Edible Haiku

Welcome to brass bell: a haiku journal. The theme of this second issue is Edible Haiku.

You will find work here by 49 contributors, from Bulgaria, Canada, China, India, Israel, Japan, Poland, Romania, the United Kingdom, and the United States. Some have been writing haiku for decades, others have just discovered (and embraced) this form. 

Around the fourth week of each month, an invitation will be sent via e-mail and Facebook,  announcing the theme for the next issue. If you want to receive these notices send me a Facebook friend request or an e-mail note <zee@twcny.rr.com>

I hope you will enjoy what you find here.

zee

extra fish and chips . . .

I dribble more vinegar

on the newspaper

- Alan Summers

a year of string cheese and tuna fish

the low hanging fruit 

of grief

- Amy E. Bartell

smoke from a chimney

above the moon

the smell of gingerbread

- Anna Mazurkiewicz 

peach season

cutting away

our soft spots

- Anne Burgevin

minced raw garlic

eat it with your partner

or sleep alone

- Annie Wexler

sparrow pecking a bagel   

slowly    slowly

it disappears

- Antonia Matthew

raspberries

winter's preserved

memories

- Ben Mitchell

small things

remind me of my mother

huckleberries

- C. Robin Janning

dirty knees, warm sun 

planting seeds I hope will grow

summer vegetables

- Cady Fontana

cutting apples with 

mother's old paring knife

how sharp the blade

- Carole Johnston

a pool of sunlight

at the foot of my bed . . .

the smell of fried dough

- Chen-ou Liu

in-laws visiting

a smoke-filled room

I burned the muffins

- Dani Fanelli

early morning –

she’s sharing her croissant

with a dove

- Daniela Lacramioara Capota

blood moon . . .

one ripe strawberry

in a black bowl

- Debbie Strange

harvest moon

a quince glimmers

on the table

- Diana Teneva

the same chocolate

but this time

no effect

- Gwen Guo

salt spray . . .

holding a Pringle

to the moon

- Helen Buckingham

unpicked raspberries

the summer covered up

with snow

- Hristina Pandjaridis

translated from Bulgarian by Vesisslava Savova

garlic mustard

first sign of spring

makes pesto for my pasta

- Joan Victoria

scrambled eggs

the kids start talking

in code

- John McManus 

my first kimchee —

veggies he grew before we kissed —

vinegar, sweet ginger

- Judith Sornberger

choking down our goodbye . . .

eating the very last cookie

my grandma ever baked

- Julie Bloss Kelsey

turtle's eye view

of my barefoot walk

berries

- Kath Abela Wilson

long afternoon . . .

dandelions become an excuse

to bake cookies

- kris kondo

still giving comfort
peanut butter
and jam

- Lance Robertson

birthday —

the same mouse from yesterday

around the cake

- Lavana Kray

goji berries

hiding in my oatmeal

will I live forever?

- Linda Keeler

fettuccine —

when I was a child

we called it spaghetti

- Margaret Chula

heirloom tomatoes

tucked safely away

in the sterling silverware drawer

- Margaret Dennis

the sprawling vine’s leaves

hide cherry tomatoes like

autumn Easter eggs

- Margaret Fisher Squires

candy covered

gingerbread house —

how have your dreams turned out?

- Michael Ketchek

I can taste my home 

even broken glass glistens

in almost May

- Nicola Morris

slicing a lemon in half the bitterness of parting            

- Pamela A. Babusci

Andes mints

green and silver foil

in the sled at Christmas

- Paula Culver

banana cheese pie

encrusted with granola

whispers almond scent

- Peter Ladley

the desperate purple

veins of thin-skinned drooping figs

beg to be broken

- Phoebe Shalloway

since he eats

the burnt heart cookies

he loves me

- Radka Mindova

translated from Bulgarian by Diana Teneva

back to sleep,

dreaming of the same

small grape

- Rita Odeh

olives –

my summer memories

from a jar

- Robert Kania

I eat my words

tamarind, soursop, guava

childhood memories

- Sharon K. Yntema

fishing trip . . .

his hands smell

of canned tuna

- Shloka Shankar

crows gather

together we lunch

in silence

- Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy

thank you —

the fruitcake never

stops giving

  - Sondra J. Byrnes

ripe melon

soft as butter

juice slips off the spoon

- Sue Perlgut

fruit flies —
tossing them out
with the fruit

- Tom Clausen

funeral service

the priest glances

at the widow’s pie

- Vessislava Savova

one girl eats an orange

and the whole room is perfumed

- Weiwei Luo

out of work

toasting bread

nothing to put on it

- Wendy Smith

my mother and a hot pretzel

long ago 

mustard stains her new blouse

- Zee Zahava

previously published:

Helen Buckingham - salt spray - Original Plus Press, 2010

Robert Kania - olives - 9th International Kukai, December 2012