Two haiga by Robert Wilson

Robert Wilson is the editor of Simply Haiku – there is a hyperlink in our favourites list. We asked him about his haiga and he replied “I am an artist and a poet….blending the two was a dream come true.  I was introduced to haiga years ago in the 1960's.  art and haiku combined illustrates the unsaid i a powerful way, creating multiple levels of interpretation without telling all.

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In Question by Tish Davis

In Question

Can you build a house
on memories
a foundation
of wishes, hopes
dreams
 
Can you patch
a roof top
with apologies –
 
Or will it rain
anyway?
 

• Tish Davis lives and works in the US.  Current publications include haibun that will appear in the October issue of Contemporary Haibun.

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Two dreams by A. D. Winans

Dreams

last night
I had a dream
I saw God cruising the
Mission in a BMW convertible
with the top pulled down
Puff Daddy blaring from the
Bose stereo sound system
his hair was thick
full and flowing
his shirt unbuttoned showing
a thick mange of manly hair
Jesus was sitting on the
passenger side, looking a bit pale
adjusting the dials on the radio
dressed in a pair of worn jeans
sporting a long beard down
to his sandals
I kept a respectable distance
from behind, trying to take down
their license number, but knew
I was doomed when a giant Condor
swept down from the sky
hitting my hood straight on
and sending me into a spin
forcing me off the road


Winans – Dreams – 2

The last thing I saw was God
on his cell phone
and said a prayer that he was calling
9-1-1, as Jesus flipped the bird
to a tail-gaiter who suddenly
veered off the road
hitting a telephone poll
as God and Jesus exchanged high-fives
laughing as they approached the freeway
heading South down Highway One

• A.D. Winans is a San Francisco-based writer and poet who became involved in the West Coast Beat scene in 1958. One of his friends, the late Charles Bukowski, said of him “A.D. Winans can go ten rounds with the best of them”. Check out his MySpace entry at http://www.myspace.com/adwinans

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New haibun by Charles Hansmann

Homeland
 
You dream I am dead and you visit me in heaven.  It's a place we can't sink, like water so salty we float without treading.  We cannot drown there even if we want to: there's no place else for the sodden soul to go.
 
Even in heaven the sky flashes at night, and we find our berth in an open-air greenhouse.  The flowers fold up and it's time for you to leave.  Your boss back on earth says you're going to be canned if you're ever late again.  When you tell me this dream still wet from your shower, I wish the morning had a shoulder I could hug beyond our own, a towel to guide the day with a vigorous rubdown.
 
I am the person you fear will die, and daily I earn my desire to be here.  It takes a sweeping out, a place to keep clean, no hijinks of the road.  Nothing deserves our mortal fear less than camping out by the wayside.  That's not the land of appointments, and I've got one tomorrow for an MRI.  I go crazy in that cylinder, like live ammunition.  But your dream boss relents and lets you come with me.  I expand the tight chamber with a vision of the sea in the translated novel you pull from your purse, I blink back at the curve I can fog with my breath, and I'm aware as the tube sucks me into its core of all of the ways I will never get out.
 
Yet I'll take the scant comfort.  If while I am in there the suitcase plutonium levels our city, I'll be close to the page you are reading when it happens.
 
we hear it again
at work on the roof patch
trying to get in


• Charles Hansmann's publication credits for 2007 include Frogpond, Modern Haiku, bottle rockets, The Lilliput Review, Contemporary Haibun, Contemporary Haibun Online, Simply Haiku, Shamrock Haiku Journal, Snap Poetry Journal. He holds degrees in English, philosophy and law – and sails a ketch called Crusoe.

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Some foreign field by Phuoc-Tan Diep

Some foreign field

A can of Canada Dry ginger ale lies exposed, torn in half.  A tramp sniffs it for booze.  It smells of fruit fermenting in wet packs.  His boots are rotten, toecaps lifting off dirt-encrusted feet.  He looks like he has marched a long way, from a far off bunker in some foreign field to this hidden place under a leafy bush in St. James Park.

The green map of Canada expands, reflected in sodium streetlights, mixing with leaves and covering him with lines of longitude and latitude, like a thin wire cage.

Now the soldiers lack stealth as they march, feet tapping on thin aluminium.  He can almost hear their communiqués, the Morse code of tiny feet.  The tramp shuffles deeper under the bush, allowing shadows to hide him from enemy eyes.  Police sirens keep him on the edge of sleep.

Soft grass sighs as it is crushed under the running feet of a young boy, too young for cigarettes.  He coughs up smoke in great mustard swirls.  He looks around, eyes hidden under his cap with U2’s Achtung Baby emblazoned on it.  He flicks the glowing tip, sparks flaring bright, and lobs it like a grenade, into the ginger ale can.  He flees.

Soldier ants rush out over No Man’s Land and flattened poppies into their trenches.

There is two minutes silence.

The boom-boom of nightclubs shudder leaves, raining them down like shrapnel on the tramp.  He flinches, retreating further into the ambush of sleep. 


• P-T is a regular contributor to IS&T

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Two haiga by CarrieAnn Thunell

CarrieAnn Thunell (CAT) is an ecology and peace activist, backpacker, nature photographer, artist, poet, and amateur landscape artist/gardener. She edited the Nisqually Delta Review from February 2005 through to September 2007. She has appeared in over 82 journals. CAT has been published in Canada, New Zealand, Australia, England, Scotland, Romania, and the USA. She was proud to serve as the finalist judge for the long poetry division of the 2007 Frontiers in Writing contest.

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Four haiku by Ken Head

1
Data made holy
hologram seasons
wired lives

2
Nano-surveillance
time digitally splintered
fear is addictive

3
Millions of megabytes
may make a pixel
but where is home

4
Somewhere in the heart
of the derelict city
a telephone rings


• Ken Head lives in Cambridge, England.  His poetry is published regularly in print magazines and online.

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