• 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


    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

    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

  • Kendall, Mary

  • Kittner, Craig

    crossing the parking lot
    the summer wind carries
    a single brown leaf


    dogwood blossoms
    she rides a skateboard
    in office clothes


    light turns green
    the goose stops
    to shake its tail


    awoken by wind
    a longing to live
    in the forest


    in sun-soaked cobwebs
    remnants of rain

  • Kolodji, Deborah P

    dried iris
    a lie told
    out of kindness


    we agree
    to a cooling off period
    limestone cave


    evening chill
    I forage for a sweater
    in Mom’s boxed-up clothes


    of beach bonfires
    sea salt


    hummingbird feeder
    the boss bird
    in his place


    pumpkin smiles
    the burning

  • Kolodji, Deborah P

    my day in slow motion koi

                     Acorn, Issue #40, Spring 2018

  • Kristen Lindquist

    afternoon fog
    the red boathouse
    slowly fading


  • Kristen Lindquist

    shortest day
    the road-killed squirrel
    drops its acorn


    a crow's bark
    pressure cracks split
    the pond ice


    old pond
    last year's tadpoles
    eat this year's


  • Lange, Jill

    winter eve—
    wind and snow
    a slow tango



  • Lange, Jill

    his goodbye—
    the sun too
    lost in fog

    Mayfly, Issue 62, winter 2017,