Since I have started writing haiku, I have become overtly mindful of my surroundings. The whirr of the washing machine, the whistle of the pressure cooker, the brush of a stranger’s arm against mine, the different types of birdsong, the balmy breeze of summer … all these moments have started to mean a lot more than what they did before. 

old town
the sound of winnowing
fills my afternoon.

            — Mona Bedi, India

*dhyana means meditation or contemplation in Hinduism



The rain reminds me of days when I would wait for the taxi to take me to the home full of nurses and orderlies and elevators slinking up to the 6th floor. The quiet floor, with a lonely view of sky, sea and rain clouds, which followed me on every visit.  I sat with my mother in silence, tracking the lines on her face, visualizing my future, her countenance, a crooked smile.

I wiped away the drool, which ran down her chin like rain drops smearing the glass pane that I stared out of. 

I never wanted to remember her like this, as she dozed with labored breath, but do, recalling an August sea churn—

Wave and storm:
a salty mix
of a tarnished life.

            — Laurie Kuntz, USA