Monday, 13 April 2026

Nine Haiku & One Haibun - Poems by Joanna Ashwell

 






Nine Haiku & One Haibun - Poems


 

a redwing

returning again

snowberry dreams



assorted mittens

frozen to the line

snow inbound



yearly promises

January hail

pummelling the list



snowballing

another dream

an armlength away



sparkly journal

pretending I know

where to begin



out of the fog

first a door

then a forest



who knew

so many browns

autumn sky



so many puddles

even the dog

turns for home



rain semaphore

a porch light

the pumice of darkness



 

Soliloquy


There is just me whispering through the hours.  A dream half-resolved, the incompletion of time.  I am neither fully awake or in slumber.  Just diving in the liquidity of rainfall.  I imagine a sky of shifting clouds, a sunken moon with no beam.  There is no anchor between the shadows as I curl deeper in to the duvet.

 

all of the unknown

reshuffling the world

ravens in flight











Joanna Ashwell a short form poetry writer from the UK.  Published widely in many print and online journals.  She has been shortlisted for the Touchstone Award, has won awards and serves on the selection team for the Canadian tanka journal GUSTS.  Some of her poetry collections are available on Amazon.  River Lanterns, won the honorary Cherita award.  Moonset Song, Love’s Scriptures and Every Star are also available on Amazon. 

Long Day - Flash Fiction Story by J.S. O'Keefe

 






Long Day

Flash Fiction Story


by J.S. O'Keefe



Bill motions me to an imaginary telescope. “Look, the fields, the rivers, every human settlement, they’re broken. Time’s meandering and all’s random. People set out to do something, go somewhere, but there’s no finish line.”

I picture Bill back home twenty years ago, sipping yerba mate, theorizing about life, relationships. Emotional man, for him every goodbye was the final chapter, every return a resurrection. 

Three hours delay; finally we get on the train, crowded like a can of sardines.

Old and young on the train, derelicts in rags next to smartly dressed refined men, they’re all muttering. Self-talk, mainly, the usual rumors about raids by masked paramilitary men, terrorists bombing churches and retirement homes, bread lines in big cities, etc.

Arriving, a rush of anxiety hits me. Something’s amiss, people avoid eye contact, empty storefronts, no kids on the playgrounds. What if the rumors are true, even only one of them?

We shake hands and go separate ways. Bill’s body language indicates we’ll never see each other again. Now, for the first time, I believe it. 

I trek to the community center. The hallway is filled with people; they’re standing still, all tense. I imagine them scurrying for cover. 

I duck into the entertainment room. It’s got a widescreen TV, probably the only widescreen in town. 

Bill’s words echo through me till the game comes on. Offense is the best defense, says the announcer. It doesn’t mean anything.

I can tell, the frozen crowd outside is right.









J.S. O’Keefe has published several short stories, creative essays and poems in print and online literary magazines. More at his website: https://www.szjohnny.net

Sunday, 12 April 2026

Four Poems by Jackie Chou







Leaves


Today
when I take my usual walk
and see the trees 
stripping naked

I will admit 
that you have left me
to be in the wind 
like the leaves
tumbling on the streets 

Everywhere you go
you are followed 
by a procession 

I am not one of you
but a different species 
many-angled
like a maple leaf
in your world
of pretty red hearts



Nothingness in November
 

Today I will write a poem 
that is uninspired 
From no loaded heart 
shall the words be fired

No terracotta scene 
will the verses describe 
Black ink on paper
is all I shall scribe

If I mention the trees
goldening in autumn
I would want to elaborate 
on the whole arboretum 

So I jot down these lines
for the sake of writing 
in a world that's obsessed 
with thing after thing



Discarded Packaging of Earbuds at the Bus Stop


The parts of the packaging 
have gone to the wind

the plastic tray
the white box torn open

No delicate fingernails
dug at the clear tape 
to peel it off

as if its proprietor 
was so desperate 
to listen to something

a song, a video
that they couldn't care less
about the earbuds’ casing

perhaps to drown out 
the cacophony of noises 
inside the bus

the languages spoken
if only for a ride
or maybe a lifetime



The Beauty


She walks in beauty*
though she's nothing 
like the night

Her eyes don't twinkle like stars
but glint like earthly flint

Her hair is more like straw
than the silken curtains
of the sky

Her skin 
is no smooth ivory 
of the moon

When she speaks 
her words 
are lackluster 

Her voice sounds 
more like a raven's croak
than heaven's lullaby 

She walks in beauty
under the lamplight 
of a lover's room

His gaze turns her into 
a runway model

*a line from Lord Byron's poem "She Walks in Beauty"






Jackie Chou has published two collections of poems, Finding My Heart in Love and Loss and The Sorceress. Her work has also appeared recently in The Ekphrastic Review and Synchronized Chaos.

 

Nine Haiku & One Haibun - Poems by Joanna Ashwell

  Nine Haiku & One Haibun - Poems     a redwing returning again snowberry dreams   assorted mittens frozen to the line snow inbound   y...