September Issue: One-Line Haiku

Welcome to the September, 2015 issue of brass bell: a haiku journal. This month each poem is just one line in length. As you will see, there is great beauty and depth in this deceptively simple form.

You will find work here by 63 contributors, from  Bosnia and Herzegovina, Brazil, Bulgaria, Canada, Denmark, England, France, Ghana, India, New Zealand, Nigeria, Philippines, Poland, Romania, and The United States. 

dry savanna the dotted castles of anthills

   - Adjei Agyei-Baah

sick of reflections the full moon transforms into something else

   - Alan Catlin

small-hours-train the pink suitcase of moon shadows

   - Alan Summers

night sky my smartphone's blank screen

   - Ana Drobot

a pot of tea my small brother brewing plans

   - Anne Curran

in between the thunderclaps the clink of mother's bangles

   - Archana Kapoor Nagpal

small things their own story worn trowel

   - ayaz daryl nielsen

crossing the footbridge no fish no ducks

   - b brazill

equinox the yin and yang of my mood

   - Barbara Kaufmann

summer silence grapes to raisins plums to prunes

   - Barbara Tate

ironing clothes outside a falling star

   - Billy Antonio

last game of the season finally tossing the perfect pitch

   - Blue Waters

a ball stopped on the boundary line no players

   - Božidar Škobić - Čika Boško

vines climbing out of their space into mine

   - C. Robin Janning

almost full moon what am i waiting for

   - Caroline Skanne

writing haiku in the study's corner a spider spins

   - Chen-ou Liu

many voices none are his mockingbird

   - Christine Rose Sansone

allowing myself to cry cloudburst

   - Christine L. Villa

at the end of his leash my fear of dogs

   - Dave Read

folding unfolding the origami of monarch butterflies

   - Debbie Strange

less birdsong now at dawn coyotes howl in the night

   - Deirdre Silverman

coaxing my modesty over the edge hot tub

   - Devin Harrison

a riverbird it sings i listen

   - Emmanuel Kalusian

the child's hand placed over mine we crack the egg

   - Ferris Gilli

intense as an artist she tattoos me for radiation

   - Frank Judge

sunday with sauce love

   - Grace Celeste

the tension around my tension tension

   - Helen Buckingham

whenever I forget myself I remember what matters

   - Jack Goldman

heat wave do lilacs dream of rain

   - Joan Corr

amazing how many stars fit inside my windowpane

   - Joan McNerney

night on the mountain one thousand wishes

   - Joann Grisetti

newsboy cast in bronze still delivering

   - Joanna M. Weston

morning glory between then and then

   - Kath Abela Wilson

reading a poem in her eyes

   - Kumarendra Mallick

after rain the moon stashed away in clay pots

   - Lavana Kray

springgrasshergreendressdisappears

   -Lech Szeglowski

autumn rain the old clock stopped again

   - Magdalena Banaszkiewicz

the year i was born the howl of wolves and poets

   - Marianne Paul

falling into your arms again western wind

   - Mark E. Brager

quiet splash just by our boat Perseids night

   - Marta Chocilowska

forgetting to call my mother who won’t remember

   - Miriam Sagan

love so many hearts on the napkin

   - Nadezhda Stanilova

red morning sky fiery forecast i take my hat

   -Nancy Gabriel

autumn mist the gardener scrapes the last clouds

   - Nicole Pottier

a crow between the shadow and the sun

   - Paresh Tiwari

in the dunes awaiting the full moon

   - Pat Floyd

painting a river i drop in a waterfall  

   - Pat Geyer

rain kiss lasting into the dark

   - Petruta Ionescu

falling kite early sunset

   - Pravat Kumar Padhy

run down estate the weeds in flower

   - Rachel Sutcliffe

start with inhale end exhaling life between

   - Rob Sullivan

sun warming a boulder as if it knew the lizard

   - Robert Henry Poulin

after each piano note the meow of a cat

   - Rosa Clement

blending colors the blackbird's song

   - Shloka Shankar

our conversation drifts cottonwood fluff

   - Sondra J. Byrnes

on our backs in the driveway shooting stars

   - Susan Lang

shar-pei's folds under the hem of her dress

   - Theresa Cancro

years of separation stone circle

   - Tim Gardiner

laughing fat country morning corn pancakes

   - Tina Wright

school bus a child with her first painted yellow sun

   - Vibeke Laier

handkerchief waving in the wind no word for goodbye

   - Virginia Popescu

oh sunflowers a whole field looking up

   - Yvonne Fisher

meditation teacher talks talks talks talks talks about silence

   - Zee Zahava

Brass Bell: Barbara Kaufmann

Welcome to the August 2015 issue of brass bell, featuring poems by Barbara Kaufmann

porch light

late into evening

my father's cigar

first rose the softness of a newborn's skin

rose moon

flooding the bedroom

with her essence

spring breeze

all the prom queens

wave

morning stretch

the irises reaching

for the sky

as if cherry blossoms aren't enough a day moon

spring cleaning

finding who I was

stuck in the closet

no butterflies the breeze comes up empty

hospital waiting room

an ant on the floor

walks back and forth

new grandchild

a pink flower blooms

in our garden

awakening

to the afternoon sun

all that is green in me

running low

on elbow grease

the old pot scrubber

dawn alchemy

a bare branch 

becoming a dove

so 

many

snow-

flakes

I

lose

count

of 

my 

blessings

following 

a white-tailed deer and a boy

deep into a daydream

close to home

salt air and scrub pines

on the trail

even now

her fingers remember

silver rosary beads

one bright spot

in the hospital waiting room

a red jacket

that much closer 

to the sunrise

a treetop starling

choir of irises

singing the blues

no bees

nothing to hold on to

when looking at the stars

I fall up

tweeting

their latest sightings

birdwatchers

worry lines

the scent of chamomile

smoothing my brow

a still lake

goslings glide

among the clouds

night rain

the latest bad news

drummed into my head

a siren scream —

the swelling sound

of joint pain

birdsong

lifting the sun up

in three notes

red sunrise

a cardinal looks at me

looking at him

somewhere

under a pile of winter

a crocus

moonrise

she eases her body

into crescent pose

Barbara Kaufmann, a retired nurse, can be found (or lost) in the woods, gardens and beaches that are near her home on Long Island, in  New York. Armed with a camera and notebook, she chases butterflies and other ethereal things, including poems. She has been writing for many years but recently (2012) began to write Japanese short forms. Her blog is:

wabi sabi~~~poems and images 

Brass Bell: Alan Summers

Welcome to the July 2015 issue of brass bell, featuring poems by Alan Summers

calandria — every place

its own kind of sun

housebound

I take an evening stroll

through the postcard

the longest night

of a longer day

our broken moons

a lost email

crosses over

a cat picking

at discarded fast food

this night without you

filling with the hum

of regular rain

a small death

the cracked shell

of a snail

now this delay

at the train station

sometimes

before falling in love

with my wife

again and again

the cries of swifts

asthma attack —

pulling her outside

away from friends

her breathing steadies

while my own trembles

these rocks

too float among clouds

looking for something

white gravel

each day the monks

rake ripples in time

dandelion fluff

I lose count of my time

on this earth

a packet of souls

the day moon becomes

a harbinger

Khamsin winds

the piano tunes itself

in a war conflict

wind-spun flakes . . .

a child's world escapes

the snow globe

a lamb's cry

scudding clouds over

the cemetery wall

hunter's moon

the runes of mice

in its wake

after rain midnight dreams a hedgehog

Gare du Nord shifting art deco snow

twilight on snow shadows deepen the grip of stars

this small ache and all the rain too robinsong

dark news

the comfort

of crows

stick moon

we move our bones

in unison

hard frost —

the snail-hammerings

of a song thrush

night of small colour

a part of the underworld

becomes one heron

the names of rain

a blackbird's subsong

into dusk

cloud mountain

she screams her daughter's name

into the month of march

hotel room drawer

one of Issa's insects takes

charge of the reading

lullaby of rain

another pinch of saffron

in the pumpkin soup

night-tide

the rook takes back

its moon

* * *

Alan Summers is a Japan Times award-winning writer and Pushcart Prize nominated poet. He likes French wine, Japanese whisky, Premium Sake, French and Italian cooking, and authentic Indian curries (but not all of them at once), while watching bad Science Fiction or tearful Zombie romantic comedies. Alan runs With Words, with his wife, for online courses and live events. Website: http://area17.blogspot.com

Brass Bell: Ruth Yarrow

Welcome to the June 2015 issue of brass bell, featuring poems by Ruth Yarrow

warm rain before dawn:

my milk flows into her

unseen

lullaby

fuzz on his soft spot

pulsing

snowmelt:

the toddler stirs her reflection 

with one mitten

a marmot’s whistle

pierces the mountain

first star

I step into old growth:

autumn moon deeper

into sky

minor key

of the Hebrew peace song:

the wind

against the wind

we hold the peace banner —

our spines straighten

hot subway:

rhythm of the blind man’s cane 

through my soles

food bank line —

a pigeon picks up crumbs

too small to see

crowded bus through fog —

someone singing softly

in another language

canyon:

at the very edge

riversound

touching the fossil —

low rumblings

of thunder

night storm —

a deeper dark unrolls

across the prairie

tropical night surf

each crash and hiss

phosphoresces

wasp —

suddenly the teenager

sits up straight

late afternoon —

the mountain

a steeper purple

sunset slope

each uncle reminiscing

through his cloud of gnats

desert night

beyond the silence

heat lightning

his remark

she scrubs the counter 

in tighter circles

loose rock

rattling down the draw —

a raven’s croak

amusement park —

soles of his sneakers

against the clouds

light

up under the gull’s wing:

sunrise

dimmer

beneath his miner’s lamp

whites of his eyes

after the garden party  the garden

wet leaves

our moon shadows move

with soft sounds

planting peas

the earth curves under

my fingernails

ferry horn —

steep plunge of the island

into the sound

moonlit ripples

the distant quavering

of a loon

hospital bedside —

a distant siren expands

the hollow of night

dome of stars

under it, a small round tent

lit from inside

against the night sky

the curved shape of an owl

my mitten in yours

*** *** ***

Since the late 1970s, writing haiku has helped me capture those special moments of awareness. These published poems are mostly in Frogpond and Modern Haiku. I’ve spent my working years educating people about the natural environment in nature centers and colleges, and organizing for peace and justice. My husband Mike and I raised two wonderful children in Ithaca New York, then reveled in wilderness while continuing to organize in the Pacific Northwest. Since his death last year, I’ve moved back to family in Ithaca.

— Ruth Yarrow