A large yard surrounds a simple house in a quiet neighborhood. Years ago when I was still a carefree child this yard was my playground. The grass was always green and soft in the summer and the garden full of fresh vegetables to be picked when Grandma wasn't looking. There was a huge, old tree whose outstretched branch held my precious swing. I loved that swing. In the fall I'd jump off it into piles of leaves. In the summer I'd set the water sprinkler up behind it and swing through the spray of water. In the spring I'd spin around on it and wait for my mom to come pick me up after she got off work. And in the winter I'd miss it dearly and beg Grandpa to hang back up at the first sign of warm weather. The neighbors tree was my quiet place because there was a low branch that allowed me to climb up to perch myself between the branches. A row of colorful flowers lined the back of the yard, there scent drawing me to them on warm afternoons. Now days that yard is still there, but it's very different. The beloved swing is long gone, chains rusted and the seat cracked. The tree from which it hang began to rot, so it has since been cut down. The neighbors tree needed trimming, and my low branch was cut off. The large garden dwindled by rows and vegetables, and now is a single row of tomato plants. But the grass is still green and the flowers still smell sweet, and the grandparents that live there still welcome their little granddaughter during any season.

Easter egg hunt
in the green grass
laughter

shower of petals
on a windy day
Redbud tree

juicy tomato
drips down my chin
warm sun

Jennifer Griebel

She walks around the room with a Christmas play script. Raggedy Ann and Andy's "I'll be Home for Christmas" is what her fifth graders had waited all year for. It's audition day and she seeks the perfect student for the part of Raggedy Ann. As she nears the back corner of the room, she can see Gracie sitting with her head down. Mrs. Warner thinks to herself, "No, she couldn't play this part..." After a second thought, maybe this is what Gracie needs to bring her out of her shell and make the other students like her. Mrs. Warner hands her the script and Gracie soars through it, acting it out perfectly. Not only had she found her Raggedy Ann but she'd also helped make one little girl's dreams of being accepted come true. That's just the way Mrs. Warner was. She cared about every student and those who were less fortunate held a special place in her heart. Little did she know that after Gracie graduates from high school she'll consider Mrs. Warner to be one of her favorite teachers ever. Gracie will never forget that day in fifth grade when she was given the chance to be a star and it's all thanks to that very special teacher.

homeroom
the outcast
gets the role

Courtney Ruffner

I would go to her house every day after school. We would sit down at the kitchen table and talk for hours while munching on cookies and rocky road ice cream. This routine went on for years. Then one day she was found wandering the streets with no clue as to who she was or where she lived. Shortly thereafter, she was placed in a nursing home. Now she is only a memory to me.

thoughts of a visit
on my mind each day
too late . . . she's gone

Courtney Ruffner

Sitting comfortably on the front porch every morning is something very simple, yet extremely refreshing at the same time. Just as the front door opens, the cool morning air hits you in the face to assist you in waking up. The cool air and warm sun shining on you provide a perfect contrast while you sit down and begin to enjoy your fresh-brewed Folgers coffee from the same old mug. Maybe the most enjoyable and calming part of your morning is the vacancy of almost all human beings. From the porch, all you can see and hear are the various beautiful birds blissfully playing and chirping with each other. This is your time to just sit down and enjoy life before you head off to work and face the reality of a stressful day at work.

empty coffee mug
he is prepared
for the real world

Matt Whitsett

Her soft hair gently falls down into her eyes. This happens often but she always takes her precious hand and brushes it back in the most elegant and picturesque way one has ever seen. She has this way of walking across a room that is actually more like a glide. It is as if she is gliding, gently floating across a cloud. As if that is not enough, she has the most amazing blue eyes. Picture the first time you ever saw the ocean, crystal blue in all of its wonder. Multiply that by ten and you would still not even be close to capturing the beauty and mystery that comes from her eyes. They have a way of pulling you in and never letting you go. Wow, and then there is her touch. She has a way of holding a man that makes him feel as if he is the only person left in the world. When a man is in her arms all of his fears are swept away and remind him that he is hers.

small precious box
slowly opened
—down on one knee

Christopher Bronke

My mother is a hard-working lady that has provided anything that I have needed for the past 22 years. She is the type of person that never judges others and always gives everyone a second chance. She never fails to look for the best in others or give the best of herself. She is respected by many for the work that she does and the person that she is. She possesses an inner and outer beauty that is unmatched. I have never heard anyone say anything negative or bad about her. She has a way with words. When she speaks, she always makes you feel better about yourself and the world around you. She has lived well, laughed often, and loved much. My roommates always say that I have the nicest mom, and I believe I do as well.

dinner with mom
endless conversation
about nothing

Stacey Orr
Parental Haiku Award

I like this haibun because it reminds me of my own mother-- her unselfish ways, generosity, caring, etc.  If I ever need my mother, she is always there for me.  I like the part especially the haiku about the endless conversation about nothing.  I have this exact moment with my mother.  We can talk to each other for hours on the phone about nothing. —Miranda Baker

In Central Illinois, the beginning of spring brings great anticipation. There is prom, impending graduation, the planting of crops, but none of these contain the anticipation I'm talking about: mushroom season. It's a time when old friends become enemies, when laws are bent or broken all for the delicious taste of fungus. Mushrooms, or morels to be more exact, look like black, white, gray, or yellow sponges sitting on a beige stalk. And fried up in hot butter, they become golden and crunchy--just plain delicious. That's why, during the last weeks in March and through April, if you drive on a country road near my hometown and see a parked car, chances are the car wasn't abandoned. It's owner is down the nearest rill or on the far hill searching for the delicious flowers of a fungus decomposing matter on the forest floor.

by the oak tree
mom's first mushroom
all to herself

four morels
beside the stump
happy family

Ryan Jones

It is a humid afternoon in mid July. The car exits the interstate and pulls into a small town in the heart of Tennessee. With the windows rolled down, the cool mountain air fills my lungs. The hustle and bustle of people suddenly surrounds the car, and traffic starts to move slower and slower the deeper we travel into town.  Shop after shop passes selling t-shirts, jewelry, and homemade candy. The tourists are amazed at what a special secret this little town holds. The traffic starts to move faster, and the place that holds so many memories awaits this anticipating bunch. The caravan turns onto a dusty gravel road, which leads all the way up the mountain. After what seems like hours of turnabouts, the cabin finally stands before us. This ten-bedroom mansion is a playground for the next week. Staring at this wonderful place, the sights and sounds of vacation become reality again. The eight a.m. wail of the newborn baby, the combination of chocolate, marshmallow, and the blazing fire, and, the laughter of all the grandchildren as grandpa chases them around the cabin. Tennessee is a home away from home.  

moonlight night
roasting marshmallows
over the charcoal fire

Stacey Orr

A green oasis in the dry climate of Arizona.  The focus in the small town is on water.  Like all desert creatures, water is celebrated here.  Buried in a valley among mountains its center holds the worlds highest spraying working fountain.  Down the center of the main street, lining up perfectly with the town’s center point fountain are five smaller artistic fountains.  Everywhere there is the sound of water.  Palm trees, green grasses, and pools could make one forget the saguaro cacti and extreme dry heat.  Some of the houses are brightly painted to stand out in Native American patterns and others are made to blend in with the southwestern environment. 

dry breeze
plays the water
liquid instrument

Amy Soderberg

I came from a southeastern city of China.  The weather there is mild in the winter and hot in the summer . . . much like the temperature in Florida.  The coldest winter I remember, only had temperatures in the lower 40's.  Being used to the warm weather, snow and icy winter always amazed me.  It wasn't until when I immigrated to the United States that I saw real snow.  I got off the airplane after a 14 hour flight and still trying to adjust to the time change across the continents.  I thought I was dreaming when I saw a parking lot covered with thick snow.  From far away it looked like the entire area was covered with a white blanket, from cars to the ground . . . everything was covered with snow.  It was so amazing that I froze by exit for a moment.  It took me a while to absorb the fact that there is real snow on the ground.   

away in a foreign land
the snow fairy
welcomes me

Xiu Ying Zheng

In the fall, my family picks apples from our own tress. Yellow delicious apples, plump and solid, mixed with tart Jonathons for steamy skillets of sweet fried apples. The air is cool during apple harvest, crisp. The sky is clear. And leaves flutter onto the splashes of yellow and violet mums outside our window. 

fall harvest
the perfect apple
hides a worm

blue hooded sweatshirt
a small boy squeals
under the apple tree

Ryan Jones

Butterfly Weed is one of the few orange flowers on the prairie. It's my favorite flower too, and the hourglass flowers in large clusters are the color of ripe tangerines. Pioneers used its roots to treat pleurisy, and butterflies flit from cluster to cluster for nectar. 

one leg caught
the black ant
far from home

Ryan Jones

I hate piano recitals. No, that's not right. I love recitals, unless I am playing in them.  Before the fateful day, my hands are clammy, stiff.  My pulse rises. My stomach flutters. Recitals are required rites of passage, but it is often hard to remember a song from memory in front of hundreds of waiting eyes. You have to keep composure, or it's all over. 

a forced smile
pretending wrong chords
were planned

the recital
coughing
to cloud mistakes

Ryan Jones

You cannot describe the man without describing the setting. Somewhere deep in the hills, off an ordinary dusty road, lives a man. He has raised two sons to men, and put the third in the ground. He has lived his life from town to town as only migrant workers can. Every day he goes into the fields and he strings barbwire around his land. His hands are so thick and calloused that not even the barbs can cut through. Every night he surrounds himself with his family to play a round of cards and hunt down the flies that sneak in through the screen door. And no matter how many years he has left, he will live and die in those mountains.

family card night
granny deals another
slice of pineapple turnover

Erin Osmus

There is a quiet dull over the room. The young man enters the room with a spring in his step, and excitement in his eye. All he wants to do is share his energy with those who have lost it. The others curiously wait to see what they are doing that day. Each day is something different than the day before, but always the same people. However, this young man adds that extra element of energy to the group. The dull activities that seem to be time-consuming are transformed into an experience for a new day.   

contagious energy
on the spring day
nursing home 

Paul Schershel

My father is a person I have always admired, even though I have never admitted this in front of him. He is a person that would follow his dreams and does not give up until he reaches his dreams. As a young man in his early twenties, he immigrated to the United States all by himself knowing no one. He settled in New York City and started working at an American restaurant in New Jersey. For about ten years he was in the United States all by himself and working hard to pursuit his American Dream. I've only saw him twice within the ten years that he has been away. That's when he visited us in China. The image I had of him was always so energetic and 'young.' Yet when I finally arrived in the United States after his ten-year immigration petition, I really got to know what his life was like in the United States. He looked so tired everyday after work and at that time I was too young to understand why he had to work a 12-hour shift everyday and come home exhausted. But as I grew up, I finally understand. It was for his dreams . . . his American Dream for success.

revealing grey hair
once sparkling eyes
t i r e d from chasing his dream

Xiu Ying Zheng

From the outside, one would never guess what lies within. At a glance it is a small, one-story house nestled in between other houses on a gaping cul-de-sac. Getting closer reveals a hodge podge of children’s skates and knee pads tossed carelessly on the stained and cracking cement near the front door. The grass grows a little higher than one is accustomed to, and the remnants of plastic Easter eggs are still snarled in the trees on tangled strings. Inside the house little balls of dog hair blow across the hardwood floor like tumbleweeds in a desert, and a firm coat of dust rests on nearly every surface. The couches are festooned with slightly dingy throws and the stairs creak when you walk on them. A picture in the hallway is consistently just a little bit crooked, and nine times out of ten you can find a mostly-emptied ash tray tucked inconspicuously under the bathroom sink. It is an imperfect house, complete with dents and dings that make it flawed, yes, but also make it comfortable. It is a house as real as its residents, who have been known to scream at each other on weekends and holidays but also to support each other when the going gets tough. Just as it is not just a house, but also a home, its residents are not just people, but also a family, and the place in which they live speaks of their ordinary everyday beauty.

creaky porch swing
traces of Halloween spider webs
still caught in its chains

weed-filled garden
a rusted bike
as decoration

Alyson Ludek

Face pressed against the glass starring at a face similar to her own, she began to cry, “but she was supposed to be a boy!” Stomping her foot, she refused to spend anymore time starring at a baby girl that was not welcome in her home, as far as she was concerned. The house was filled with family members and friends as her mother returned home from the hospital, baby and all. With tears in her eyes, this young girl spends her time watching the celebration from a far, still upset with her mother and unforgiving of her new baby sister. After the visitors leave her mother asks her to please help with the baby. With an unhappy look on her face she stomps into the baby's new room. As she sits down her mother places the baby in her arms, immediately she falls in love with her enemy. One smile was all it took to warm her heart up to this bundle of joy and love of her life.

the baby
embraced in her arms
smiles
for the first time

Chrissy Hulse

As much as I complain about my boring town, and my boring house, and my family, I have to admit all are irreplaceable. There is something about the feeling that comes over me when I turn down my street and see my house that I have called home for eighteen years. Sometimes it's regret, other times fear, yet always underlying whatever is going through my head at the time is a sense of relief and peace. There is comfort in the familiar and my home is my refuge. It is here that I know I can be myself and escape this world's harsh reality. Like the back of my hand, I know every squeak in the floor, every chip in the chair rail and the dog in the window sill knows me better than I know myself. Home is more than a place, it's a feeling that takes a long time to create, and even longer to destroy.

bare feet
     on the cool
          hard wood floor

dad feeds the dog

Michele LaBrose

No one is normal, even though we all try to pretend that we are, and we all have things about our past or selves that we hide from others, some better than others. I often find myself battling with this weakness, the inability to allow people into my life. Some may call this a trust issue, and I suppose it is, however I often feel as though I cannot show my true colors to many people. I put on a good front, I am aware of this, and at times when I do wish to show my colors I do not know how because I have done such a good job at hiding them from others. However, I do feel that everyone has their own little "rain cloud" that many don't see, they only see what you are willing to show them, and who wants a rain cloud, everyone wants the rainbow.

hiding from you 
my gray cloud 
with a rainbow

once again 
I tell you  
that you didn't hurt me

Michele LaBrose

Cool dew, gathered on the soft ground, tickles the feet.  A gathering of small birds circles above, as if they are about to swoop in for a late night meal.  The cool breeze dances across the desolate plain reminding the campers that they will need their sleeping bags.  Families begin to gather around their respective camp fires.  Within a few min. age old family traditions will be passed down, via story or song, to the younger generation of campers.  The sun is takes one last breath before it goes to sleep in its bed of trees for the night.  Large sheets of smoke slowly begin to rise as if to overtake the air in an epic battle or good vs. evil.  In the end the smoke wins and pushes away any trace of the day's fresh air and replaces it with the precious reminder of camping. 

mid-day sun
beams down on us
—sand volleyball

Chris Bronke

Looking for escape, she runs eagerly against the pounding raindrops and vicious wind. Clothes plastered to her small frame, she gradually moves deeper into the vast blackness of the night sky. Although the grass is slippery and wet beneath her feet, she glides gracefully over the open field and finds freedom in her solitude. Suddenly catching her toe on the corner of an invisible stone, she flies forward and finds herself disoriented and lying in a mudpuddle. Tears suddenly explode down her face as though running a race of their own. Glancing down at her white fingers caked in brown earth, her tears subside and she quietly begins to smile. Her smile turns into a giggle...into gentle laughter...into shrieks of delight. She found her freedom beneath the night sky...crying salty tears that mingled with the raindrops and flowed back to the earth...the brown earth that now covered her body.

winding river
even the rapids
lead to calm waters

Bri Hill
1st Place

Always sweltering hot, but the week before finals it’s ten times worse. The ratio of people to computers is sometimes three to one because of all the group projects due the same week. Between all the heavily breathing people in the crammed space, the complete lack of any ventilation or Heaven forbid air conditioning and the apparent stench of sweat and body odor that hits you as upon entering the room, being in the room is almost impossible to bear.

late night
computer lab
stench of body odor

Bill Flowers

Small fingers touch her fragile skin. The smell of baby mixes with the scent of Grandmama’s notable perfume. I watch as Grandmother gracefully strokes the hair of the infant, making sure not to touch the soft spot. I watch as they smile at one another, as if they both know something I don’t. They continue in their reverie until both fall asleep. I know they are content.

visiting grandma
her grave remains
my soft spot

Kelly Carruth
Grandparent Haiku Award

My hometown is a quaint town. It has a population of around 23,000 but looks much smaller. There used to be a large field across the street from my house, before they started building houses. The school was so close to my house that I got to walk home when I entered middle school. On half days of school, my friends and I would walk around downtown and wouldn't get home until 5 or so. We would eat and shop for toys with our ten dollars. It was a wonderful time back then.

tootsie rolls
a penny
to spare

Lauren Taylor

Around my home town, the beginning of spring brings great anticipation. There is prom, impending graduation, the planting of crops, but none of these contain the anticipation I'm talking about. Mushroom season. It's a time when old friends become enemies, when laws are bent or broken all for the delicious taste of fungus. Mushrooms, or morels to be more exact, look like black, white, gray, or yellow sponges sitting on a beige stalk. And fried up in hot butter, they become golden and crunchy. Just plain delicious. That's why, during the last weeks in March and through April, if you drive on a country road near my hometown and see a parked car, chances are the car wasn't abandoned. Its owner is down the nearest rill or on the far hill searching for the delicious flowers of a fungus decomposing matter on the forest floor.

by the oak tree
mom's first mushroom
all to herself

four morels
beside the stump
happy family

Ryan Jones