Haiku By Su Wai Hlaing



walking alone
through the silence 
of the yellow



Su Wai Hlaing is a nurse and has been working in Singapore. She was born and brought up in Burma. She was interested in poetry since she was young and enjoyed reading and reciting them to her family and her brother. She was introduced to Haiku by Roger Watson in 2017 and started writing them since then. suwaihlainghaiku.blogspot.com

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Autumn Poem By Su Wai Hlaing

Petr Kratochvil 


the fall 
turning into yellow 
silent sacrifices



Su Wai Hlaing is a nurse and has been working in Singapore. She was born and brought up in Burma. She was interested in poetry since she was young and enjoyed reading and reciting them to her family and her brother. She was introduced to Haiku by Roger Watson in 2017 and started writing them since then. suwaihlainghaiku.blogspot.com

Photo Credit: Petr Kratochvil 

Autumn Haiku By Nicholas Klacsanzky

Carus



giving an eye
      to the scarecrow . . .
  a mallow skipper 



Nicholas Klacsanzky is an editor and writer who writes poetry whenever he can. He is the founder of Haiku Commentary—a blog dedicated to the analysis of haiku and related forms of poetry. He has been published widely, is an award-winning poet, and has had several books published that feature his work.

‘New England November’ By Elaine Reardon


“A small beaten gold boat complete with oars & oarlocks was found in a lake in Ireland, part of a tribute to Manannán mac Lir. It resides in the National Museum of Ireland, Dublin.”  — Elaine Reardon

New England November

Tail end of autumn
the in-between time
bare maples branches
dry leaves scuttle


A young bear pushes his nose
into heaped up leaves
poking through for acorns
coyotes howl late afternoon


Once twilight falls
barred owls call right up
until bed time
The land reads brown and grey


Scattered red berries
puckered purple grapes.
Winter hasn’t emerged yet
although she’s expected


Garden plots are cleared
in anticipation of her arrival
like the tide line between sand and sea
November separates seasons


Of life pushing out of seed and egg
then returning to ground
November waits for those last geese to fly
holds her cards close to her chest


Listen to the water ripple against the shore
and honor Manannán mac Lir
I have not beaten gold into form
but I place an offering in the water




“Heaven and earth are trapped in visible form: all things emerged from within the writing brush.” — Lu Chi

Elaine is a poet, herbalist, educator, and member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators. Her chapbook from Flutter Press, The Heart is a Nursery For Hope, won first honors.Recently Elaine’s poetry has been published by Crossways Journal, UCLA journal, Automatic Pilot, Nicht.com ,  MA Poet of the Moment. She has a website at elainereardon.wordpress.com, and lives deep in the Massachusetts forest. Find her on Twitter @elainereardon33

Autumn Poem By Elaine Wilburt

James DeMers



nubby cap snug
perfect, plump acorn
buried treasure



Elaine Wilburt’s poems have appeared in Thema, New Thought Journal, and the City Paper (Baltimore) among others; devotionals, in The Word in Season. Forthcoming poetry will appear in Better than Starbucks. She earned her BA in French and English from Middlebury College. She lives in Maryland with her best friend and their five children.

Autumn Poem By Isabel Caves

summer-campfire

Amber Oliver

 

campfire—
the autumn leaves
losing light

 

Isabel Caves is a poet and fiction writer living in Auckland, New Zealand. In addition to haiku poetry she also enjoys writing fantasy, science fiction and horror. For more, visit her on Twitter @isabel_caves and check out isabelcaves.wordpress.com

 

‘Ghost House’ By Robert Frost

The_Haunted_House_Das_Geisterhaus_(5360049608).jpg

The Haunted House / Das Geisterhaus / Harald Hoyer

 

I dwell in a lonely house I know 
That vanished many a summer ago, 
   And left no trace but the cellar walls, 
   And a cellar in which the daylight falls 
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow. 

O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield 
The woods come back to the mowing field; 
   The orchard tree has grown one copse 
   Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; 
The footpath down to the well is healed. 

I dwell with a strangely aching heart 
In that vanished abode there far apart 
   On that disused and forgotten road 
   That has no dust-bath now for the toad. 
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart; 

The whippoorwill is coming to shout 
And hush and cluck and flutter about: 
   I hear him begin far enough away 
   Full many a time to say his say 
Before he arrives to say it out. 

It is under the small, dim, summer star. 
I know not who these mute folk are 
   Who share the unlit place with me—
   Those stones out under the low-limbed tree 
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar. 

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad—
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
   With none among them that ever sings, 
   And yet, in view of how many things, 
As sweet companions as might be had.