2026
HAIBUN (Judges: Diana Webb and Judson Evans)
First Place
Refuge
by Dru Philippou
The moon
abiding in the midst of
serene mind;
billows break
into light.
—Eihei Dogen
A twig-bundle fence at eye level encloses a Japanese tea garden. A shishi-odoshi clacks rhythmically against rock. Over the vermilion moon bridge, a stepping stone path meanders, for a short while, through a carpet of blooming woodruff. Tōrō, placed at intervals, lead to secluded niches. The owner, a Vietnam veteran, wearing a faded camouflage cap, steps barefoot into the karesansui. He rakes sand around islands and mountains. I imagine the ripples lapping to shore, washed with golden sunset hues. He wiggles his toes, as if he, too, feels the water’s warmth.
moss softened . . .
the weathered face
of a granite Buddha
Judges’ comments
“Refuge” struck me as the most adroitly written of all of the entries. Diana immediately noticed the historic links of the haibun: “Sensuous and spiritual, this piece opens by including the vertical axis of a poem from the thirteenth century Zen monk and poet Dogen, whose work influenced the poetic tradition that came after. This device of paying tribute to a past master, which was a feature of classical Japanese haibun, brings the reader to experience the place through both tradition and pared back yet finely detailed prose which echoes the tranquil atmosphere of the introductory waka and the title.” I was even more deeply moved by the spare description of the gardener:
“The owner, a Vietnam veteran, wearing a faded camouflage cap, steps barefoot into the karesansui. He rakes sand around islands and mountains.”
Here I found a grounding in a more battered reality—signalled by the combination of vulnerability — “barefoot” — and the harsh edge to the word “rakes” —to enact a soothing and balancing. We both appreciated the subtle way the stone buddha’s weathering suggested the veteran’s survival of the scars of war to find this garden stillness. As Diana commented: “This is an inspirational haven of a haibun worthy of first prize.”
Second Place
Descanso
by Dru Philippou
I have seen him when the tidytips, fairy duster, and owl clover bloom, but not before the mariposa lily releases its fragrance.
I have seen him when the monsoon rains awaken the mist flower and yellow nutsedge, long after the arrowleaf has faded.
I have seen him when the scarlet amaranth and desert marigold have gone to seed. When hummingbirds take their last sips at the feeder.
I have seen him kneel beside a beaded blue cross on the roadside, dusting an angel’s face as snow blankets the mountains. I have seen how he tugs the doll’s dark locks, smooths the veil, and tucks a note in her pocket. I have seen him scatter corn kernels for the blackbirds to keep her company.
shades of pink
pinwheels whirring
in the distance
Judges’ comments
This piece is hauntingly musical, moving and myterious with its blend of moments in nature and human moments singing to the reader through use of repetition. The haiku brings out both childlike and other wordly elements in a subtle way to end this haibun, leaving the reader wondering in both senses of the word at the source of some fleeting ghostly presence in a place which both title, repose in Portuguese and concluding poem suggest may be a final resting place.This haibun is an invocation of an area encompassing wondrous natural cycles caught by the senses, which conceals uncanny human sightings and which lingers long in the mind and tempts the reader back to seek clues time after time.
Honorable Mention
Thrift
by Billie Dee
It leaned too far and the galvanized roof was mostly sky, good for picture taking, nothing practical. The barn my great-grandfather built in 1862 with his boys and a team of mules, a fine piece of work in its day. Black iron nails he smithed himself, western cedar milled right here on the ranch.
Last summer we pulled it down. Two hours of dozer work. Would have been less if we hadn’t stood around admiring the buck rake, hand forge and anvil, the big round saw blade rusted out like everything else.
dry lightning
a taste of sagebrush
in the wind
We sorted out the best planks, the ones where saw-whip silvered the grain. Even Montana winters don’t eat lumber like that. I set some boards aside for fence mending, stashed the rest in the carriage house rafters till the roof sagged last winter. That’s when we had our family talk about the barn wood.
shelling pecans
on the screened porch
Dad’s 3-day stubble
We decided to make coffins, one for each member of the family. No sense waiting till the last minute. Mom took our measurements, my son Frank ripped out the lumber on his table saw. Naturally, Dad wanted a classic shape, no squared-off casket nonsense, and quality hardware.
Come spring thaw I stacked the four coffins in the tractor shed, unassembled, parts numbered.
soft nicker out back . . .
the appaloosa
too old to ride
Judges’ comments
In “Thrift”, I appreciate a conjuring of stark beauty in the ordinary:
“the galvanized roof was mostly sky”, and the poetry of worn objects that evoke a world of work and time-bound expertise:” black iron nails he smithed himself…”, “admiring the buck rake, hand forge and anvil…”. Against the quotidian of the ramshackle barn, the visual-tactile texture of “we sorted out the best planks, the ones where saw-whip silvered the grain…” shines.
The three haiku work to heighten the narrative movement, deepen the characterization of the “father”, and draw in the sense of generations. Likewise, they bring in new sensory elements of taste “the taste of sagebrush/ on the wind”, and sound:
“soft nicker out back…
the appaloosa
too old to ride”
Most movingly, the haibun translates the Japanese sense of impermanence into an only too real portrait of the economic collapse of family farming and ranching in the U.S.. One of the greatest strengths of this piece is this grounding in “place”: “western cedar milled right here”. Here, place is not just a “setting”, but a character in itself.
Honorable Mention
Independence Day
by Dylan Tweney
The wind moves and the wind chimes sound, soft and low, less jingle than temple bell. Leaves move against the sky like shadows on a screen. My son is off playing somewhere and my daughter upstairs working on something on her laptop, everyone else napping or preparing for the evening dinner, and I’m in the living room alone, looking at the light and the sky and the leaves and wondering: How can I carry some of this moment’s silence and solitude with me, how can I turn to it like an inner wellspring when the clutter increases, the noise rises, and the to-do-lists lengthen, and the children are thirsty for attention and I have too little to give them?
summer grasses
the hopefulness of the spider’s
funnel web
Judges’ comments
The haiku with its tribute to Basho in the first line gives this piece a vertical axis. A moment of reflection sparsely captured in the prose , very much in the spirit of haiku with a slight mysterious playfulness rippling through , from the lovely image of leaves 'like shadows on a screen' to 'like an inner wellspring' is both moving and musically shared.