Not Somewhere Else But Here

By Robert Witmer
Tokyo, Japan

A poem asks the reader to participate in the making of its meaning, and in this way binds the reader to the writer, while leaving the reader free to bring her own mental associations to the poet’s words and images. Thus, the poem combines a private and a public language in a process of communication. While poetry “makes nothing happen” (as Auden stated in his famous eulogy for Yeats), it can lift the veil from deeply disturbing aspects of our collective lives and in so doing ask us to rethink those troubling realties, which we often prefer to ignore, so long as we feel comfortably secure in our own personal lives. By engaging individual imaginations, poetry has the power to bridge the boundaries and divisions that keep us apart. This is not to say that poetry can improve the world on a scale that would empower the many millions of disadvantaged, mistreated, and politically invisible human beings. But it can help the rest of us to see that these people exist, and that their sufferings are real, and that we could make efforts in the real world to ameliorate the condition of their lives.

the wind picks up
a campaign poster
the hair just right

executive abusio
the warped rule
of blind mouths

wondering which way to turn the nut in charge

a caterpillar
crawls across the evening news
that orange hair

the king of clubs
trumped —
he throws his toys out of the playpen

politics
the ambidextrousness
of a dead bird

day laborer
climbing a ladder
out of the basement

pencil stub
wrinkled fingers pinch
another penny

a cold wind
haggles with golden leaves
savings and loan

a fork
in the road
nothing to eat

the cat lady’s eye
strays
each with its own name

a beggar sings
over a coffee tin
nickels counting time

no newspaper coverage
the homeless man
asleep on a bench

a homeless woman
sips from a birdbath
wrinkles in a rainbow

skin
brown and bruised –
the fruit within decays

road sign
rust
in the bullet holes

Peshawar
apples stacked neatly
as the guns

constant drizzle
a faded flag hangs heavy
over another war

fallen
into fallen leaves
toy soldier

crow’s feet
around the eyes
sunset on the battlefield

demilitarized zone
the space between
jugglers

the banker’s heart as capacious as an open-pit mine

nativity scene
behind an iron gate
the wise men long gone

tree by the wall
a solitary poem
in a life sentence

muddy field
a child in rags
sings to his buffalo

Help

By Robert Witmer
Tokyo, Japan

light
imprisoned in diamonds
the dark mine a dollar a day

windblown sand –
children in rags
staring as the boat recedes

orphans at the stoplight
together
we roll up our windows

winter
a bent spoon
in an empty pot

shoe polish
the toxic smell
of unemployment

a few stars
fewer leaves
his cardboard home

a rainbow ribbon
on a rich man’s sky
tree stumps

outside the new megastore
empty shopping carts
for the homeless

yesterday’s snow
under a naked tree
a homeless woman awaiting spring

old nails squeaking
in shrinking wood
campaign promises

the populist’s campaign
a loud speaker
distorts the platitudes

air raid
our last loaf of bread
blackens in the oven

a child’s balloon
drifts away
the wall crowned with broken bottles

First published: Drifting Sands Haibun, Issue 17

Human rights encompasses a great deal. As stated in the Preamble to the United Nations’ Universal Declaration of Human Rights: “recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world.” Extreme inequality has profound human rights implications. Nearly 10% of the world’s population lives in extreme poverty, and over 40% live on less than $5.50 per day, thus depriving those members of the human family access to basic needs and services.  

Once Bereft

By Robert Witmer
Tokyo, Japan

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left
            — Gerard Manley Hopkins, “Inversnaid”

From Pangaea to the Tethys Sea our Mother Earth goes round, and round our central star appears, the Sun, traveling east to west, from Ethiopia to Hesperides, each day a blessing in this circle of life. Brought into this vital light with plants of every kind and fauna filling land and sea, fruitful, we were. And it was good.

We crept into caves to mark the walls with ochred images of creatures honored for their flesh, their spirit and being, different from our own, yet of the same.

The First Peoples made their homes, dressing their bodies, teaching their tongues, cherishing their kinship with the land.

We learned to turn the very Earth, the oldest of our gods, with plows, back and forth, year after year, reaping, sowing, wearing away the immortal, the seemingly inexhaustible land we would one day forget. And so, as our numbers rose and our cities grew and our knowledge fed our need for power, we tamed and conquered all. Or so we thought we would, quick, ready, resourceful humankind, now more human, less kind, kinship reduced to a great machine.

Our hearts cooled, the Earth warmed, we saw no end in sight. Round and round, each fight, another victory. And then we mastered space itself, we landed on the moon. What sight! The Earth in space – “a tiny, fragile ball of life, hanging in the void.” A blue dot where we are all one people, living in one world, together in our need to keep this improbable home home to all creation in all its diversity, its fragile beauty, our one and only home.

Let the earth last
And the forests stand a long time
            — from a poem by the 15th century Aztec poet Ayocuan Cuetzpaltzin

weather satellites
go round and round
empty promises

fracking
we learn new ways
not to change

an electric car
sighs to a stop
the last glacier groans

snowmelt
plum blossoms
on a polar bear

bird of paradise
a rainbow’s love song
in a chainsaw repertoire

strip mined
our purple mountain majesties
the emperor’s new clothes

old pond
spewing toxic waste
a frog croaks

the caboose
rattles past the setting sun
dust on stunted corn

washing up
on an island paradise
plastic plates

rising tide
she lifts her skirt
to wipe away a tear

a blue balloon
rising into a summer sky
the child waving goodbye

dry riverbed
the old bridge creaks
bone on bone

First published: Drifting Sands Haibun, Issue 15

Bleeding Skies

by Florence Heyhoe
County Down, North Ireland

bleeding skies
children playing 
in mine fields

Predators

by Florence Heyhoe
County Down, North Ireland

predators 
on the web 
trafficking 

As Einstein would say 

By Diana Webb
Leatherhead, Surrey, UK

She is walking back from the supermarket, bag weighed down by difficult choices, when in the day’s last rays she sees it.

empty snail shell 
caked with soil 
the relic 

Some go to great pains, she recalls, to stop these small land gastropods from underfoot death, by moving them away from pedestrian paths. This one exited naturally, protective architecture unshattered.

tick in the box
between her fingertips 
a miracle 

The creature left its home for her to contemplate under the roof of her own small home on the patch they shared in their mutual home planet earth. 

silver trace 
one gleam of ink at the tip 
of the spiral 

After the Bomb

By Theresa A. Cancro
Wilmington, Delaware, USA

after the bomb
in each window shard
reflected stars

First published in The Bamboo Hut, February 2024

First Day

By Theresa A. Cancro
Wilmington, Delaware, USA

first day
at rehab
child’s pose

Open Carry

By Theresa A. Cancro
Wilmington, Delaware, USA

sliver moon —
in the dead of night
open carry

In a Glass Bowl

By Tish Davis
Concord Township, Ohio, USA

so many
so far from home
winter rain

I’m an American in China working to restart the supply chain disabled by the worst flooding in Thailand in half a century.

translating work instructions—
the universal language
of the office clock

As I walk through the narrow aisle between the cubicles, a woman calls to me from one of the window-lit offices reserved for visitors. It’s one of the Thai engineers.  She’s extraordinarily petite and in her conservative blue dress, reminds me of Bemelmans’ Madeline.  After rummaging through a paper bag, she presents me with a gift—a small package of white cookies shaped like miniature straws. I don’t mention that I have allergies and cannot eat them.  Instead, I sit so as not to tower over her, and express my sorrow about the flooding.”How are the temples in Ayutthaya?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“And the immense statue of the reclining Buddha on the grounds of the Wat Yai Chai Mongkol? And the row of Buddas in the courtyard—the ones in saffron robes?”

These too have been damaged.”And the monks? What about the monks that live there? And the dogs, the temple dogs?”

All were rescued as the government sent in boats.

By now she’s crying. I never mention that I’ve forgotten her name.

touching
for the first time
a winter orchid

first published in Haibun Today, Winter2012

Author’s Note:  The 2011 Thailand flood is still one of the country’s worst humanitarian disasters and the most expensive flood loss on record for the global insurance industry. 1

  • The key takeaways from this Economic insight are:
    • Thailand’s rapid urbanization of areas around large river systems exposed it to significant flood risk.
    • A combination of weather events and flood mismanagement resulted in USD 15 billion of insured losses in 2011 (USD 18 billion today).
    • High accumulation of property risk, due to the success of Thailand’s manufacturing sector, resulted in insured losses that exceeded all expectations.
    • As climate change increases extreme rainfall events, adaptive measures such as flood-resilient urban infrastructure will be crucial to manage flood risk.

1. Swiss RE Institute:    https://www.swissre.com/institute/research/sigma-research/Economic-Insights/the-costliest-flood-thailand-flood.html

Ramadan Moon

By Nitu Yumnam
Kolkata, West Bengal, India

Ramadan moon—
a Gazan child’s
empty plate

Nakba 2023

By Vidya Premkumar 
Wayanad, Kerala, India 

nihilism
an ice cream truck
with children’s bodies

Nectar

By Tish Davis
Concord Township, Ohio, USA

The African Violets are about to bloom on the sill next to her bed. She taught me how to split these plants in two and how to stimulate the roots by pouring water into the dish that holds the clay pot. Sometimes when I visit, she cuts a slit in a small square of heavy paper and then inserts a single leaf.  She always asks me to add the water to the glass jar.

On this first Mother’s Day without my mom, I try to surprise this other one.  After the nurse wheels my friend to the dining room for lunch, I hang a hummingbird feeder in the tree outside her window.  It takes a while, but the tiny birds finally arrive.  Hovering in place, they sip from small plastic cups. 

They can even fly backward . . .

light rain
the cemetery vase
also finds me

Author’s Note: Social isolation is a growing public health concern that affects many older people including residents in Long Term Care facilities.  Globally, up to 50% of older persons over 60 years of age are at risk of experiencing social isolation and the potential for accompanying mental health issues. 1  

Last month, the White House released its first-ever staffing minimums for nursing homes that receive federal funding. The new staffing rules require each resident to receive at least 3.48 hours of care per day. They also require that care facilities have a registered nurse on site 24/7.  This is going to present a challenge for states like Kentucky who’ve faced nursing home staff shortages since the pandemic. 2

1. National Library of Medicine: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC8236667
2. Spectrum News: https://spectrumnews1.com/ky/louisville/news/2024/05/07/new-nursing-home-staffing-minimum

The Long Walk

By Vidya-Premkumar
Wayanad, Kerala, India 

Vidya-Premkumar-The Long Walk
Vidya-Premkumar-watermelons

The Meadow

Editor’s Contribution
By Richard Grahn
Evanston, Illinois, USA

i stand in a blossoming meadow
clover, poppy, and black-eyed Susan
ripples of fragrance soften the breeze
summer’s bouquet
dancing with the clouds
light-years away
from the horrors of war

i’m a simple child chasing butterflies
sun dazzling the world around
comes the buzz of a bee making honey
i’m up to my knees in a field of unknowns
imagination unfettered
but, oh, so ill-equipped
to see beyond the flowers

to see those far-off fields
trampled into blood
to envision men in 3-piece suits
playing chess in marble towers
the scribes rewriting history
bankers funding violence
all i see is violet and green

a ladybug lands on my shoulder
like me, another passerby
young men die and mothers weep
my mind wanders
through knee-deep flora
jungles swallow a generation
what do i know of capitulation?

here in the meadow
of dancing petals
storm clouds roll in
i’m soaked to the roots
under rumbling thunder
firmament and earth
in a torrid embrace

oblivious to the fires of Hell
stoked with lives gone up in smoke
barely aware of my footprints
i stare through the downpour
rivulets coursing over my eyes
i’m in tune with nature’s philosophy
evil obscured behind a veil of rain

a crack in the heavens appears
the tempest subsides
wind whispers to the earth and me
as flowers bow their heads in prayer
here where the sky and meadow meet
clouds wave their flag of peace
a rainbow over blossoms.

Beyond the Threshold

By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA

the slow beat
of an egret’s wings
white
against dark oaks—
earth’s annunciation

vultures
cradled on the wind
endlessly rocking
the tall pines sing
both lullaby and dirge

the milk-white flesh
of a giant puffball
broken open
under the moon
an old woman’s grief

with this drop
of russet ink
from the acorn cap
I write nothing—
the oak said it better

a rift in the wing
of a wild goose
flying headlong
through gathering dusk
the fate of the earth

~red lights 16:1, January 2020

Commentary on “Beyond the Threshold” by Tish Davis

Jenny Ward Angyal’s tanka sequence, “Beyond the Threshold” is exquisitely crafted.   There is a subtle progression in each of the five tanka:   

In the beginning, there is no immediate alarm.  There is no frantic reaction to the first two lines which segue into the last three:    

the slow beat  / of an egret’s wings /  white / against dark oaks —  /  earth’s annunciation.  

<>

In the second tanka, there are:

vultures / cradled on the wind

Vultures are birds of prey.  They gather in anticipation, patiently waiting for the death of the creatures they are observing. 

As the tanka continues the reader is made aware that there is a purpose in the vultures’ movement. They are endlessly rocking  

and perhaps that rocking is what piqued the interest as the tall pines sing  /  both lullaby and dirge.  (Quite alarming actually with the implication that young children and babies could be harmed.)

<>

In the third tanka, death and destruction are conveyed via imagery:  

the milk-white flesh / of a giant puffball / broken open / under the moon / an old woman’s grief 

<>

In the fourth tanka,  the color “red” appears for the first time along with the implication that this is the red of blood.  

with this drop /  of russet ink / from the acorn cap / I write nothing /  the oak said it better   

<>

In the concluding tanka, the poetess acknowledges the “grit” of survival via a metaphor of a wild goose with “a rift in the wing.”    

a rift in the wing /  of a wild goose  /  flying headlong  / through gathering dusk / the fate of the earth    
<>

Jenny, thank you for posting this!   A great read and also a good piece for study.

All the best,

Tish Davis

Limb from Limb

By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA

morning light
gilding the treetops
as they fall
splinters lodge
in my paperbark heart

the sound
of limbs being broken
as if on a wheel—
bloodless the fallen hollies,
the heart of pine laid bare

the blunt thrust
of a bulldozer,
the shudder
of tissues torn apart—
who cries for the earth me too

a box turtle
crushed by the skidder’s tread
at the edge
of the leftover woods
this barricade of spiders’ silk

plumes of smoke
rise from the clearcut
silvery as ghosts
the sound of wind chimes
before the hurricane

may the words
that tumble from my tongue
be turned to moss—
creep over the wounded land,
bury the cities of men

~Ribbons 15:1, winter 2019

Gone

By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA

the scream
of a red-tailed hawk
over the wood
where dozers wait—
my silent cry an echo

the giraffe
earns a place
on the Red List—
Gaia’s ghost
haunts my dreams

stacking stones
to build a cairn . . .
balancing
Earth’s bones,
I awaken to vertigo

fifty years
from discovery
to extinction—
a Pagan reed-warbler
sings in my heart

4% survived
the Permian extinction,
giving rise
to all that lives . . .
and to my flightless hope

~Ribbons 13:1, Winter 2017

My Experience with Mental Illness

By Jackie Chou
Pico Rivera,  California, USA

Having a mental illness 
you’re no fresh-faced
one-time jailee
ready to be released
back to society

Nor are you a teen girl
leaving the mountains 
where you were raised
to go to college
get two master’s degrees
and write a book

Having a mental illness 
you carry 
its invisible bars 
on your back
for your entire life

With proper treatment 
the gnawing symptoms 
are kept at bay
so are the locked wards
and prison doors

Learning

By Sigrid Saradunn
Bar Harbor, Maine, USA 

learning
to choose peace  
at leadership camp
Irish teens room with
Israelis and Palestinians