river
    the water rolls right
    off the duck’s back

     

    budding dogwood
    the sun rises
    a little earlier

      

    frayed basketball net
    in my neighbor’s backyard
    early sunset

     

    black & white photograph:
    my mother’s smile
    mine

  • Taylor, Christine

    a look, a
    touch, a breath--
    summer heat

    Modern Haiku, Volume 37.1, Winter/Spring 2006

  • Ted van Zutphen

    snow drifts -
    an angel spreads
    her wings


    the glacier
    calving an iceberg -
    another candle


    a stream
    below the ice . . ..
    spring whispers
     

    roaring river . . .
    one pebble at a time, 
    carving temples


    cat song
    resonating in a dream . . .
    summer moon

     

    Ted van Zutphen grew up in the Netherlands, lives and has raised a family in the USA. He has observed life through the windshield of a bus for 32 years. Since his retirement last year he studies and writes haiku and other Japanese short form poetry.

  • Ted van Zutphen

    Taking Flight


    At the pool he watches his mother, as she instructs the "big kids", perfecting their stroke or overcoming their fears, they all get the attention they need. When the schoolchildren leave and the noise dies down, they have the water, now like a mirror, all to themselves. She takes him and teaches him the breaststroke, how to tread water or to just float. Afterwards, at the cafeteria, they have hot chocolate and she tells him how she almost made the Olympic team.

    Riding across town on the back of her bicycle, they pass the heliport. "Mamma, mamma, a helicopter" the boy yells. She stops and patiently waits with him to watch it take off. As she steps back on the bike and starts peddling, his helicopter floats out of sight . . .


    spring breeze —
    a whiff of freesias
    through my hair

     

    Ted van Zutphen grew up in the Netherlands, lives and has raised a family in the USA. He has observed life through the windshield of a bus for 32 years. Since his retirement last year he studies and writes haiku and other Japanese short form poetry.

  • Ted van Zutphen

    hidden sun . . .
    unveiling the birth
    of cathedrals

     

    dry pond . . .
    the serenade of a frog
    at night

     

    spring storm -
    a dayfly clings
    to today

     

    sinking sun . . .
    the seagull pecks
    a wormhole

     

    crying moon . . .
    a leaf's shadow drips
    from the tree

     

    falling leaves -
    for every memory
    a color

     

    Ted van Zutphen grew up in the Netherlands, lives and has raised a family in the USA.
    He has observed life through the windshield of a bus for 32 years. Since his retirement last year he has been studying and writing haiku and other Japanese short form poetry.

  • Ted van Zutphen

    sweeping
    through the valley...
    red winds,
    fanning the shadows
    of withered flowers

    wet eyes
    peer over a white mask...
    the shadows
    of mushroom clouds,
    shrouding the sun

    stepping
    out of the shower,
    the image
    of my youth distills
    on the mirror

     

    Ted van Zutphen grew up in the Netherlands, lives and has raised a family in the USA. He has observed life through the windshield of a bus for 32 years. Since his retirement last year he studies and writes haiku and other Japanese short form poetry. 

  • Terry Busch

    winter light . . . 
    too much clarity
    to be a dream

     

    the crow
    on the fence rail . . .
    do you know me?

     

    awakened
    by her breathing...
    or the wind?

     

    sun break . . . 
    the moment          
    gone

     

    a dream?      
    no source of the light
    walking in fog

     

    Terry Busch has been writing short poetry since 1973. Now he lives in Washington State and writes haiku as well as other poetry. He is inspired by his close relationship to nature.

  • The Maestro

    starry night…
    can you see the swirls
    of my sanity?

    on the easel blood drops catch
    the morning light

    learning the truth
    of fleeting dreams
    self portrait

    rising moon over
    wheat sheaves vibrate
    a red haze

    just one summer not alone
    golden hue of sunflowers

    on the borderline
    wheatskymoon
    waver and merge

     

    Elisa Theriana, Bandung, Indonesia
    Ray Caligiuri, Beaverton, Oregon, USA

  • The Next Moment

    He watched the leaf drop beneath the horizon and gently light on the ground. He watched as it became a memory, lingering there in the blooming sunrise.

     

    one step closer
    to revelation . . .
    a cherry tree blossoms

  • Ticking

    The body is an assemblage of cellular clocks of many different kinds. Not only does each clock need to tick regularly but it has to tick sequentially with other clocks for optimal health. Maybe if a cellular clock begins to malfunction others can take over.
    Maybe not.


    running days
    over
    he turns to poetry