Wayne F. Burke




spasmodic second hand of the clock

on the wall of the doctor’s

waiting room




walking along the beach

my sore feet–

the moon wrapped in gauze




another email from

Olive Garden–

what does she want now?






Wayne F. Burke‘s haiku and/or tanka have appeared in American Tanka and High Coupe. His two published books of poetry, Words that Burn (2013) and Dickhead (2015) are published by Bareback Press.


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E. Martin Pedersen





in Candyland
where everything’s candy
the winners get vegetables


at the politician’s funeral
you had to push your way in


your delicious perfume
gave me a migraine
that never ended


all my adult life
I have waited for the word:


watermelons and onions—
a feast that keeps on feasting


how sorry how sorry
is the hiker
who set the forest ablaze?




E. Martin Pedersen, originally from San Francisco, has lived in eastern Sicily for several decades. Some of his publication news can be found on his blog: http://emartinpedersenwriter.blogspot.it/

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Sonam Chhoki

The Meeting

A gaunt figure, head bent, face obscured, walks through the withered grass at the edge of the field. I don’t know why I think it’s a he. The measured stride seems to suggest a certain sense of purpose. Where is he bound for, through our overgrown land? And why does he keep his arms by the sides, as if he dare not breathe even as he moves? Against the bobbing branches of the old cypress, he is like an apparition dropped from the belly of the rain-laden clouds. Is it the failing light or is his frame elongating with each step he takes?
I’m not sure what I should say when we come face to face. A white Apsoo crashes through the shrubs. I bend to pat it.
‘Is this your dog?’
Even before I look up he is gone.

into the setting sun -
a swan’s head





Born and raised in the kingdom of Bhutan, Sonam Chhoki is inspired by her father, Sonam Gyamtsho,  the architect of Bhutan’s non-monastic modern education. Her Japanese short form poetry has been published in poetry journals and anthologies in Australia, Canada, Germany, Ireland, India, Japan, UK and US and included in the Cultural Olympics 2012 Poetry Parnassus and BBC Radio Scotland Written Word Programme.

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Jeff Streeby




Late Hunt

On a day this cold, you don’t even need the shotgun. They’re easy to spot, too, those beautiful birds dying in the tumbled stubble of harvest. Find their long tail feathers riffling prairie wind and you can take them alive out of little pockets in the snow. When you lift them from fencerows at the edge of empty pastures, from beside trees in abandoned orchards, withered fruit clattering overhead, from fallow ground where they shelter under shining plow-cut rubble of clods, they look up at you unmoved, eyes empty mirrors, odd ice in morning’s raw glare.

Tonight, below the Interstate, a cold familiar wind scours river ice six feet thick. New snowbanks build high under the bridge. Pearl is deserted, its few streetlights haloed in soot and old snow that spill in blizzards from downtown rooftops. That fine, chill powder when it dusts your face, melts and streaks down like tears. In front of Eagle Pawn Shop, where ragged spikes of rust-stained ice depend from eaves, tall, bistered drifts find hard shapes, slope knee-deep into the street. A plow, yellow lights flashing, growls across the intersection headed up Sixth. Rising over the vague skyline, the moon, oddly distinct, bright with an orient luster, counterfeits a silver coin in a deep pocket, an empty locket, a salver for a vanished chalice.

Along snow-choked back streets all across town, lights glow behind curtains in cozy rooms. And all you’ve got is a narrow bed in another cheap hotel. All you’ve got is a place where you can close your eyes while out here in the dark the world freezes over. All you’ve got is an accidental nest where like a winter-worn bird you can wait unmoved as what hunts you again tonight approaches through the cold.

Winter moon.
Trees in silhouette.
Gaunt wolves eat snow.


Jeff Streeby‘s poetry has appeared in Ginosko, Southwest American Literature, Los Angeles Review, Rattle, Haibun Today, Contemporary Haibun Online, and many others. He is a Senior Lecturer in English at Assumption University in Bangkok, Thailand.

Note: Suisun Valley Review published a version of “Late Hunt” in Edition #26 (May, 2009).

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Raamesh Gowri Raghavan



Still Life

I can see them, tweeting furiously as the slogans rise and fall, in ghazal-like cadences. It’s chaotic, the only discipline being the hashtag. The police are far better organised of course — in rows behind their bamboo shields, their birchwood batons so tightly gripped you could see their veins stand out. We have names and martyrs – Taksim, Tahrir, Tawakal, Tripoli. They have statistics, lists, orders, warrants. There’s adrenaline everywhere. Ours flowing in wild rushes, theirs like a dog straining on a leash. There may be, or they may not be blood on the streets, gas, tears. Right now there’s only a fragile silence. Meanwhile, I can see around me, the windows shuttered tightly. From some, I can see eyes peeping, heads pulling back. Across the barricades, I can see the vans, and the big officers. Peeping through half-shuttered windows.

still life…
the cobra and frog
sense each other




Raamesh Gowri Raghavan moonlights as an award-winning copywriter by day and daylights as an award-wanting poet by night, and sandwiches an archaeology course,running two literary clubs, astronomy, the occasional trek, some peer counseling for suicide prevention, and learning Gondi in between. He thinks he is funny, but his friends vehemently disagree.
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/raameshgowriraghavan
Twitter: @tweetinghaijin

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Stav Poleg




Haikus inspired by the macarons of Patisserie Madeleine, Edinburgh  

Here’s Fleur d’Oranger,
Saffron Pistache, Sakura.
Instead of breakfast.

Fleur d’Oranger

The orchard’s wingspan.
A child is hula hooping
in the evening sun.

Saffron Pistache

City somersaults.
I’m taking the yellow bike
over the river.

Thé au Jasmin

Walking in circles,
the woman pushing the pram,
the year of the horse.


Dark flamingo moon.
The sea’s humming in purple,
a ring in my palm.

Choco Poir

Asleep in your coat,
the train’s crossing an orchard.
The wine glass trembles.


Edinburgh winter.
The city breathes inwards
moon palpitations.


The deepest of green.
Glass beads scattered on the grass,
making a necklace.



Stav Poleg’s graphic-novel shorts Dear Penelope   (with artist Laura Gressani) has been acquired recently by the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art. Her poetry is featured in the anthology Be the First to Like This: New Scottish Poetry (Vagabond Voices).

Circles was created as part of the Clarence Street Poets’ Hai-Caroons  exhibition at the Poetry Patisseire in Edinburgh, August 2014.


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Violette Rose-Jones




No Neighbours that We Know of Around Here

my husband smiles in his sleep I could spend the rest of my life here then he rolls over, settling back to slow, calm breathing. this house is echoing-empty. wind rips  up the valley, up this hill, beneath the house. it brings the smell of  paperbark swamp, plays loose floorboards like piano keys. I am awake and getting more so …

wide blue morning
outside the kitchen door
a fresh cow skull




Violette Rose-Jones is a widely published Japanese form poetrix. She is perpetually studying and lives to write. She is married, with a teenage son and is widely known to be owned by her pet mice.

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