mossy stone
a small forest
within it
C.X. Turner Warwickshire, U.K.
snow shimmer . . .
collecting the fragments
of my family tree
Nicholas Klacsanzky, Seattle, WA
art and science
of stopping time . . .
snowflakes on a slide
Monica Kakkar, USA/India
blood drops -
a stranger's marbles
on my glass slide
C. Oulens, India
electron microscope
the kireji splits
a haiku
Valentina Ranaldi-Adams
science lab
discovering the class clown
inked the lenses
Tracy Davidson, Warwickshire, UK
quadrillion atoms
in each neuron
of thought
Jeral Williams, Mobile, Alabama
fluorescent hum ...
my eye to the scope
as flagella whip
Chen-ou Liu, Ajax, Ontario, Canada
Michele’s Musings
Hello friends!
Can you even imagine what Loss of Signal would feel like? I have been following the Artemis II mission and have run out of descriptors for everything I have seen, but I’m still most in awe of what it would be like to go for 45 minutes with absolutely no contact back to planet Earth. Nothing. One of the astronauts admitted they said a little prayer when the comms went silent. Another confessed that the whole crew ate Canadian Maple cookies as they took a brief pause to absorb the intensity of it. I guess if the future feels unknown then you might as well eat dessert first!
I think the idea of eating dessert first is a perfect metaphor for what we do every day in haiku, even if we are not in outer space. Don’t wait to pick up your pen until you have the time. Don’t do the dishes first. Stop in the middle of the dog walk, or space walk, if something strikes you. Eat dessert first. And if a haiku drops from outer space, write it down!
loss of signal
eating a maple cookie
in solidarity
Sally and I have been busy reviewing the record 275 haiku that you all sent in! We can’t wait to share with you which ones took our breath away so we will be ready to announce the winners in our April 25 issue. As a result of next issue’s announcement there is no prompt for the issue. But still keep writing, everyone!
In the Whitespace with Sean
Birds Of Spring
singing a song
to the baby we lost
the cuckoo cries
Rowan Beckett Minor, USA
This is a deeply affecting haiku that brings private grief into resonance with cultural and seasonal symbolism, using sound as its connective thread. As a “Spring” poem it runs counter, perhaps to reader expectations
“the baby we lost” places the poem firmly in the realm of personal loss. The tone is intimate and elegiac. The grief is not implied but named, which gives the poem emotional clarity, even as it narrows interpretive space.
“singing a song” suggests an act of remembrance — a lullaby continuing beyond its original purpose. It feels both tender and unresolved, as if the act persists despite the absence it addresses.
“the cuckoo cries” carries added depth when read through the lens of the hototogisu (cuckoo) in Japanese poetics. Traditionally, the cuckoo’s call evokes:
- loneliness
- longing
- the fleeting nature of life
With this in mind, the bird’s cry is not just an auditory echo but a culturally loaded symbol that intensifies the poem’s emotional field. It aligns the speaker’s grief with a long poetic tradition of transience and solitude.
The poem juxtaposes:
- human song (intentional, directed toward the lost child)
- cuckoo’s cry (seasonal, instinctive, emblematic of impermanence)
The two sounds seem to meet across the boundary between inner and outer worlds.
The cuckoo does not simply accompany the grief — it articulates it in another register.
With the hototogisu in mind, the poem gains a second layer:
- the lost child → personal, immediate transience
- the cuckoo → universal, recurring transience
This creates a quiet expansion from individual mourning to a broader awareness of life’s fleeting nature.
The soft repetition in “singing a song” finds an echo in “cuckoo cries.” The auditory structure binds the poem, allowing the emotional shift to feel continuous rather than abrupt.
A poignant haiku that draws strength from both personal sincerity and cultural symbolism. The presence of the cuckoo as hototogisu deepens the poem considerably, transforming it from a private lament into a moment that resonates with the broader themes of loneliness and impermanence. Direct, but enriched by its layered echo.
Microscopic/Microscope
snow shimmer . . .
collecting the fragments
of my family tree
Nicholas Klacsanzky, Seattle, WA
I note, not without some irony, that many poems submitted as part of the microscope/ microscopic theme required some very close reading (and research). Nicholas Klacsanzky’s poem demanded a closer look because I couldn’t quite bridge
the disjunction between snow and fragments of a family tree. It was a puzzle that needed solving.
This haiku is layered, and intellectually suggestive. It links the natural world with memory and identity, with an added visual resonance that deepens its effect.
“snow shimmer . . .” points toward winter, but perhaps more importantly, in this case, to an image of light and fracture. The ellipsis slows perception, inviting the reader to linger in the glittering surface — countless points of reflection, shifting and unstable. The reader is not being presented with snow but a light effect.
“collecting the fragments” introduces a human act that feels both literal and metaphorical. The word “fragments” is key: it shifts the scene from simple observation into something broken or partial, and in need of reassembly. It pushes the reader in the direction (considering the broad topic of microscopes or microscopic) of thinking what fragments are likely to be viewed under a microscope.
“of my family tree” grounds the poem in identity and lineage (and scientifically in the examination of DNA). The act of “collecting” becomes one of reconstruction — piecing together ancestry, memory, or belonging from incomplete traces.
There’s a compelling visual correspondence at work:
- shimmering snow → a field of tiny, refracting crystalline structures
- DNA under magnification → snowflake like structures can be revealed under
Scanning Electron Microscopy (SEM) or atomic force microscopy (AFM) Both involve:
- structures too complex to grasp in full
- knowledge gained through light interacting with minute forms
- an experience of pattern emerging from fragmentation
Read this way, the poem subtly aligns genealogical searching with a kind of microscopic inquiry — assembling identity from scattered, barely perceptible clues.
The poem juxtaposes:
- ephemeral, surface beauty (snow shimmer)
- enduring but fractured inheritance (family tree)
This creates a tension between what is fleeting and what persists, suggesting that even what feels foundational (family, identity) may only be accessible in fragments.
The softness of “snow shimmer” carries into “collecting,” with a gentle, almost hushed cadence. The ellipsis functions effectively, mirroring the act of close, attentive looking.
A thoughtful and evocative haiku that moves from visual delicacy to conceptual depth. The added visual resonance between snow’s shimmer and the microscopic complexity of DNA enriches the poem, suggesting that both nature and identity are understood through scattered, light-revealed fragments. Quiet, reflective, and intellectually engaging.
Member News
From Marjolein Rotsteeg, The Netherlands:
I’ve made the longlist of the 2025 Touchstone Awards. https://thehaikufoundation.org/2025-touchstoneawards-for-individual-poems-long-list/
Two of my ku are featured in the Annual Selection of The Mainichi
https://cdn.mainichi.jp/vol1/2026/03/23/20260323p2a00m0et003…
And one of my haiku is published in
The Haiku Shack Magazine: Issue 6
https://ko-fi.com/s/71e0383309
And from Joanna Ashwell, UK:
I have been accepted by the Wales Haiku Journal 1 haiku, Cattails – haiku, tanka, tanka prose and haibun.
Congratulations Marjolein and Joanna! Honours well deserved!
If you would like to share your news with us, please send it in. We love the opportunity to celebrate
you
Sally’s Notebook
You know how sometimes random events happen, seemingly unrelated except they turn out to be intricately connected, even if it’s a network of filaments only you can see?
Yeah, that.
Earlier this week I learned a good friend of mine had taken a bad fall, breaking her shoulder. This is not the first time. A couple of years ago, she fell and broke an arm. Then there was a hospitalization for anemia, followed by a couple of strokes. She is not my only friend to be experiencing this kind of fragility. It breaks my heart.
It occurs to me I’ve reached an age where my friends are going to start dying. And me, too. This is a new angle of looking at mortality – up close, and personal.
Also this week, I watched a documentary on the building of the Canadian Pacific Railroad. It awoke in me a longing to take the train trip I regret not taking so many years ago. (That’s a whole other story.)
Suddenly, it feels as though I’m caught in a quagmire, and sinking fast. What felt like comfort in hearth and home last week now feels like a cage, and in desperation, I try to propel myself forward.
It feels hopeless.
The state of the world’s economy is on the brink of disaster. There is no money for food or gas. By all accounts, it’s only going to get worse. And I’m running out of time.
Out of nowhere, these words pop into my head.
“Get busy living, or get busy dying.”
I’m not sure where they came from, so I look it up. It turns out to be a line from the 1994 movie, The Shawshank Redemption. While everyone may interpret the words in their own way, to me it is best summed up in the AI Overview.
“It signifies a choice between actively pursuing a purposeful life or passively succumbing to despair, routine, and institutionalization.”
I’m not ready to get busy dying. Now, more than ever, it’s important to appreciate every single moment. So I will push on, in whatever way I can, pay attention, and rejoice. Those fleeting moments will make the difference, lift me, and hold me.
I hope they do the same for you.
magnolia blossoms
starting a go-fund-me
for my bucket list
Places to submit
Charlotte Digregorio seeks previously published tanka for her blog. You may email her at c-books@hotmail.com with JUST ONE tanka, including the name of the journal, issue number, and year of its original publication. Please submit by March 15.
Wales Haiku Journal is open for submissions until March 31st. Work submitted may be on any theme or subject, but works that embody the nature tradition of haiku are particularly keenly sought.
The reading period for Frogpond is now open. Send in your haiku by March 31st to be considered for the spring/summer issue.
The 2026 confluence Poetry Prize invites your submission of one Japanese short form poem on the theme of death and dying. They will award $500 in total prize money for the best poems on this theme that expand our capacity for imagining and illuminating this human existence. Submissions are due by May 1, 2026.
The Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival Haiku Invitational is an international online contest that attracts submissions from all over the world. Submissions on the theme of cherry blossoms close on June 1st.
Don’t forget that we are open for haiku collections based on the February prompts! Send us 15 haiku by March 25th to be considered.
This Week’s Prompt
There will be no prompt for the upcoming issue as we will be using the space to celebrate the haiku contest winners!
With the past, I have nothing to do; nor with the future.— Ralph Waldo Emerson
I live now.
Frithjof helps to get the Solidary Daisy content out to the internet. He wrangles the email monkeys 🐵 and improves the website.
SB Wright (Seàn Wright) is a disabled poet living in the South Australian Mid-North. Born in Nhulunbuy in Arnhem Land, he spent most of his life in Alice Springs before relocating south. A graduate of NTU, his working life has ranged widely, including roles as a security guard, martial arts instructor, trainer for an international gaming company, teacher librarian, and primary school teacher. In 2024, he became disabled due to AL Amyloidosis.
Japan and Japanese culture have been lifelong interests. While his poetry ranges from formal to free verse within the Western tradition, Japanese poetry and its English-language offshoots hold a special place in his work. His poems have been published in Verity La, Tincture Journal, Eureka Street, A Hundred Gourdes, INDaily Adelaide, Folk Ku Journal, and the anthologies The Stars Like Sand and 50 Haikus. His first collection of poetry (including Haiku and Haibun is Magpie Tales through Close-Up Books.
h.
Michele Rule is a disabled writer from Kelowna BC. She is especially interested in the topics of chronic illness, relationships and nature. Michele is published in the Asahi Shimbun Haikuist, Pine Cone Review, the Enchanted Garden, Five Minute Lit, Shadow Pond, WordCityLit, and the anthologies F*ck the Patriarchy, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and To Live Here, among others. She is an associate member of the League of Canadian Poets and Haiku Canada. Michele has been awarded honourable mention twice for the Vancouver Cherry Blossom Festival Haiku Invitational and also for the Haiku Northwest Porad Award. Her first chapbook is Around the World in Fifteen Haiku. Michele lives in a beautiful garden surrounded by people who love her just the way she is.
Sally Quon is a disabled poet and photographer living in the Okanagan Valley of beautiful British Columbia, Canada. She is an associate member of The League of Canadian Poets and a member of Haiku Canada. Her work has been published in numerous journals including The Heron’s Nest, Modern Haiku, Frogpond, First Frost, and Time Haiku. She is currently working on her first book of haiku, haibun, and haiga, tentatively titled, “My Valley, My Home.”
Featherstone Creative
Thank you so much for the commentary on my haiku “snow shimmer.” You hit the nail on the head with what I wanted readers to think about and engage with. The haiku was inspired by the ancestry test I took this year and me making a family tree, while also being inspired by the beauty of shimmering snow.