Shamrock No 37 Haiku from Ireland and
the rest of the world

An international online journal that publishes quality haiku, senryu and haibun in English

(not for submissions)

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IHS International Haiku Competition 2017 announced!

The Irish Haiku Society International Haiku Competition 2017 offers prizes of Euro 150, Euro 50 and Euro 30 for unpublished haiku/senryu in English. In addition there will be up to seven Highly Commended haiku/senryu.

Details and previous winners here:

All the entries shall be postmarked / e-mailed by 30th November 2017.

Good luck to all!

deep purple –
morning glory flowers
close for the night

low tide
trails of darker sand
behind each pebble

midnight cove
grains of sand
touched by the moon

Southern ocean
white horses
wander the wilderness

bleached bones
today the sun
tonight the moon

-- Simon Hanson (Australia)

snowy field
the dog retrieves
a goose's silence

uneven trail . . .
the horse pulls us straight through
the smell of its fart

raging blizzard –
looking out to see
horses looking out

prayer bundles
the little touches
of the wind

-- Chad Lee Robinson (USA)

pouring rain...
the first longer day
a bit shorter

wood smoke
a winter moth circles
the porch light

scales shine
in the boy's hand
herring run

-- Brad Bennett (USA)

hospital window
the morning drifts along
with snowflakes

jagged moon
in every window ...
prison riot

-- Chen-ou Liu (Canada)

spring equinox –
air and pond

starless night
the owl's hoot
comes inside

-- Louisa Howerow (Canada)

lunar eclipse
a rabbit thumps
the hawk's shadow

Welsh rain –
a cloud of sheep
on the mountain

-- Martha Magenta (England)

in the roadside ditch
December moon

after Katrina
the beach trees become

-- John Zheng (USA)

fish moon
the stray cat's
third helping

scent of lavender
a bee
gets there first

-- Nick Hoffmann (USA – Ireland)

restless night
my bedroom mirror
becomes the moon

-- Craig Steele (USA)

wild lupine
a baby lamb
kicking air

-- Bill Cooper (USA)

rain-washed morning
everything green
is greener

-- Ann Magyar (USA)

in the orchard
gathering their songs

-- Ayaz Daryl Nielsen (USA)

night sky a wisp of the beach in the sandwich

-- Martin Gottlieb Cohen (USA)

petroglyph –
almost enough heat
to make the butterfly rise

-- Tom Sacramona (USA)

in the fire
pine needles
turn whiter

-- Meagan Collins (USA)

subway transfer
the homeless lady
sells mirrors

-- Nicholas Klacsanzky (USA – Ukraine)

the golden glow
of a waterfall

-- Gary Eaton (Canada)

rock pool
a snail soaks
in the stone's hollow

-- Nola Obee (Canada)

for the life that evades me –
conch shell

-- Devin Harrison (Canada)

birds in the bare trees sing
the morning warm

-- Mark Miller (Australia)

light slants
annointing oranges
in the bowl

-- Anton Floyd (Ireland)

blossoming ... a tree music

-- High O'Donnell (Ireland)

love letters
silver threads
on the carpet

-- Noel King (Ireland)

a crack in the sky –
filling the cat's saucer,
milky light

-- James Burke (Ireland)

knee-deep in the pond
Buddha breeding

-- Shrikaanth Krishnamurthy (England)

a breeze stirs the ashes
black wood
flaming into morning

-- Robert Witmer (Japan)

rainy evening
a mosquito pattern
on the pane

-- Padmini Krishnan (Singapore)

a roadside beggar
folds his mat

-- Adjei Agyei Baah (Ghana)

through cobwebs

-- Nureni Ibrahim (Nigeria)

summer clouds
the sound of creaking roofs
with each sunburst

-- Barnabas Adeleke (Nigeria)

feascar geimhridh
seabhac ag imeacht
faoi scáth an tsléibhe

winter evening
a hawk enters
the mountains' shadow

-- Buachallán Buí (Ireland; translated from the Irish by the poet)

Road to Vicksburg, Mississippi

by John Zheng (USA)

On the two-lane road to Vicksburg an armadillo with short stiff legs lies upside down, three crows peck a crushed turtle, pieces of a mole's red flesh litter here and there, and a dog squats beside his dead partner. This faithful dog! I look back, not noticing I drive on the wrong lane. Suddenly a loud horn blasts toward me. I swerve to the right just before an eighteen-wheeler wheezes by. Almost crushed! I utter nervously. A chill spreads on my back.

     by the blues highway
     to casino
     a wreathed cross tilts in wind


by Peter Jastermsky (USA)

Watching their thoughts fan out for miles, we decide that the old ones choose not to speak. Their wish for a quiet neatness holds what they no longer possess for themselves.

     where to place
     the commas –
     old friends

We imagine these old ones, being old, no longer notice this rough trail edge. Their shoes appear weighty, like monuments that have nicked these paths for miles, still inches short of somewhere.

     circling the pond
     all the memories

The old one's impressions no longer consist of manageable activity. In place of virtue grows a silence, one that carries them deep, without depth.

     the time it takes
     to snuff a candle
     last wish

That Which Remains

by Kelly Sauvage Angel (USA)

Within what could be nothing other than a lucid dream, I stand amid a vast expanse of lavender blossoms. A warm breeze caresses my shoulders, lightly ruffles my hair. As I raise my face to the sun, a sensation of the most profound contentment envelopes me. And, I encourage myself to stay with the depth of my breath, realizing that I am, in fact, beneath the covers, gently emerging from a mid-day nap.

Three lines of spontaneous poetry balance on the tip of my tongue; yet, the weight of my slumber keeps me still. I bid myself to hold fast to those words that capture the essence of this place that is truly beyond words. Having claimed the first line, my eyes flicker open before I am able to commit the second, much less the third, to memory.

A glass of water sits on the bedside table. The old tabby kicks at his ear. Those precious lines of poetry are nowhere to be found.

Throughout the afternoon, I try mightily to recall the words given to me as I slept. I beckon them from my mind as I drive the short distance to the grocery store and back. Squeeze some semblance of them onto a fresh notepad after closing my book. Search for them amid the laundry and the dishes piled in the sink.

Yet, only upon surrendering my futile quest toward sunset does a glimmer of that mid-day magic make itself known.

Not as it was, but as it remains somewhere deep within.

     lavender fields
     lost upon waking
     fragrant still

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