Under the Bashō 2025
Haiku
Editor: Kanjini Devi
(Marilyn Ashbaugh – retired 27 March 2025)
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cornfield stubble
thumbing through
the book of Job
birds of passage
the gentle flutter
of elm leaves
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photos in the Zócalo:
only tourists
wear native clothing
darting through
the farmer’s market—
woman with the snail tattoo
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a dragonfly weaves
through tea tree shadows
ancient songline
the freezing desert
blanketed by stars
three dog night
urban creek
cotton ball clouds
reflected in scum
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my inaudible fatigue
winter moon
war wind
I grip the first prayer
hometown river moonlight along my forgetfulness
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where rivers meet
memories
and ripples
drifting to sea
the morning after
all these words
sudden storm
headlight beams hold
threads of rain
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fall hike
my toddler's hands now
sunflower yellow
missing my father
a blue jay sings on
my window sill
sleepless night
the katydids talking
over each other
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tsukimi
summer’s wilting terrace
hangs on dusk
cherry petals . . .
steaming the folds of
creased linen
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bluebell woods the meandering scent of this river
bouzouki
our wine bottle filled
with wisteria
pawned guitar
someone's initials carved
into the bridge
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southward geese a ribbon flutters out of reach
dusk
mockingbird calls—
will anyone answer?
dozing lizard
I tilt my face
to the sun
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after the storm only river and sky
backpack skies
every step home
it grows lighter
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lights out: the sound of sleeping monastics and mating frogs
infinity of
stars, crickets
and the two of us
evening walk
with a lifelong friend
scent of figs