The Best Haiku of 2026

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The Best Haiku of 2026

The Winner and Runners-Up of the Society of Classical Poets 2026 Haiku Competition

Judged by J. Thomas Rimer and Margaret Coats (see their remarks below)

See all entries here

 

COMPETITION WINNER

white lobelia . . .
how small we are, you and i
gazing at the stars

―Sheila Windsor

 

HIGH DISTINCTION

 

Ant on a flower
Scrambles to the edge and drops
Fifty thousand feet

―Peter Pindar

 

The eagle soars high
People smiling in July
Great America

―Molly Xian

 

Ornithopteron
Sarcophagification
Transfiguration

―Levi Warren

 

RUNNERS-UP IN SEASONAL ORDER

 

HOME DEPOT’s warm glow
sparrows and swallows nesting
in the cradling O’s

―John Savoie

 

my son’s first drum kit
almost in time with the beat
of a woodpecker

―Tracy Davidson

 

to eliot april
was the cruelest month
tulips disagree

―Steve Breyman

 

strips of wispy clouds
these dreams of being more than
what I really am

―Jay Friedenberg

 

footprints on the beach
record a silent meeting
until the tide turns

―Lucy Lind

 

Low tide’s polished sand
a crab chases gliding foam
then foam chases crab

―Carey Jobe

 

Lived to surf each day
Summer waves keep calling me
In my wheelchair

―Brian Hight

 

after all the fires
our hills burn gold with poppies
trying to forget

―Emily Rose Raboy

 

tea glass meets stone floor
scatters into star-lit shards
emptiness is all

―Patrick Lima

 

invisible curls
fall from the sycamore’s crown
helicopter seeds

―Louis Talbot

 

One crimson leaf falls
The others cling to the branch
As though they have time

―Michael Pietrack

 

another IV.
another handful of hair.
another leaf falls.

―Josiah Johnson

 

gesticulating
the wind-thrashed maple cries out
to its fleeing leaves

―Earl Randal Keener

 

autumn park at dusk
loneliness curls in my lap
whiskers wet with rain

―Snehal Bhadani

 

one lone bell-cricket
smoothing out the rough edges
of an autumn night

―Danny Blackwell

 

Softly glows the moon
nothing stirs to break the spell
silent lies the snow

―Henry D. Scheuers

 

Sky-striding Perseus
In the wintery heavens
Andromeda waits

―Alena Casey

 

Trudging through white peace
Then whoosh a round blur shoots past
Snowball fight! Game on

―Leon Le

 

silent winter lake
beneath the clear sheet of ice
a fish moves the moon

―Silvia Ursache

 

Snowy empty road
Streetlights, one plum petal falls
Right into my hand

―Valerie Angelina

 

JUDGES’ REMARKS

The winning haiku by Sheila Windsor sets a summer scene: that’s when lobelia blooms. Its flowers are not tiny in relation to some others—but Sheila minimizes them with herself by exclaiming “how small we are,” emphasizing the similarity as she addresses them, “you and i.” The lower-case “I” could be achieved in Japanese by using humble language, appropriate when addressing a senior or superior person. But a plant? The propriety appears only in the last line, “gazing at the stars,” revealing the full scene that dwarfs Sheila and lobelia under the night sky. One more thing: we understand the lobelia are white and not some other color because they represent nighttime pallor, and in a way reflect the whitish pinpoints of stars far larger than the earth itself. From “white” to “stars,” this is a haiku of overarching perspective.

Perspective is key to the Peter Pindar haiku “Ant on a flower.” There is much motion in the central line, with the verbs “scrambles” and “drops.” “Drops” functions as a kireji or cutting word, switching the human observer’s point of view to that of the ant, who falls a startling fifty thousand feet, as measured by ant feet.

Among a few contest haiku referring to the America 250 celebration in 2026, Molly Xian identifies her subject gradually, with admirable economy. She first refers to the national bird, then to happy people in the month of the national holiday, and finally makes a simple declaration of American greatness.

Levi Warren goes beyond the challenge of using a five-syllable word in one haiku line, to attempt creating a three-word haiku. This is the first success the judges have seen. We take the first word to be an adjective “bird-wing” (based on Greek words). The other two are nouns. The middle line word, seemingly coined by Levi, names burial in a sarcophagus. “Bird-wing” “burial” “transformation.” But doesn’t Levi have the process upside down? A caterpillar should be buried in a chrysalis, resulting in transformation to a “bird-wing” butterfly. There are, however, no verbs and thus no tense (time) to outline structure. The final line functions in haiku time (always the present). This potentially bird-wing creature burial and transformation save the most easily-understood revelatory word for last—where it should be.

It’s unusual to stress a certain sound among words of a haiku, but John Savoie naturally repeats the long “o” six times in accord with his image of the “O’s” in a Home Depot sign. More common is to bring a sound to the imagination, as Tracy Davidson does by comparing a woodpecker’s springtime energy to a child’s slightly off-tempo drumming.

Motion, in images and in thoughts they stir, distinguishes good haiku. There’s a surprise attack snowball fight for Leon Le. Notice how his opening line does not expect it, and the mixed-up middle line starts the excitement. Louis Talbot observes invisible motion. Sycamore seeds can be seen, but the curls they shape falling through the air are only available to a close and thoughtful observer of complex curvilinear patterns. Reciprocal motion (gliding sea foam chasing and being chased by a crab) outlines the haiku by Carey Jobe.

Small or confined movement distinguishes especially careful observation by the haiku writer. The one plum petal falling into Valerie Angelina’s hand shows that snowy emptiness is not entirely empty. Silvia Ursache finds a fish caught below a clear sheet of ice—but with its movements, able to move the reflected moon.

Deep emotion, too, develops in haiku. Brian Hight tells of the call of the waves to a disabled surfer. “Whee-yul-chair” for the compound noun, is a common pronunciation making the syllable count correct. Josiah Johnson compares his chemotherapy experience to the inevitable autumnal fall of leaves. The sad, simple haiku speaks to many who have watched or undergone chemo. Michael Pietrack adds explicit commentary to his observation of one leaf falling. He humanizes the others in the tree; they think they still have time. Unusual, but a good sardonic finish.

Snehal Bhadani creates a touching scene of loneliness becoming affection, as a cat curls in the lap of a park visitor. Undoubtedly, both were lonely before the friendly encounter. Danny Blackwell says this can happen even with cricket song, “smoothing out the rough edges of the autumn night.”

Emily Rose Raboy sees golden poppies burning on a hillside—but lets the beautiful view signify nature’s attempt to overcome and forget destructive wildfires. Earl Randal Keener, on the other hand, finds seasonal sadness in the loss of leaves by a maple tree. Its bare branches seem to “gesticulate,” mourning the fleeing leaves.

Patrick Lima offers an explosive haiku, perfectly concluded by what looks like a Zen koan: “Emptiness is all.” Indeed his tea glass spilled the tea when hitting the stone floor—and the glass, having shattered into shards, is no longer a glass capable of holding anything at all. And yet the shards are star-lit—the emptiness contains light.

Other haiku deal with transience. Lucy Lind speaks of the seashore evidence of a meeting, lasting only till the next tide. Jay Friedenberg allows cloud wisps to let him learn about dreams of being more than “what I really am.”

One haiku here, by Henry D. Scheuers, exudes peace. There are verbs in each of the three lines, but no motion. This turns the idea of haiku change and revelation on its head.

Haiku in Japanese often feature literary allusion, as do those here by Alena Casey and Steve Breyman. Alena takes the story of Perseus and Andromeda, but puts it in the realm of nature, by referring to the winter constellations. Though many pronounce “Perseus” with three syllables, the two syllable “Per-syoos” is preferred by some dictionaries, so the first line has five syllables.

Breyman’s first line does indeed have six syllables—as does his second line; therefore the two add up to the requisite twelve. This is preferable to putting the second syllable of “April” in the second line. And the 6-6-5 haiku emphasizes the idea that Eliot is wrong about April, and the tulips who think otherwise are correct!