Friday, May 12, 2017

Skylark, Vol. 5, Number 1, Summer 2017

Vestiges of Here and There

thistles among
weather-beaten bones
of the past
across this stolen land
so many spirits roam

an empty space
where the croft once stood
my toes curl
into that same soil
rooting me to home

stones emerge from tundra
we rest here
among the ancients
on the edge of extinction

Tallahassee Writers Association, Seven Hills Review, Volume 22, 2017

Penumbra Poetry and Haiku Competition

broken eggs
in the chicken coop
I read your note

Second Place

we must not speak
of this

Third Place

Romanian Haiku Group, Sharpening the Green Pencil Haiku Contest

Selected Haiku:

Translated into Romanian by Cezar Florin CIOBICA

missing the sound
of your voice

The Fifth Haiku Contest
Sharpening the Green Pencil, 2016

Translated into Romanian by Cristina OPREA YOUNG

barn owl
the last time I saw
your face

The Sixth Haiku Contest
Sharpening the Green Pencil, 2017

NHK World TV, Japan, May 2017

Haiku Masters Online Gallery

(note: NHK holds copyright)

San Francisco International Competition for Haiku, Senryu and Tanka, 2016

dried curls
of gray reindeer moss
crunch softly
underneath our boots . . .
no other sound, but breath

1st Place (tie)

Judge Marilyn Shoemaker Hazelton's comments:

...Next, we stand at the delicate edge of winter where air is crisper, and "reindeer moss" whispers beneath our feet. The color of this tundra is muted. Perhaps the light is also. In response to small, mysterious sounds framed by quiet, the breaths of those within the poem startle and deepen. And we have an opportunity to appreciate what we usually take for granted. Both poems center on absence and presence within our lives, and remind us how breath companions and consoles us with its beauty.

Mariposa, Number 36, Spring/Summer 2017

dried curls
of gray reindeer moss
crunch softly
underneath our boots . . .
no other sound, but breath

1st Place (tie)
2016 San Francisco International Competition for Haiku, Senryu and Tanka

Hedgerow Poems, Number 110, Spring 2017

Print Edition

Tuesday, May 02, 2017

World Haiku, Number 13, 2017

Translated into Japanese

a curl of eyelash
on your pillow
crescent moon

moonlit lake
I brush the silver
from your hair

first chemo
a yellow leaf caught
in her hair

Note: these haiku previously appeared in Brass Bell Haiku Journal

Wildflower Poetry Press: Wild Voices - An Anthology of Short Poetry & Art by Women, April 2017

Wilderness Woman

The Haiku Foundation, EarthRise Rolling Haiku Collaboration, April 2017

Theme:  Reconciliation

echolocation . . .
the loves we have lost
and found

Zatsuei Haiku of Merit, Vanguard
World Haiku Review, January 2017

mending fences
the scent of sagebrush
on your fingers

Honourable Mention, Shintai
World Haiku Review, June 2016

Stardust Haiku, Issue 4, April 2017

cedar shingles . . .
the russet feathers
of wild turkeys

Haigaonline, Vol. 18, Issue 1, Spring 2017

Native and Imported/Invasive Species Challenge

Zebra mussels are not native to Manitoba, but they have been invading Lake Winnipeg for the last few years, washing up on its shore in massive numbers. This aggressive species not only poses a risk to the environment, but to beachgoers as well.

The Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society reported in December, 2016, that Canada's boreal woodland caribou are at continued risk. The small Manitoba herd nearby in Nopoming Provincial Park is being closely monitored.

Failed Haiku - A Journal of English Senryu, Vol. 2, Issue 17, May 2017

Earth: Our Common Ground - A Song of Short Songs, April 2017

Canticles for the Cosmos

we find
galaxies of sea stars
at low tide
sister constellations
if the sky should fall

night unties
the Belt of Venus
we bind
our hands together
with trailing ribbons

the graffiti
of firefly stars at dusk
we follow
until our eyes adjust
to the narrative of night

deep twilight
and noctilucent clouds
could there be
anything more magical
than sharing these with you


the old trees
under which we played
as children
still breathe us into being
our every root entwined

through forest canopy
recalling when
I was a sparrowhawk
and you were my prey

the elm trees
are slowly dying
this city
at times, too much
even for them

in the biome
of boreal forest
boots tread
heavily through habitat
we were not meant to own

clear-cut logging
scars visible from space
there must be
other ways for humans
to leave their footprint


an acqueduct
built on land belonging
to First Nations
now, they must boil water
while the city drinks its fill

thin and weak
a polar bear searches
for pack ice
if we lost our own cubs
would climate change be real

prairie lakes
bloom with toxic algae
remember when
we swam in pristine waters
untroubled by such things

fracturing the fabric
of our lives
into hydrocarbons
we stand upon the brink

Daily Haiku, Charlotte Digregorio's Writer's Blog, April 2017

split chrysalis
all the ways we learn
to become small

Museum of Haiku Literature Award
Blithe Spirit, Volume 26, Number 1, February 2016

the whistle
of a wood duck . . .
her last breath

Honourable Mention
Haiku Canada Betty Drevniok Award, 2015

Brass Bell, May 2017

balanced on the elephant's trunk a tangerine moon

lazy morning . . .
a ginger cat curls
into a sunbeam

sepia postcards
from around the world
autumn leaves

Atlas Poetica, Number 27, April 2017

Cherita Sequence:

her name was cherita

the street awakens

another tribe of wanderers
home, a word long since forgotten

in a shabby black coat
she claims to be descended
from a long line of crows

her hands flutter

two migratory birds
that have gone astray

the world, too harsh
to be a safe haven
for accidentals

paper-thin body

this pale skeleton
of the bird I once knew

those pinioned feathers
never had a chance to carry her
too close to the sun

broken-backed prairie

where the wild things are blown
when their roots are severed

uncaged at last,
she joins the waiting flock
that always knew her name

Single Cherita:

lightning storm

a shadow
runs for shelter

I still see you,
sparks flying
from your fingertips

scimitar moon

never enough light
to capture your curves

photographs of you,
the negative spaces
between us

I am not who I was

with each season
comes a deeper sorrow

the stones I carry
so round and blue
might have been your eyes

Acorn, Number 38, Spring 2017

witches' butter
along a rotten log
speckled light