. Call for Submissions . Haibun Today—First Quarterly Issue, March 2010 . Haibun Today , a literary blog devoted to the promotion of haibu...

. flattened frog the silence of early morning . every five years every cell in our bodies is replaced you don’t need to know that to know ...

. I’m a writer with strong nostalgic longings. One of my favorite essayists is Charles Lamb, someone else who labored for decades as a harm...

. crow and seagull on whirling winds a white orchid at the window fading . Dull olive of cedar outweighs other colors, rationed so careful...

. Struck by its sharpness and fragility, I study a blade of grass. This opens my eyes to spring blossoms and winter snow, to nature's w...

. MET Press is pleased to announce the publication of the second issue of the biannual journal, Modern Haibun & Tanka Prose , edited by ...

. Here was a lake surrounded by trees—oaks, as far as I remember. . Where is the tall grass? Where is the wind? . There is nothing left, onl...

. old red Schwinn abandoned in weeds― outburst of rain The "old red Schwinn" poem was written on May 23, 1988. I was probably smo...

. lions of Apollo guard his Delian temple among bursts of wild poppies clambering for the heavens . I run the color red over Father’s free-f...

. Upstream a short distance from town is (or was, I should say) a working grain terminal and elevator, not exactly a harbor, perhaps most no...

. Behind me the house which has a life of its own. Perhaps young children lie abed. One may be reading, the very young sleeping, the father...

. Every year, together, my parents light a candle on my birthday cake, giving thanks to their God for the blessings I’ve received. Then I cl...

. funeral service is a contortion of her harsh life at last a loud voice hushed. . Nearly made 102. Nearly 2 weeks dead. She, we believe, l...

. The rough idling of an 18-wheeler with its pshhhhit, pshhhhit airbrakes stir him in the early dawn. It’s best to move on anyway. Out of me...

I’m not given to superstition or unsupported flights of imagination, but not so long ago, I had a strange experience, the details of which g...

Everything has passed me by; I yearn for unseized moments. I think more of what has passed than of what will be. High expectations of youth ...

On Saturday morning, the rear entrance to the corner building is locked, so I enter through the front of the coffee shop. It is early and no...

We visit an historic house, one of many in the Hudson Valley. Along the drive leading up to the mansion is an avenue of black locust. The s...

A haibun is a family gathering, perhaps a reunion, of young and old and middle aged. Some dads huff prose and some cousins whisper poetry an...

One year ago this morning I celebrated the first anniversary of Haibun Today in an editorial review of this blog’s stated mission and publi...

My first full-time job was in a pub kitchen. They did bar food and had a ‘posh’ restaurant upstairs for the evenings. I washed dishes, prepp...

on the stop bank wandering with the shadows cast by clouds We walk beside the estuary taking photographs of bird life: shags, herons, ducks,...

wading into thick cigarette smoke to the beat of a jukebox Brubeck and all that old school jazz The graying proprietor and his wife, too, we...

All night a roaring of waves slamming onto the shore. All night a Wagnerian symphony of wind and water; now and then the thunder of a falli...

Route 31 buses pass like time in fog and the canvas waits, as I look at brushes and knives, put them back, squeeze a gob of payne’s grey an...