Lavana Kray




Lavana Kray is from Iasi – Romania. She has won several awards, including the status of  Master Haiga Artist, from the World Haiku Association. Her work  has been published in many print and online journals.  Currently she is the editor for Cattails Haiga works of the United Haiku and Tanka Society.  This is her blog:


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Sonam Chhoki




in my diary
the guava blossom
you picked
has lost its fragrance


scent of pine duff
I still walk
our favourite slope to watch
paddy ripening in the fields


heads thrown back
a pair of black-necked cranes
fling their call to the sky
I hope they will never know
the keening cry of separation


stars coursing
in the statuary pines
I no longer pray
but now embrace
solitude in your absence



Sonam Chhoki finds the Japanese short form poetry resonates with her Tibetan Buddhist upbringing.  She is inspired by her father, Sonam Gyamtsho, the architect of Bhutan’s non-monastic modern education and by her mother, Chhoden Jangmu, who taught her: “Being a girl doesn’t mean you can’t do anything.” She is the principal editor and co-editor of haibun for the United Haiku and Tanka Society journal, cattails.

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Tony Burfield





The sabbath, I pray to the cliffs. The Button Rock Hermit chants somewhere back in the pines. There is wind over everything, even the far highway roar. Our complicity sinks heart, sinks bone. I shift from reverse to first and bounce down the rutted driveway, rufous and juncos darting.

bees on the feeder
fewer hummingbirds
than yesterday





Tony Burfield lives with his wife in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains and works at the Boulder Public Library. His chapbook, Sawhorse, won Middle Creek Publishing’s Fledge Award in 2017.

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Ian Mullins




pollen count high –
bee on a cherry coke
splutters its wings


burr of phones –
the soft hooves of
the Glasgow train


slicing cellophane –
three a.m cab hushes
the snow


summer fall –
ripe blackberries
juice underfoot


pink frosting –
slavered gum
frozen overnight


flowers losing
light – white blossoms
the full moon







Ian Mullins bails out from Liverpool. The chapbook Almost Human (Original Plus) was published earlier this year. The music-themed collection Laughter In The Shape Of A Guitar (UB) was released in 2015.

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Christine Taylor




the “bookettes”
meet to discuss
the latest gin


my students
strive to earn an A–
lockdown drill


no more
navy blue boy blazers


freshly cut chrysanthemums
another memorial
along the highway


sticky willow
another message
to delete



Christine Taylor, a multiracial English teacher and librarian, resides in her hometown Plainfield, New Jersey.  She is the haibun editor at OPEN:  Journal of Arts & Letters.  Her work appears in Modern Haiku, Glass:  A Journal of Poetry, Room, and The Rumpus among others.  She can be found at  Follow her on Twitter @cetaylorplfd.

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John Hawkhead



late again
she calculates the arrival time
of his first lie
small white butterflies
she starts to think
it might be too late
making a padlock
of their certificate





John Hawkhead is a writer of haiku and other short poetry forms. He is a winner of the 2016 Lincoln Underground international haiku competition and a previous winner of the Haiku Foundation’s international haiku competition. His work has been published all over the world and his book of poetry and haiku Witness is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and iTunes.


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Charles Tarlton







1) Bright sun overhead in a cloudless sky.
2) Dying flowers in a dry garden bed.
3) Shimmering mirages on a desolate highway.
4) The Navajo-Nation Bank digital thermometer reads “108°F


a little tin house

sits in the desert of hours

only tiny tales

to tell. As we look inside

the moment becomes pregnant



NIKKI, a seven-month old wooly black poodle stands at the screen door, looking out into the yard. Her tongue hangs out and she is panting.

TAHOMA, about 16, in a tank top and undershorts, comes up behind the dog, shoves the screen open, moves past the dog, and steps down into the yard.

Nikki follows eagerly, jumping and mouthing Tahoma’s hand as he walks over to a hose with a spray nozzle.

Tahoma turns on the faucet and a fan of water rushes out, making rainbows in the sunshine.



the driest sand dunes

are in the mind (I almost

said in someone’s heart

we roamed fearlessly back then

through the long cold desert nights


He turns the spray on Nikki, who jumps and runs away, shaking her head.
Tahoma comes closer, trapping the dog in the corner of the porch.
At first, Nikki tries desperately to get away, but Tahoma blocks her path every time.



love is some magic!

hold the mother wracked with birth

with every action

comes the wondering. Did they

do this and the same way back then?


Finally, Nikki gives in and just stands there as the cold water hits her, drenches her thick black coat, and runs in rivulets to the ground.

Out of sight, Coyote watches.

Eventually, Nikki turns her face fully into the water.



When will you learn to

trust me?






Charles Tarlton is retired from university teaching and has been writing tanka prose (and poetry more generally) full time since 2006. His wife, Ann Knickerbocker, ( is  an abstract painter and they and work in Northampton, Mass.

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