H  A  I  K  U     S  P  I  R  I  T
Haiku Spirit Issue #13 

MARCH 1998


Stacking winter logs
i rescue a wolf spider
from a fiery end

Bill Wyatt


First frost of the year -
in my tea
pouring some honey

through frosty fields:
not a thing moves

"Happy Christmas"
just this the shopkeeper
gives for free

Christmas eve on the farm -
no one's fed the pig
to be fed at dawn

Winter dusk -
limping, an old man
walks a limping dog

Christmas or not:
into the cold sea
gulls diving, on and on

Christmas rain -
two kids
under a bat cape

Christmas wrapping papers
burning in the fireplace -
New Year's Day

First full moon of the year -
and it's trapped
in a bare tree!

Chilly dawn -
on top of a bin
a brush full of grey hair

old wooden park bench,
flaked and broken down:
here's Spring's first day

early Spring sky -
bluer though, the test line
showing she is pregnant

upside down
filled with Spring dew:
empty shell of a snail

Gilles Fabre

Bare candlelit room
three friends at Christmas
coffee perking.

Sean O'Connor

New year's first dinner
not a word at the table
wind in the eaves

Larry Gross

New diary
seven days a page
my life now

Ken Jones


Sweaterless -
the thrill
of gooseflesh

the firefly's tickle
as I open my fist
the glow

flood water
half way up its trunk
the cherry tree blooming

joining the river
each stream
its own song

on the wood floor
a coffin shape
full of moonlight

sunset -
the wild swan crying again
to his dead mate

dressing the window
a single violin
hung in silence

the convalescent
letting the candle flicker
in a twilight breeze

a long silk scarf
on this spring afternoon
the breeze coaxing it free

Haiku by Nasira Alma (d. 1997)

Morning tea
offering its fragrance
a pine bough


Riverside heron
a glance upstream and down
- away it flies

Sean O'Connor


An old pair of boots.
Take them deep into the woods
and let them root there.

The new ones hurt.
The way, the way alone
will ease them.

Jim Norton

Scamaill ag buiochan thiar
dhà phréachàn aonair
ag eitilt soir

Clouds yellowing in the west
two lone crows
fly east

Gabriel Rosenstock

Where two streams meet
my wife cast a spell
her grey hair

Ken Jones

After a mulled wine evening
the last of the cinnamon
porridge dust

Maeve O'Sullivan

the livid blue horizon of the bay

Unsteadied by saké
in my pocket
the corner of my passport

"Green Activist"
standing upright
in the waste bin

Out of the brightly lit house
off to the brightly lit meeting
the moon at the gate

Ken Jones

Even in the spring mists
one hears the sound of water
trickling through the rocks


On the telephone
a voice from the distant past -
early winter rain

Bill Wyatt

Strom force gales squalling
in two directions
letters with the same intent.

Maeve O'Sullivan

Winter chill
sweeping the tea room
vows renewed


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