Thursday, May 1, 2014

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 <>

I hope you will enjoy what you find here.

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

winter's preserved
- Ben Mitchell

small things
remind me of my mother
- 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
- 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