HAIBUN: Veteran

Veteran
        —after William Stafford

Traffic snarls and I’m late for my evening flight. We detour down a side street, past empty warehouses and a lot choked with weeds. Pants down, a man squats in the wild mustard, wearing a Vietnam flak jacket. He waves as our dark sedan rolls by. I wave back.

        new moon
        the police chopper’s searchlight
        sweeping

__________
Author’s note: Stafford, William. “Vacation,” The Hudson Review, Winter 1950.
                           Available online at Rihla Journey.


Drifting Sands Haibun #33, Sept 2025

ESSAY and PROMPTS: The Spacious Moment—Haikai and the Art of Presence

From a Series written for Triveni Haikai

Haikai Talks, 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

#40, February 2025


        ignoring the news
                       a tabby tangled
                      in yarn

        metamorphosis 
                who guides   
                the suffering within
                a silk cocoon

#42, April 2025

        just before dawn
        the pecan grove alive
        with twitter


#44, June 2025

        mango lassi
        painting summer toenails
        to match

        laundromat moon
        my loose ends tangled
        with your whites

        third date
        the jasmine in your voice
                              . . . in mine

#45, July 2026

        bright as traffic cones marigolds peeking through thyme 


#46, September 2025

        just you and me washing dishes cricket

        new moon shrimp boat lanterns bobbing offshore

        

#47, October 2025

         just you and me washing dishes cricket    

         new moon shrimp boat lanterns bobbing offshore


#48, November 2025

        three-day vigil
            Mama’s whisper
            still in my ear . . .
            I’m not ready yet

50, December 2025

        Thanksgiving Day
        nobody prays
        for the turkey

 

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

 

TANKA PROSE: Lazy

Lazy 

Too old to freshen, Grandad’s favorite Guernsey
chews cud in the shade of a walnut tree — breath
rhythmic and measured, as if summer itself
had steeped her bones. The one crooked horn
only adds to her dignity. 

        just enough breeze
        to ripple a day moon
        in the trough
             windmill blades churning
             a buttermilk sky

  
haikuKATHA #45, July 2025

TANKA PROSE: Olympic Range

 
Olympic Range

I take our familiar turnoff — just a faded campground sign
and the scent of brine. The trail beyond the parking lot
winds through cedar and bracken, opening onto a cove
littered with tidewrack.

        that afternoon
        driving the coast in silence
        a lab report
        neatly creased in your lap . . .
        the things we should have said

Crouching at water’s edge, I trace the ridge of an oyster shell—
sharp in places, worn smooth in others. Soft, soft lapping waves.

        storm clouds
        over the distant mountains
                an osprey
                trims and folds, plunges
                into the bay

haikuKATHA #45, July 2025

 

HAIBUN: Coffin Ship

Coffin Ship

        ground mist
        the clicking knees of sheep
        punctuate an afternoon

In the drizzly back-country of County Cork, I follow a tattered map
drawn by my great-great grandfather. From the parked rental car
I take my bearings.

As a lad of twelve, he sails from the port of Waterford in 1849.
His sister and mother die in the cargo hold, are buried at sea.
Eager and thin, he arrives in New York and serves two years of his indentured contract, then runs away to the gold mines of Montana.

        naked berm
        a pair of ravens peck
        something shiny

I drive past lines of drying peat, stacked like tilted dominoes. Filling
my lungs with the heady scent of petrichor, I check his map again.

        at a dead end
        headstones too mossy to read
        famine road


Youmans, Rich (ed.), Contemproary Haibun, Vol 19.. Winchester, VA: Red Moon Press, 2024

2023 San Francisco International Haibun Contest: Hon. Mention ​

HAIBUN: Running Lights

 
Running Lights

Harbor scent fills our lungs
as we cast off from bait dock, head out
for the Coronado Islands.

Below Pukey Point, crimson rockfish
are waiting to suck anchovies off our hooks.
Most will succeed—a few won’t.
        
        the foghorn
        announcing dawn . . .
                          buoy seals

haikuKATHA #43, May 2025

RENGAY: 2nd Place, San Francisco International Rengay Contest 2024

Interstate
        Richard L. Matta, San Diego, California
          Billie Dee, San Miguel, New Mexico
 
18-wheelers
shedding 10-ply skin
runaway truck ramp                  Richard
 
big chest, tiny waist
the chrome mudflap chick        Billie
 
        watering hole
        a singing trout
        behind the bar                     Richard
 
        biker funeral
        his brother-in-law’s
        borrowed suit                       Billie
 
hot Harley pipe. . .
the squid’s new ink                    Richard
 
tattoo removal
her last two husbands
finally gone                                  Billie
 
​
Second Place
Judges: Yvette Nicole Kolodjj, Sean Kolodji--comments
Grit and grime permeate this poem about living and dying in the fast lane, driving us into a memorable and vivid portrait that evokes Route 66 Americana. The fish-out-of-water discomfort of a biker donning an ill-fitted ‘borrowed suit’ is relatable. We watch the hot-headed squid (biker jargon for a specific type of reckless biker) impulsively get a new tattoo, new scar, or worse. The poem effectively transitions from tires shedding its skin to the undulating shapely silhouette of the ‘chrome mudflap chick,’ a symbol of the unattainable standards of feminine beauty. The poem ultimately ends with a woman shedding her tattoos and her ex-husbands. The stories of those that occupy this milieu are intriguing—the tone and theme of this poem really stood out from all the other contest entrants.
 

HAIKU SEQUENCE: Fly Over Town

Fly Over Town

a gutter spout 

packed with hazelnuts 

red squirrel dawn 

 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 

crab apple branch

bristly with hoarfrost 

solstice moon

 

 

Modern Haiku 56.1, 2025

 

HAIBUN: The View from Lipton Seat

The View from Lipton Seat
    Haputale, Sri Lanka

Arms flung wide in cool mountain air
ribbons of chanted Heart Sutra twine
from an old slope-slung monastery

binding us with this singular moment.

     the manicure
     of a tea plantation
     emerging
     from morning mists





           wild elephants

contemporary haibun online, 21.1, Mar 2025

HAIBUN: Hulk

Hulk 

The foundry squats along the highway, spalling
in desert heat. Only the tang of scorched metal
remains, a sharpness that claws at the throat.
It wasn’t always like this. 

Once molten iron roared in great vats, rhythms
of clang and furnace shaping the bones of industry.
Now the empty yard bakes in silent dusk
as the dinosaur ossifies. 

        train whistle—
        the slow drift of rust
        downwind

haikuKATHA #41, March 2025

HAIBUN: Curry Comb

 
Curry Comb

The stall is scented with roan flesh and twilight,
dust rising in veils as I work down his girth.

The old gelding shifts weight and leans
into the rhythm. Beneath my hand, ribs press 

outward—every year mapped in bone, in hollow.
His breath comes deep and steady, warm on my shoulder.

        evening breeze . . .
        a tuft of hair drifts
        into autumn


haikuKATHA #41, March 2025

HAIBUN: Heritage

 
Heritage 

End of a long day. The farm auctioneer
kicks the tires of a weathered seed drill,
rattles his pocket change. 

dry Guernsey—
the Milky Way stretched
over our barn

haikuKATHA #40, Feb 2025

HAIBUN: Long-Distance Runner

Long-distance Runner

           final sprint         
           pacing each breath

           with stride      

Through the window his nurse watches
a cardinal land on a snowy branch. Smiling,
she turns to plump the pillows.

hospice room         
dawn reflected         
in the bed rails

 

haikuKATHA #39, Jan 2025

TANKA Published 2024

 haikuKATHA

#27 January 2025

        the Aegean
        a writhing swath of blue
        below the bluffs …
        so potent, this reverie
        of an old summer romance

        breaking dawn . . .
        on our anniversary
        I remove
        the two wedding rings
        I’ve worn since your passing

#28 February 2024

        old pin oak
        the last of the fledglings
        takes wing
        I wonder how many springs
                              are left for me 

        a hummingbird
        whirs among the aloes
                  remembering
                  your turquoise eyes
                  but not your name

Ribbons (journal of the Tanka Society of America)

20.1, spring/summer 2024

        twilight's
        lavender shadows . . .    
        this hour
        in a pine-scented breeze
        singing with crickets

20.2, fall/winter 2024

        snipping herbs at dawn
        a few pewter clouds drift
        between 
        streaks of pink and gold,
        stands of rooster song

RENGAY: Seabeck Conference 2024

Spinning the Globe

Sean Carlton, Luke Brannon, Michael Dylan Welsh,
Beki Reese Van Buren, Trixie Lynn, Billie Dee

old map . . .
searching for a country
yet to exist                           SC

North recharted
cloudless night                    LB

on the seabed
after the fire
captain's compass              MDW

spinning the globe—
my finger lands
on Tasmania                        BRV

the GPS
still recalculating                TL

dead reconning
our course leads
to the dragon's maw           BD

Trixie Lynn is a fictious name, suggested by Billie for a verse
we wrote together because we only had five participants but
need a sixth to complete the rengay pattern. 

HAIBUN: Thought Bubbles

 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


Drifting Sands Haibun #24, 2024

RENGAY: Issa's Dream

Issa's Dream

        Michael Dylan Welch, Billie Dee, and Josh Wikoff

Issa’s dream
the village flooded
with poets                                   Michael

morning-glory warriors
in the nun’s courtyard              Billie

        Rorschach test
        Bashō’s bucket full
        of octopi                               Josh

        the snail tells me
        what’s on his mind            Michael

road weary
Santōka trades his raincoat
for sake                                        Billie

Shiki’s old mitt the color
of dried persimmon                  Josh


Frogpond 47.1, Winter 2024, p76.

AWARDS: HSA Gary Gay Rengay Contest, 2024

 Big Sky Country

        up past midnight
        northern lights still dancing
        in our heads

Rising at dawn, we pack the worn rucksack with just the necessities—pocketknife, mosquito spray, snake bite kit, an old issue of Newsweek—and head out with our fishing poles. As we enter the first stand of pine, Mikey turns and waves goodbye to our cabin. I grin, knowing no one’s awake but us kids.

At the sagebrush flat we catch a batch of baby grasshoppers. Granny showed me how last summer. "Walk real slow through the scrub and swat the little critters with a rolled-up magazine—not too hard, you just want to stun them. Stow them in the Prince Albert’s can from your Grandad’s tackle box."

Our trail becomes steep now. The rattle of swift water grows louder as we crest the ridge, then descend to our favorite spot below the beaver dam. A small meadow of gnawed-off stumps is overgrown with skunk cabbage and horsetail reeds. Mikey spots moose tracks so we’re on the lookout. Those thick willows lining the creek will give us cover if one shows up.

        scent of rain . . .
        a pair of rainbows
        thumping in the creel

 Honorable Mention (Judges: Barbara Sabol, Peter Newton)

Comments: The opening haiku of this haibun works as a prologue to an engaging narrative describing a childhood memory in "Big Sky Country." The present tense prose creates a sense of immediacy, such that the reader is apt to hear the voice of a ten-year old. Specific language and tangible sensory imagery such as "the rattle of swift water,' the brush of horsetail reeds" and the sight of "gnawed-off stumps" produce a cinematic effect that draws the reader into this adventure. Granny's quoted caution further animates the story, and the final prose line re-opens the narrative with the possibility that the appearance of a moose might further add to an adventure. The deftly rendered closing haiku fully re-engages our senses, complimenting the prose while adding an associated image of a successful fishing  escapade.

Frogpond 47.3, Autumn 2024