All the roads mistaken brought me here.
late winter the promise of overcast skies
Bob Lucky
Author: jshb32
John Smith
John Smith, the son of John Smith, the son of John Smith, the son of John Smith, the son of John Smith, the son of John Smith, the son of John Smith, the son of John Smith, cast a shadow like his fathers, but left it by a drying lake.
no use
discussing sleeplessness
with an acorn
Johannes S. H. Bjerg/editor
TOB is open for submissions
Christ has risen! Happy Easter to all readers. The Other Bunny is now open for submissions again.
Riverside Bench
A place to meditate, take stock. A place to gauge how an elusive dream can reach new levels of intensity.
quicksilvered by sun
How long to live in order to attain the full extent of that innate creative flow.
span of an egret’s flight
Within the context of the universe ‘s life, one small planet’s aquamarine hue, viewed from afar, just ripples with the splendid insignificant.
a space of water
Diana Webb
Over Troubled Waters
trolley wheels
beneath me
floating island
gleam in the eye of one nurse to another mask to mask has she heard of haiku and yes I am a grandmother
full grown cygnets
the brown flood waters
white with sunlight
nearly over now a gleam in the eye of one to another above her mask it’s nearly
shaded garden
a patch of sunlight
brightens the fence
and now it’s really over really over do you take sugar and would you prefer…
the bliss
after so many hours
a sip of tea
Diana Webb
The Other Hand
After writing all morning, I set off to watch the sun hover over the desert. I hike into the mountains and sit against an aspen tree. From above, I see the desert floor spread out, a vast porch leading to a well-lit house beyond the horizon, many of its rooms, though, filled with darkness.
rice paper
raven song from the end
of my brush
raven song from the end
of my brush
Keith Polette
The Veil
The desert in June. It bedevils me:
an approaching paper cut. A singing stone.
Dry riverbed where quotation marks
lie down to dry. Where I escape.
Hot breeze on the back of my neck,
dogjaw dropping from the sky.
The van of paper cuts heaving.
the hour of slumber
mumbling the nights
of great proportion
Keith Polette
Bowling Green
E. L. Blizzard
3 Gembun
a possum with every purchase
catching the light
the golden seal
on my English degree
Kelly Sauvage/ Agnes Eva Savich
the oak’s creaky voice
thunderclap
not an owl feather
left of fargo
Agnes Eva Savich / Kelly Sauvage
Was that a bird or three chipmunks in a trench coat?
time warp
the gnarled hand
of her rolex
Agnes Eva Savich / Kelly Sauvage
Song of the Vanara*
While memory still proffers
While faded parchments still offer hints
As old laments still haunt the hallows
Each twilight slowly fading
Hear my song and know
That I am in you
I hid in Himalayan heights
Emerged from the depths
Lingered in jungle shadows
Passed from darkness into light
I am in you
As histories converge
I, too, am part of everything
Not as wild as you thought
Bards wove me into melody
You joined me in cosmic harmony
See me again
I hid in Himalayan heights
Emerged from the depths
Lingered in jungle shadows
Passed from darkness into light
I played my part
I am in you
rawhide silhouette
Sirius burning down
the wolf’s howl
*The “monkey people” of Hindu mythology
Anna Cates
the other bunny 
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