ANNOUNCEMENT: Triveni Haiku Awards 2026

 

HAIBUN: Waders

 

Waders

Startled trout dart upstream so it’s best to fish down current. Stay clear of the outer bank where the creek takes a turn. You don’t want to fall into a washout hole.

    chafing my hip
    thump of rainbows within
    the wicker creel


contemporary haibun online 20.2, 2024

HAIBUN: The Glint

 
The Glint 

Our dog’s been missing for weeks. We searched the fields, walked the arroyo, called for him until our voices gave out. Then stopped.

Last night, I laced up my hiking boots and walked out into the dark. No plan, just the need to burn off a long day. And there it was, at the edge of a neighbor’s field: the gleam of a vaccination tag, his still form curled in a drift of thistle, head tilted, muzzle frozen into a grin—bringing him back for a moment, letting him go again.

        boundary mark...
        coyotes testing
        a rising moon

contemporary haibun online 22.1, 2026

Haibun after Whitman

I Stand and Look at Them Long and Long
                                      —Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, #32

        morning news 
        the same clamor and fury
        as yesterday

I pull on my boots, step outside, and hike beyond the hen house, the leaky spigot and compost pile, to the old pine at the edge of our lot. Shutting out the static, I lean against rough bark, watch the measured reveal of banded iron ore as dawn breaks over the mountain.

A quail trailing chicks emerges from the thistle patch, her top-feather bobbing, delicate and precise. No polls, no opinions, no hype. Just hunger and caution. The slow turn of the Earth.

        UPS truck
        the neighbor’s geese
        raise a ruckus

Modern Haiku 56.3, Autumn 2025

ESSAY: Two Favorite Haibun

Two Favorite Haibun: The Existential Shrug

Allusion, metaphor, and irony in contemporary haibun

contemporary haibun online 21.3, Dec 2025

English-language haibun has always been a hybrid creature—restless, elastic, improvisational. Michael Dylan Welch, in his introduction to Wedge of Light, traced its migration from Bashō’s travel diaries to North America and notes how quickly the form adapted to new idioms.1 Jeffrey Woodward, in his essay “Haibun Minus Haiku,” described haibun as “haiku-like prose with or without one or more haiku,”2 while acknowledging that the form, as practiced in English, has taken on new voices and tones. Woodward argued that haibun need not contain haiku, so long as its prose remains “haiku-like” in its ellipsis, paradox, and understatement.

Not everyone welcomes that elasticity. Writers such as Suzette Richards caution that overt metaphor or allegory risks violating haibun’s humility, urging prose that stays, in her phrase, “subtle and respectful” toward its Japanese roots.3 Haibun’s modesty, she reminds us, was never meant to be a blank check for experimentation. Yet even within that restraint, the form continues to evolve. As Bob Lucky has observed, English-language haibun “has been enriched, but it’s also drifting away from its meaning, or at least its definition in Japanese.”4 The conversation has become less about orthodoxy than about tone—how to balance irony and reverence, intellect and immediacy.

Two haibun illustrate that balance for me: Keith Polette’s “Rock On”5 and my own “Thought Bubbles.”6 They meet in what I call the “existential shrug”—a dry acknowledgment of human absurdity rendered through wit and restraint. Polette’s is learned, allegorical, volcanic; mine, domestic and self-effacing. Both rely on allusion and irony to locate humor in futility.

Rock On


The igneous rock is cooled magma turned solid. The igneous rock, under due consideration, calls to mind Ignatius Loyola, that rascal theologian from the Basque region of Spain, who hard-hammered intellectual rigor into the pursuit of divinity.

interview questions—

the sharp pebble in my shoe

on a winter morning

The sedimentary rock is formed by a slow break-down, a long erosion, a weary wearing-away. The sedimentary rock is the “couch potato” of the rock family, sitting for decades on the sofa, like that uncle who showed up one day and never left, his hairline receding each year like a pale moon slowly rising out of his forehead, as empty pizza boxes pile up on either side of him; he is all Ishmael: waiting to be plucked from the sea after his disastrous voyage.

lunar eclipse

the overlap of languages
Rosetta Stone

The metamorphic rock comprises most of the Earth’s crust. It is, by all accounts, the Franz Kafka of the rock world, putting pen to the earth’s hard core to conjure into being that dubious character, Gregor Samsa, who turned one morning into a giant insect, who then spent the rest of his short life trying to regain a rock-hard existence, only to realize, too late, that his life was constantly shifting, constantly changing like the great stone that Sisyphus was forced to roll up the hill ad infinitum, until one night, with an apple (oh, Eden’s marble fruit!) lodged firmly in his backplates, he turned stone-still, pure obsidian, as if he had been transformed into something harder than granite by Medusa’s gaze.

old gritty day—

dark basalt being blasted

into bits of gravel

Polette’s haibun delights in erudition without drowning in it. His geological lexicon doubles as metaphysical inquiry: each rock type becomes a station of human experience. The piece begins as mock lecture and ends as burlesque—Ignatius of Loyola and Franz Kafka sharing a jackhammer. The humor is professorial yet self-aware, revealing how knowledge calcifies into absurdity. Each haiku works as a hinge of tone: the first compresses discomfort into a shoe; the second turns translation into eclipse; the third reduces cosmic labor to gravel. The final image, basalt blasted to dust, converts Albert Camus’s eternal laborer in The Myth of Sisyphus into comic entropy. The stone doesn’t merely roll downhill; it explodes in laughter.

“Thought Bubbles” emerged as a quiet reply to “Rock On”—a counter-tone rather than a counter-argument.

Thought Bubbles


Cleaning the fridge, I’m reminded of King Creon’s stables. But then I remember Hercules was set free at the end of his labors, so maybe that’s the wrong analogy. Which brings to mind the trials of Sisyphus—the endless, thankless monotony of his toil—admittedly on a more cosmic scale than mine, but still the same relentless cycle of joy and suffering inherent to the known universe, down to the Planck scale.

As I lean my shoulder into a mustard stain on the second glass shelf, I mull over the Laws of Thermodynamics, Chaos Theory, how the Tao Te Ching anticipated most of this stuff centuries ago. Yeah, it’s that kind of afternoon.

on my windowsill—

this little pile of bird shit

washed away by rain

Where Polette builds layers, I let them dissolve. The setting is resolutely banal: refrigerator, shoulder, stain. Scientific diction—Planck scale, Chaos Theory—collides with the domestic. The gesture is comic, not satirical: a cosmic lecture delivered with a sponge. The haiku provides the punctum, what Rich Youmans calls a “knothole through which the world becomes part of the wood.”7 The bird dropping is that peephole, a tiny aperture through which entropy turns tender.

Both haibun use irony as empathy. Neither voice seeks transcendence; each finds dignity in futility. Our tools are Western—metaphor, allusion, irony—but our aim remains what Makoto Ueda called “the feeling of incompleteness that expands in the reader’s imagination.”8 That expansion is the light between thought and thing, the margin where meaning erodes into humor and humor into grace.

Youmans’s insight that good haibun “expand the possibilities of a narrative by taking the reader outside of it” articulates why these two pieces, though playful, stay within the form’s ethos of detachment. The existential shrug isn’t apathy—it’s acknowledgment: the moment the rock and the refrigerator become one, and we keep working anyway.

____________________________________

Endnotes

1. Welch, Michael Dylan. “A Survey of Haibun Definitions,” Introduction to Wedge of Light, Press Here, 1999; rev. 2014.

1. Woodward, Jeffrey. “Haibun Minus Haiku,” Haibun Today, Nov. 2007.

1. Richards, Suzette. “Haibun—Subtle and Respectful,” PoetrySoup Blog, Aug 9 2025.

1. Lucky, Bob. “Two Favorite Haibun: On Going a Journey,” contemporary haibun online 21.2, August 2025. (See footnote 7.)

1. Polette, Keith. “Rock On” Soundings (Brunswick, ME: Shanti Arts Publishing, 2024).

1. Dee, Billie. “Thought Bubbles,” Drifting Sands Haibun no. 24, 2024.

1. Youmans, Rich. “Why I Write Haibun: An Apologia,” Modern Haiku XXVII, No. 3, Fall 1996.

1. Ueda, Makoto. Matsuo Bashō (Tokyo: Kodansha, 1982), 122.

---

 

Selected References and Further Reading

Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus. Vintage Books, 1955. [Defines the Existential philosophical ground of the absurd.]

Cobb, David. “A Few Timely Heresies About English Haibun.” Blithe Spirit, V. 10, No. 3, September 2000. Republished in Haibun Today 5.4, December 2011. 2016. [Challenges orthodoxy with humor.]

Kacian, Jim. Border Lands. Winchester, Virginia: Red Moon Press, 2006.

Lao Tzu. Tao Te Ching. Harper & Row, 1988. [Source of paradoxical acceptance central to modern haibun tone.]

Lehmann, Kat. “Two Favorites: On Structure—An Exploration into Haibun’s Fourth Element.” contemporary haibun online,18.2, August 2022. [On title and layout as integral to meaning.]

Lindquist, Kristen. “Two Favorite Haibun—On the Importance of Good Storytelling.” contemporary haibun online 19.1, April 2023. [Explores narrative voice and authenticity.]

Rasmussen, Ray. “The Role of Modeling in Haibun Composition.” Haibun Today 7.2, June 2013. Republished in contemporary haibun online 19.1, April 2023. [Influence and craft through example.]

Ueda, Makoto. Matsuo Bashō. Kodansha, 1982. [Foundational study on incompleteness.]

Welch, Michael Dylan et al., Wedge of Light. Press Here, 1999. [Seminal anthology marking the rise of English-language haibun.]

Woodward, Jeffrey. “Haibun Minus Haiku,” Haibun Today, Nov. 2007,

Youmans, Rich. “Why I Write Haibun: An Apologia,” Modern Haiku XXVII, No. 3, Fall 1996. Republished in Wedge of Light, Press Here, 1999; rev. 2014. [Advocates haiku as, to quote Raymond Roseliep, “peepholes into the absolute.”]

ESSAY: You’ve Written Your Haibun—Now What?

Revising for Precision, Resonance, and Ma

By Billie Dee, Drifiting Sands Haibun #32, June 2025

You’ve written your classical haibun: a title, a narrative, one or more haikai. You’ve  proofread and spell-checked. You’ve combed through for excess adjectives, wandering prepositional phrases, and any lingering traces of “telling” instead of “showing.” So—now what? 

Now, you revise again. 

But this time, your goal isn’t just technical clarity—it’s emotional resonance, tonal balance, and structural harmony. A strong haibun is like a well-crafted piece of jewelry:

• the narrative is the setting—elegant but unobtrusive; 
• the haikai are the gemstones—precise, luminous, irreplaceable; 
• and the title is the presentation box—subtle, intriguing, never overbearing.

Let each element do its work. 

Haibun Writing is Distillation 

Each revision should peel away what’s unnecessary to reveal the haibun’s living core. This isn’t prose with haikai slapped on—it’s an interwoven form, where verse and narrative exist in dynamic tension. Revision clarifies that relationship. It sharpens language, deepens tone, and allows ma (space) to emerge. What remains unsaid matters as much as what is written.

1. The Role of the Prose 

Haibun prose is not conventional storytelling. It resists exposition and avoids overt traditional poesy. Instead, it evokes. Think: distilled poetic memoir or a moment of bare awareness. When revising, consider: 

• Compression: Can a phrase be tighter? Does each line carry its weight?
• Rhythm and flow: Read aloud. Where do you stumble or rush?
• Suggestion over explanation: Does your prose leave room for the reader to dream (ma)? 

2. The Haikai Element: Expansion Through Juxtaposition 

The verse isn’t there to summarize or tidy up. Its job is to extend the piece—temporally, emotionally, imagistically. A haikai that echoes the prose too closely flattens the whole. 

• Check for disjunction: Does the haikai offer a new angle, mood, or moment?
• Experiment with placement: Sometimes, moving a verse to the beginning or middle can shift the emotional axis. 
• Consider alternates: A strong prose section may invite a more resonant or surprising ku. 

 3. Cutting for Impact: The Power of Ma 

Ma is the breathing space between lines, between thoughts. It’s silence as structure, suggestion as invitation. When revising:

• Prune aggressively: Cut not just for brevity, but to create space.
• Avoid overexplaining the verse: Let the haikai resonate without anchoring it in prose.
• Honor ambiguity: Not confusion, but layered meaning—the kind that invites rereading. 

4. Read It Aloud—Yes, Really! 

This one’s non-negotiable. Read your haibun aloud a dozen times or more, especially with each new draft—to yourself, to your cat, to someone who doesn’t write poetry. (Especially that last one; they’ll tell you where you lost them.) Listen for awkward rhythms, overlong sentences, breathless passages. If you stumble, your reader will too. Reading aloud catches what your eye will overlook. It’s your best editor. Use it. 

 5. Final Polish: A Submission Checklist

• Have I trimmed excess from the prose? - Does the haikai add something new, not just echo the narrative? - Is the tone consistent throughout? 
• Does the title enhance the work without giving too much away? - Have I read this aloud—multiple times? 
• Are there any typos, grammatical stumbles, or formatting quirks? 
• And finally: Is this my best work? If not, wait. Refine again. Submit later. 

What Editors Notice 

Paraphrased from Beary, Watts and Youmans¹, with a few additions from the trenches: 

• Let your originality show, quietly—remember, most tweaks have been tried before. - Don’t mimic another poet’s voice (especially not one judging the contest).
• Don’t title your haibun "Untitled". Just... don’t.
• Never ask editors for feedback. If they offer it, treasure it—and respond with humility and grace.
• Don’t take rejections personally. Every editor you admire has a stack of their own.
• Always, always be courteous. Editing is mostly thankless labor. Editors are not your nemesis. 

In Closing 

Haibun revision isn’t about chasing perfection. It’s about making space—for breath, for emotion, for the reader. Keep what shines. Cut what clutters. Read aloud until it sings. And when it does? Send it out.

 Then start the next one. 

__________
Footnote:
¹ Beary, Roberta; Lew Watts, Rich Youmans. Haibun: A Writer's Guide. United Kingdom: Ad Hoc Fiction, 2023. 

Annotated Bibliography 

Beary, Roberta, Lew Watts, and Rich Youmans. Haibun: A Writer’s Guide. United Kingdom: Ad Hoc Fiction, 2023. ISBN 978-1-913139-82-1.
This compact but comprehensive guide offers clear, contemporary advice for writing and revising haibun. The co-authors—each experienced as poet and editor—address structure, tone, and submission etiquette. Their practical checklists and insights into the form’s evolution are invaluable for emerging and advanced writers alike. 

Rasmussen, Ray. “A Title Is a Title Is a Title, or Is It?” Contemporary Haibun Online 19, no. 1 (April 2023).
Rasmussen explores the function of titles in haibun—not just as labels but as mood-setters, provocations, or structural tools. An essential companion to any revision process, especially when refining tone and first impressions. 

 __________. “The Role of Modeling in Haibun Composition.” Contemporary Haibun Online 19, no. 1 (April 2023). .
This essay addresses the tension between imitation and originality. Rasmussen offers a nuanced take on how new writers can learn from the masters without copying them, making this particularly relevant to the 'find your own voice' sections of the essay. 

 __________. “Characteristics of Contemporary English-Language Haibun.”     `. https://contemporaryhaibunonline.com/chohtmlarchive/articles/Rasmussen_characteristi csofhaibun.html.
A foundational essay summarizing key traits of strong modern haibun—concise prose, evocative haikai, and the importance of suggestion over explanation. Useful for anyone defining or teaching the genre. 

Welch, Michael Dylan. “Moonless Haibun: Prose Without Haiku.” Graceguts. https://www.graceguts.com/essays/moonless-haibun-prose-without-haiku.
Welch explores haibun that contain no embedded haiku—only titled prose. This piece broadens the scope of what haibun can be, while still holding to the discipline of precision and implication. A useful contrast to traditional haibun structure. 

__________. “Fair Use in Historical Haibun.” Graceguts. https://www.graceguts.com/essays/fair-use-in-historical-haibun.
Though focused on a niche concern, this essay provides historical context for haibun practice, showing how contemporary innovation remains tethered to tradition. It reminds writers that the form is both old and evolving.

Heron's Nest Award, September 2025

What can be said about a poem of three words. When one of them is not even quite a word? When one of them is "this?"

At my first gathering of haiku poets, I witnessed a spirited debate about whether "the" or "a" was the best word for a certain spot in the poem being workshopped. So, no worries. There is always something to be said.

There are active haiku readers and passive. If we write to a passive reader, we are tempted to tell more. But a poem as short as this one almost requires that the reader be another poet.

Isn't it ironic that such a short poem might be easily misunderstood? Take "moonlight."

It means the lights of the moon, of course, but it also means to work a second job. And the "cricket" in "cricketlessness" can be the familiar (to some) chirping insect. But it can, in certain settings, be just as plausibly a beloved sport. A cricket is also a low wooden stepstool. Even "this" can, depending on context, function as an adjective, a definite article, a noun or even an adverb.

The fact that these words are presented as a haiku gives us certain clues because there are certain expectations of haiku. Not rules, mind you, but base understandings, which can be starting points for a "haiku reading" of the words.

One such expectation is that the moon and its light are, at least in a first reading, literal--the moon in the sky and the light it reflects upon the earth. More than this, haiku convention suggests that this moonlight is occurring during the autumn. Indeed, "moon" and "moonlight" are the key indicators of autumn in haiku.

The cricket, while it could be the game or even the stepstool, is almost always the insect in haiku. And, in particular, the songs of such creatures. Cricket is an autumn kigo, so this three-word poem may be considered doubly anchored in autumn. However, it is anchored by a presence (moonlight) and an absence (cricketlessness).

A further base expectation of haiku is that there are two parts, separated by a syntactical gap. The gap in this very short poem occurs after the first word.

So, what is an active haiku reader likely to experience in these three words and the gap within them? Well, even with all the additional information provided by our base expectations of haiku, there are still many possibilities. I will not attempt an exhaustive catalog of them. Indeed, I could not. I will give you my initial reading; emphasizing that this is no more authoritative than yours or anyone else's. Active haiku readers will all bring something of themselves to the poem.

Moonlight, for me, is quiet and peaceful. Crickets, where they are present, would be lively and assertive; their calls likely to override any other sounds. But there are no crickets in this moment. This might tend to echo the sense of moonlight. In the same way that the poem says "autumn of autumn" it might say, to me, "peace and quiet." But it does not work this way for me. I am thinking of crickets, though not actually hearing them. My thoughts are in contrast to the peaceful moonlight. It's not "a cricketlessness" but "this cricketlessness." That absence of sound is present as an intrusive idea, an earworm. And, therefore, I experience this poem as a moment of tension--a peaceful setting in which my monkey mind is jabbering.

But the simplicity of the poem serves as an encapsulation and my reading experience is one of serenity, even when I read it as a depiction of tension.

John Stevenson

The Heron's Nest XXVII.3, September 2025

HAIBUN: Elevation

 

Elevation

        silent stroke
        of a snowy owl’s wings
        wolf moon

Two old friends in a mountain cabin no right-minded soul would visit. A sack of potatoes, venison hanging in the shed, canned peaches, and half a cord of yellow pine—probably enough to get us through.

        frosted muzzle—
        the blind elk hound
        barks in her sleep

contemporary haibun online 21.3, Dec 2025

HAIBUN: Wild Turkey

 

Wild Turkey

Mike and the boys drop by so we sit up all night knockin back shots, telling jokes and counting all the times we got our hearts broke. Old Bob tries to sing along with Johnny Cash but his dentures keep slipping and when we crack up he gets mad and stomps out the door.

It’s getting pretty ripe in here and our eyes are watering or maybe it’s the old songs and all the stories of when we was kids and had a future or maybe it’s just them onions Mable chopped and fried with the hash browns.

Sam keeps getting sick. I walk him outside so he don’t mess up the rug and then Mike shows us his new Chevy crew cab and says we should go cruising. We all hop in and that’s the last thing I remember.

after the fist fight
eating ripe peaches
on the back porch


contemporary haibun online 21.1, 2025

HAIBUN after Rilke

 Still Regard: Hearst Castle
            Du mußt dein Ändern leben—Rainer-Maria Rilke*

A weathered statue—limbless, headless, groin chipped away—leans from a plinth hemmed in by manicured privet and low fountain spray. It seems out of place in this postcard garden.

The docent calls it "epic" as the tour group fans out—ringtones and selfies, scent of Tic-Tacs and sunscreen. Below us, the glare of the Pacific, piped-in church bells drifting up from the seaside resort town.

I linger behind. The ancient torso draws me in, a stranger's presence against my own. That cracked sternum above a navel shallow as breath. That tilted stance—both of us heeding the distant thunder beyond the ridge.

        heat-frayed
        a bed of gardenias
        open to bees

__________

*"You must change your life." Rilke's final line from "Archaic Torso of Apollo," Selected Poetry of Rainer-Maria Rilke (trans. Stephen Mitchell), Penguin Random House LLC, 1982.
The poem can be read here.

Frogpond 48.3, Autumn 2025

Haikai Talks: The Spacious Moment—Haikai and the Art of Presence

From a Series written for Triveni Haikai, India, November 2025.

For the next five weeks, we will focus on haikai selected from the anthology Naad Anunaad: an anthology of contemporary world haiku. (Kala Ramesh, Sanjuktaa Asopa, Shloka Shankar, eds. Pune, IN: Vishwakarma Publications, 2016, ISBN# 978-93-85665-33-2), which our Triveni editor-in-chief, Kala Ramesh has graciously invited me to discuss.

Part 1: Thresholds of Stillness

In haikai, presence is not performance. It is not the doing but the "being with"—a quality of attention that listens rather than declares. The Japanese aesthetic of ma is often described as “the space between,” but it is more than pause—it is a living silence, a vital stillness where meaning breathes.
In this first part of our series, we explore haikai that draw us to such thresholds. Here, the world is neither static nor hurried. Instead, it unfolds layer by layer, petal by petal, breath by breath.

mountain behind mountain behind mountain—

petals of a rose

—Aditya Bahl

the cricket cage door

left open starry night

—Alan Pizzarelli

Both poems gesture toward the infinite by way of the intimate. Bahl’s haikai moves from the immense to the intricate, echoing Bashō’s layers of depth, where landscape and blossom become one continuous revelation. Pizzarelli offers a small, almost imperceptible action—a cage door left ajar—that opens to a cosmos shimmering with possibility. In both these poems, ma is not merely a break in sound or a pause in thought—it is the very medium through which presence arrives. 

PROMPT: Where do you find stillness today? What threshold beckons your attention, provokes you to linger? Write a haikai that explores one quiet moment of undistracted presence. Invite us to enter that space with you. 

Part 2: Small Acts, Wide Echoes

The mundane is not the opposite of the sacred—it is often its quietest doorway. In haiku, even the smallest gestures can resound with emotional and sensory depth. The act of cooking, the hush of evening light—these become resonant because of the attention they are given, not because they are grand.

lullaby of rain
another pinch of saffron
in the pumpkin soup

—Alan Summers

stringing beans …

a scrap of twilit sky

through the window

—Anitha Varma

Summers’ poem moves through layered sound and scent—the lull of rain, the golden hue of spice, the warmth of soup. All sensory, all immediate. And yet, the implied repetition in “another pinch” suggests something ongoing, a rhythm of care and noticing. In Varma’s haiku, the domestic act of preparing food is quietly framed by the world beyond—a glimpse of twilight through a window, a reminder that time and place are always entangled. Both haiku model an attention that does not seek to elevate the moment, but to enter it. That entrance—deliberate, unadorned, and receptive—is the hallmark of presence.

PROMPT: What moment of quiet rhythm stayed with you today? What small gesture widened your awareness? Write a haikai that captures the enduring beauty and comfort of a small ritual, the mundane redefined by your presence.

KIGO REFERENCES

A Dictionary of Haiku Classified by Season Words with Traditional and Modern Methods, by Jane Reichhold.

 

Indian subcontinent SAIJIKI, Triveni Haikai, India.

The Five Hundred Essential Japanese Season Words

The World Kigo Database, curated by Dr. Gabi Greve.

The Yuki Teikei Haiku Season Word List

HAIBUN after Robert Hass

 The Stillness Left Behind
                           —after Robert Hass

After the matinee, we step out into full sun. We’d just seen a samurai film—not classic Kurosawa, something cheaper. But it held one frame of truth: a dying man on a hillside, closing his eyes and letting go with such authenticity, it did not feel acted.

On the walk to our car, you mutter about the poor production and dubbing, the graininess of vintage black-and-white reels. But I’m not listening to you—only to that warrior’s sigh, to a wind that carries the scent of alfalfa into town.

Later that evening, I walk the arroyo alone. Not to ponder old films, or you—but to think about my mother’s death: the shudder in that last breath. The quiet that took her.

Pines on the ridge sway in the breeze.

twilight hush
a bobwhite's call pierces
then fades

__________
Note: After Robert Hass’s “Heroic Simile” from Praise (HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 1979). This poem is available online at The Poetry Foundation.

Contemporary Haibun Online 21.2, Summer 2025

TANKA PROSE: Charred

Charred

After Vietnam, he never fit in—left his family behind, drifted through the back streets of a series of Midwestern cities. Hobbled by nightmares and pills, he gave what little he had to the three-legged mutt he found in a rail yard. When the Veterans’ Home finally took him in, they made him give up the dog. He hasn’t spoken since.

        scent
        of a neighborhood
        barbecue—
        in the unlit day room
        an old soldier weeping

haikuKATHA #48, Oct25

Haikai Published 2025

haikuKATHA

#39, January 2025

         first dawn

         the pounding in my head
         in my head
         last call. . .
         the barkeep wipes down
         one more year

         taking down the mistletoe widow’s moon

October 2025

         just you and me washing dishes cricket

         new moon shrimp boat lanterns bobbing offshore

Modern Haiku 

56.1, winter-spring 2025

       Fly Over Town

        a gutter spout 
        packed with hazelnuts
        red squirrel weather

        too cold to snow
        cutthroat pinochle
        with the in-laws

        assisted living
                an untuned upright
                in the day room

        six rhubarb pies
        at the Lutheran potluck
        we bow for Grace

        crabapple branch
        bristly with hoarfrost
        solstice moon

                                                                      

56.2, summer 2025

        low tide
        a sand dollar darkens
        in my shadow

56.3, autumn 2025
        

         twilight
         a windmilling churning
         cricket song

Frogpond 

48.2, spring-summer 2025

        popsicle red
           a grandson's
           spreading grin

            Wave Upon Wave
                       —a tan renga series in the viraha geet tradition

                      by Kala Ramesh, Channai, Tamil Nadu, India, and
                                Billie Dee, San Miguel, New Mexico, USA

                 a whistling thrush
                 heightens my longing
                            what if 
                            every wish was granted
                            Betelgeuse

                morning chores
                                 salt of your scent
                                 still on my skin
                            monsoon wind carries
                            the raga on every wave

                a horizon's
                thirst for colour
                after sunset
                            rinsing day from my body
                             so many leagues between us

                 freshly gathered
                 a bowl of oysters to share
                 —where have you gone
                            the waning gibbous moon
                            floating in a puddle

                 my love,
                 thinking of you in her arms
                                           sleeplessness
                            all night this bitter gale
                            harbor bells clanging

                 yearning . . . the distance
                 between breakers
                            my ragged breath
                            after such a long span
                            becomes whole again

48.3, autumn 2025

        Mirrored
            Kala Ramesh, Channai, Tamil Nadu, India, and
                 Billie Dee, San Miguel, New Mexico, USA

           changing room
                            the child in me
            studies my autumn frame 

                    aging dancer at the barre
                    her deep grand plié 

            practicing for hours . . .
            mannerisms of the guru
            soon become her

                    mating damselflies
                    an arched bridge ripples
                    between lily pads

            pale wandering moon
            a pond's twilight silence

                    midnight balcony
                    twin sisters counting stars
                    sotto voce

    

 Telling the Bees, Red Moon Anthology of English Language haiku, 2025

                rusty oarlocks
                the sound of geese
                rising through fog