Presence, Number 82, July 2025

Grateful to the new Presence team, James Roderick Burns, Ken Cockburn, and Becky Dwyer for the following acceptances in their inaugural issue as editors:

depths of winter

the parrot mimics

your cough

a whale pod

bubble-netting prey

all the patterns

we made together

begin to dissolve

a tea can

of mismatched buttons

in the workshop

I often wonder why

you singled me out

I was delighted to discover that the following haiku was shortlisted for the Best-of-Issue Award in Presence 81:

sugar maples

small boys running

until they can't

Presence, Number 81, March 2025

Grateful to be included in Ian Storr's last issue as editor, and I thank him for his generous support over the years!

rusted shears

the last bloom

of ladybugs

sugar maples

small boys running

until they can't

the gnarled limbs

of bristlecone pines

old age

contorts our bodies

into something other

Presence, Number 80, November 2024

wave train the rumble of distant rapids

the weasel

we never see . . .

brush pile

our branches

have grown together

in old age . . .

new leaves shimmer

on the ancient cypress

I was delighted to discover that the following haiku was shortlisted for the Best-of-Issue Award in Presence 79:

northern lights

a man on skates twirls

his baby's pram

The Haiku Foundation, Haiku of the Day (formerly Per Diem), September 2024

Selected by Roland Packer for the theme of "Fresh Starts and Transitions": September 28, 2024

foreclosure

a barn spider ties up

loose ends of light

Presence, Number 75, March 2023

Shortlisted for the Best-of-Issue Award

Presence, Number 79, July 2024

spirit bear

a salmon leaps

beyond

northern lights

a man on skates twirls

his baby's pram

inner dialogues

become amorphous

in this frosty air

the ghosts of words

escape from my mouth

I was delighted to discover that the following haiku was shortlisted for the Best-of-Issue Award in Presence 78:

rural bus stop

a border collie waits

for his boy

Presence, Number 78, March 2024

pogonip

I shorten the length

of my stride

rural bus stop

a border collie waits

for his boy

emerging

from a tree-lined tunnel

of fog

I choose not to look back

at my younger self

Presence, Number 77, November 2023

the day slips

through our fingers . . .

sunfall

prognosis

the waterfall blown

off course

wool waulkers . . .

Hebridean rhythms

still beating

in the frayed fingertips

of great-grandma's gloves

Presence, Number 76, July 2023

hilltop gorse

the ears of a hare

of not

late again

the soft tut-tut

of a robin

the mountains

veiled with aurora

and snow . . .

it was just about here

that I lost my way

I was delighted to discover that the following haiku was shortlisted for the Best-of-Issue Award in Presence 75:

foreclosure

a barn spider ties up

loose ends of light

Presence, Number 75, March 2023

threshing crew

the sun falls down

a gopher hole

foreclosure

a barn spider ties up

loose ends of light

a tall ship

at anchor in this bay

its furled sails

have fallen out of love

with the fickle wind

 

Presence, Number 74, November 2022

patchwork snow

crocuses buttoned

to the hill

the stories

our ancestors told . . .

landskein

(note: landskein - the weaving and braiding of horizon lines, often seen most clearly on hazy days in hill country - Robert Macfarlane)

a flurry

of milkweed seeds

drifting off

someone is always

leaving me behind

Presence, Number 73, July 2022

a scavenging of gulls this bickering over the dead

komorebi . . .

you are still with me

in this moment

(note: komorebi - sunlight filtering through trees)

a rusty camper

peeks through barn doors . . .

so many adventures

still waiting for the time

we never seem to have

Presence, Number 72, March 2022

anise pods

the star fields we plant

in memory of you

no bluebirds

return to the nest box . . .

stone-washed sky

strung across

this mountain's ribcage

a necklace

of tattered prayer flags

rises and falls like breath

Presence, Number 71, November 2021

the letter inside

a cast-off microwave . . .

prairie thistles

spore prints

the tiny details

we overlook

golden mist . . .

a white-tailed buck rises

on its haunches

knocking wild plums off

the bony branches of morning

 

Presence, Number 70, July 2021

resident owl

the rabbits that lived

under our shed

thirsty

for all the little things

we've missed . . .

brackish water fills

an elf-cup stone

Droplets

rengay with Jennifer Hambrick & Debbie Strange

empty street

rain falling louder

then softer

    time slows down

    to a drizzle

dripping eaves

a lone house sparrow

takes shelter

puddles of light

a raccoon rinses

its hands

    a wash of stars

    keeping their distance

petrichor

the earth lets go

of its breath

 

Presence, Number 69, March 2021

darkling beetles

the carp's skeleton

no longer white

frost alert . . .

headlamps bobbing

in the vineyard

frozen berries

we enter the silence

of hibernation

the creek

a crucible overflowing

with molten sun

my eyelids close until

I can see again

I was delighted to discover that the following haiku was shortlisted for the Best-of-Issue Award in Presence 68:

hawk strike

I let go

of my breath

Presence, Number 68, November 2020

frostquakes

these recurring dreams

of war

hawk strike

I let go

of my breath

the apostrophe

on a quail's head . . .

uncut hay

an elegancy

of avocets reflected

in the pond

we drop our troubles

into the stillness

(note: in the first haiku, "frostquakes" was published as two words)

 

Presence, Number 67, July 2020

dry riverbed
we walk in the steps
of glaciers


captive eagles
the stone they try
to hatch


this home
is my sanctuary
filled
with everything
I love, except you

Presence, Number 66, March 2020

a splotch of rust
on the bluebird's breast . . .
tumbledown farm


prairie highway
we aim for the man
in the moon


I planted
your chair in my garden
sharp edges
soft now with the mist
of morning glories

Presence, Number 65, November 2019

thunderbugs
the rain that never
arrives


snow day
we make crow footprints
into peace signs


king tide
an orca's breath snuffs
out the sun


every night
this river lulls me
to sleep
with the same story
it told my ancestors

Presence, Number 64, July 2019

heat mirage
the balked landing
of a waterhen


souvenirs . . .
the memories I thought
she'd forgotten


scented drifts
of cottonwood fluff
line every street . . .
he might not make it
through the winter


I was delighted to discover that the following haiku was shortlisted for the Best-of-Issue Award in Presence 63:

star-nosed mole
we search for light
in dark places