Welcome to the February 2017 issue of brass bell: a haiku journal.
This month's collection features poems that were written on a single date: Wednesday, January 18, 2017.
Contributors are from: Argentina, Australia, Brazil, Canada, Croatia, Denmark, Ecuador, England, Ghana, India, Ireland, Japan, Nigeria, Poland, Singapore, Sri Lanka, Sweden, Switzerland, Turkey, the U.K., and the United States
setting up for the day
the roadside beggar
lines his calabash with coins
- Adjei Agyei-Baah
winter blues
the unlit street lamp
waits for night
- Agnes Eva Savich
late night haiku . . .
waking up the smartphone
and myself
- Ajaya Mahala
rain drop
dripped then
drops on
- Alan Bern
those who stop —
ducks taking colour
from the river
- Alan Summers
orange dawn wakes me
ebb tide
mine and the river's
- Amauri Solon Ribeiro
missing
the warmth of his voice
this cold cold house
- Angelee Deodhar
late night drive
between the good songs
silent starlight
- Anna Cates
sleet
the impossibility
of lilacs
- Anna Maris
another chance
to know the ordinary
winter meadow
- Anne Elise Burgevin
kid's garden —
the little snowman
eats the carrot
- Aparna Pathak
six o'clock news
my husband yells at
the tv
- Barbara Tate
winter night . . .
the hiss of the fire
the sigh of the cat
- Bill Waters
winter garden
puddles cuddling up
to flagstones
- Brad Bennett
the more I read
the more confused I become
can't shut my eyes
- C. Robin Janning
winter sun
i share my oatcakes
with a robin
- Caroline Skanne
the calligraphy
of bare maple branches
tangled thoughts of home
- Chen-ou Liu
watching over us
my son's stuffed animals
assigned as sentinels
- Christina Sng
spreading towels
on the rug and sofa
muddy paws
- Claire Vogel Camargo
street corner
an aspen shaking
in the rain
- Dan Schwerin
middle of the night
colouring a nightmare
the yelp of foxes
- David J. Kelly
paper cut
the sting of the words
in her letter
- Debbi Antebi
CT scan
will i emerge
a butterfly
- Debbie Strange
rain gutters full . . .
the hummingbird feeder
empty
- Deborah P Kolodji
heavy cloud cover
the classical station
plays vivaldi
- Dottie Piet
haiku dry spell . . .
my old water bottle
empties itself
- Elizabeth Alford
morning echo
a rooster calculates
the reach of its crow
- Emmanuel Jessie Kalusian
my cork board
three-deep in grandchildren's art
we plan the day
- Ferris Gilli
reading the paper
checking the obituaries
not me not yet
- Frank Robinson
the soft voice in the other room, man to cat
- Glenn Ingersoll
another broken old vase
seeking out
my glasses
- Goran Gatalica
january heat
opening windows
to a post-truth spring
- Helen Buckingham
procrastination
i pretend to be sick . . .
mailbox in the snow
- Hideo Suzuki
sweeping winter
from the corners
early crocus
- Jan Benson
sharing cake all the time in the world before the mammogram
- Jane Williams
business trip
in the light of the half-moon
my husband's slippers
- Jennifer Hambrick
ah, poetry journal
package FedEx left in rain —
waterproof
- Jill Lange
his wheelchair
at the window . . .
sun worship
- Jo Balistreri
my green thumb too itchy
made me spill dirt
all over the floor
- Joan McNerney
waves and the tide over and over again
- Joanna M. Weston
subway rush hour
train carriages packed
with armpits
- John Hawkhead
beach shoreline
waves washing
my fallen shadow
- Justice Joseph Prah
cold snap
before sun
turtles
- Kath Abela Wilson
calendar tells me
that I'm really getting old
but not on this day
- Katya Sabaroff Taylor
warming up by the fire
we plan our visit
to Iceland
- kjmunro
drifting clouds —
any anchor for my
wavering mind
- Kumarendra Mallick
my footsteps
landing in your footprint
single snowflake
- Laughing waters
light from a dim sky
the sun fit through the branches
as if it lived there
- Laurinda Lind
after his death
his partner weeps alone —
alone at 97
- Louise Vignaux
after work
detour to the chemist
her offer of coffee and a chinwag
- Madhuri Pillai
matching scarfs
the child
and her bald barbie
- Malintha Perera
a healing circle
we shed old stories
forgiveness
- Mara Alper
food enough and teeth
back home
I forgive my dentist
- Margaret Jones
feeling guilty
pruning the houseplants
anyway
- Marianne Paul
frosted window —
placing the poinsettia
near the fireplace
- Marta Chocilowska
daffodil leaves
a sharp bend
in the road
- Martha Magenta
tripping over the same rug —
hammer and nails
pounding it to the floor
- Marty Blue Waters
mangosteen rubies
scatter on the kitchen floor
like winter rainbows
- Mimi Foyle
no fear . . .
blue jays nab peanuts
despite the cat
- Nancy Brady
elephant with wings
imaginations soar high
while feeding baby
- Neha R. Krishna
snowy day
the sweetness of summer
in my mum's marmalade
- Nina Kovacic
translated by Durda Vukelic Rozic
clever morning
one more verbal blow
from my Shakespearean Insults calendar
- Olivier Schopfer
met someone new
and liked her much more
than I expected to
- Phoebe Shalloway
prankster
the neighbor's garden Buddha
on our porch swing
- Phyllis Lee
each time
I look at the clock —
two a.m.
- Pris Campbell
my cold hands
warming them up
in your pocket
- Rachel Sutcliffe
before dawn
coming to my senses
fear fades to white
- Rob Sullivan
breakfast
the scent of lilies stronger
than coffee
- Rosa Clement
dark water
between the last chunks of ice
deep reflections
- Ruth Yarrow
shuffled playlist
my least favorite song
plays first
- Shloka Shankar
pool rescue
a struggling bee
lifted to a sunflower
- Simon Hanson
winter fog —
a boat horn blows
from every direction
- Stephen Page
my vulnerable students
laugh at my jokes —
the last class I will teach
-Sue Crowley
flock of turkeys
scratching through the snow
to the leaves below
- Susan Lang
winter doldrums
slipping past the screen door
the cat's cold nose
- Theresa A. Cancro
the arterial road
clogged up again . . .
high blood pressure
- Tim Gardiner
the icicle dagger
falls from the eaves
wild freedom
- Tricia Knoll
winter moon
folding myself
into silence
- Vibeke Laier
a thought—
the world is a magical place
it opens its arms to me
- Yvonne Fisher
lunch with my sister's photograph
not as much fun
as a real visit
- Zee Zahava
snowstorm
lifting up
a flock of rooks
- Zuzanna Truchlewska
