Folk Ku, 2025

forest canopy
letting go of
my identity

Published in folk ku, Issue 06, King River Press 2025

 https://kingriverpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/01/folk-ku-issue-6-trees-nov_dec-2025-pdf-edition.pdf 

The Mainichi Japan, 2025

ceasefire --
the sky blooms
with fireworks


Published in The Mainichi Japan, December 27, 2025  

https://mainichi.jp/.../arti.../20251125/p2g/00m/0su/034000c
 

Flying Fish, 2026

stage four—
the pink ribbon tangles
around her wrist

Flying Fish, Issue 3, January 2026

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1OMVT5pVuS9Mz241WmhhQzyjAEJjmsJWn/view

re:Virals, 2025

re:Virals 534December 19, 2025
Susan Yavaniski
Featured Content, re:Virals

ref: https://thehaikufoundation.org/revirals-534/

Welcome to re:Virals, The Haiku Foundation’s weekly commentary feature on some of your favorites among the best contemporary haiku and senryu written in English. In the host chair today is Susan Yavaniski. This week’s poem, chosen by Sudha Devi Nayak is:

distant stars—
the refugee mother rewrites
her lullaby

—Hifsa Ashraf
Haiku Foundation Haiku Dialogue, October 29, 2025

Introducing this poem, Sudha writes:

The mother in this heartrending haiku is a refugee in a distant land singing to her child under different skies, different stars. Displaced from her home and country, in a state of fearful exile, exposed to the hazards of living in an unfamiliar environment, she still has to comfort her child. Her lullabies are no longer the joyful ones she once sang but laced with sadness and heartbreak. There are tears in her voice and she does not know how long she will remain a refugee, whether she will find welcome and a home in a foreign land or whether at all she can return to everything she knew and loved.

Hers is not a new story. She carries the story of all migrant populations forced to flee their countries as a result of war and violence and persecution, in search of homes and livelihoods. They will always carry the memories of places left behind and perhaps in their hearts will never truly belong to the places to which they have migrated, and they may never find the acceptance they desire. They are confronted with an uncertain future. As Salman Rushdie says: “Exile is an endless paradox: looking forward by always looking backwards.”

Host comment (Susan Yavaniski):

For many readers, this week’s verse will trigger a visceral emotional response, familiar as most are with the plight of millions of refugees worldwide, the majority of whom are women and children. Like Sudha, we immediately intuit the fear, heartbreak, tears, and sadness of the mother’s plight.

Yet at the heart of this senryu is an act of will and empowerment. Beneath “distant stars,” in a situation in which the fundamental reality she has known has shifted, a mother, in a small but significant way, asserts herself as a participating author of her own and of her child’s destiny, “rewriting” the foundational song that will not only comfort her infant, but shape the child’s development.* Ashraf’s verse, heartrending though it may be, equally suggests the adaptability and the resilience which humans often summon in the face of adversity.

Reading this poem in the midst of this Christmas season, the particular constellation of images—stars, refugee, mother, and by inference, infant—recalls the Biblical story of the birth of Jesus, particularly the account of mother and father fleeing their home with their infant son, taking refuge in Egypt to protect their child from King Herod’s threat of execution. Like this week’s verse, the ancient story rouses sympathy for those in like circumstances and offers an example of perseverance and hope in times of difficulty.

Wishing everyone peace and courage in the coming year.

Pamela Garry:

Before the exodus, the desperate mother prayed for her family to be transported. Upon arrival, her prayers turned to returning home.

Radhamani Sarma:



Hifsa Ashraf ‘s powerful verse portrays love, love lost, and the agony of separation from a mother’s point of view. In three lines, every choice of word conveys feelings of despair.

The very first line, “distant stars,” refers to her children living on an alien soil. Maybe they are hungry, doing hard work earning their own livelihood in their new country. The word ” distant” denotes a sense of longing for them, and the hyphen implies her endless conjecture about their situation.

In the second line, “the refugee mother rewrites,” the mother recalls her children’s presence. Whether they were separated by war, religious persecutions, crime or fear of punishment, whatever be the reason, the absence of her near and dear ones is a misery that gnaws at her.

The mother takes refuge in music, in a world of her own. She “rewrites / her lullaby” to take into account present circumstances. When a child is born, there is merriment, a mood of happiness and festivity; but for the “refugee mother” joy is short-lived. The lullaby is transformed into a longing for reunification and safety.

“If music be the food of love, play on” is a quote from Twelfth Night by Shakespeare. Here, music is the food for love, for love lost, for separation, for anxiety, and for a longing for reunification. Only a soothing melody can provide solace for a refugee mother’s heart and soul.



Urszula Marciniak—learning a new language:

The stars are far away. Maybe even so far away that they’re invisible. Another hemisphere. And the ones the refugee mother sees look alien. She already knows she won’t return to her homeland. She’s learning a new language, and her child will be rocked to sleep with a new version of a lullaby. She doesn’t want her child to long for something unattainable. She wants her new homeland to be her child’s homeland from the very beginning. She looks up again, and it’s still not her sky.

Author Hifsa Ashraf says:

I often write about war-related issues, and one of my poetry collections specifically focuses on the stories of refugee mothers and children. This haiku tells the story of a mother who, after being displaced by conflict, tries to hold on to a sense of normalcy and comfort by rewriting her lullaby, reshaping it to fit a world forever changed.

This haiku tells the tale of a mother who is forced to flee her home due to war, carrying with her not just physical burdens, but emotional ones too. In a foreign land (in a refugee camp), under a different sky, she tries to soothe her child, or she misses her child, but the lullaby she once knew no longer fits or she forgot it due to the traumatic experience of war. She rewrites her lullaby, perhaps in a new language, or with new memories to comfort her child in unfamiliar surroundings or deeply in a grief sharing her feelings of longing for her child who is no longer with her.

This opening sets a vast, quiet, almost timeless atmosphere. Distant stars symbolize both wonder and longing. Their distance means disconnection, loss of touch, and/or a sense of being far from home.

A lullaby is intimate, holding some personal touch with it which may be a memory or the only way to console her child who may or may not be with her. To rewrite it may mean changing the words, melody, or even language, adapting her tenderness and love to new surroundings, new fears, and hopes.

The contrast between stars and a mother’s lullaby depicts the emotional depth, showing how even in exile, love and care don’t fade.

FromOneLine Anthology - Meg / Kobayaashi Studios, 2024-25

another week 

passed after betrayal 

autumn moon

this longing to drift

across the darkest sky

-------

none of them had labels the emergency aid 

-------

three copper pennies

overlapped in the well 

forgotten wishes 

-------

the string snapped

of a refugee child’s guitar 

autumn wind 

-------

there are lights 

on Mars

after whispers 

of our gossip drift

above the dark skies

------- 

The Wind of Change

I’ve forgotten too many things while moving to a new house, a deliberate effort to preserve my emotional bond with my family home. As I pack, I realize I am gathering things that hold a little bit of sentimental value. What I choose to leave behind—old vases, velvet curtains, a wooden trunk, worn kitchen utensils, backyard swings, and walnut furniture. Each of these objects are deeply woven into the fabric of my childhood, holding memories that resurface with a glance or touch. It’s my way of staying connected to my childhood home as I know it’s time to move forward into a modern life that may or may not hold the same sense of belonging. 

 

end of summer—  

husks and dust settle

in the balcony bird feeder 

-----------

Dark Shadows 

It was hard to interpret  

the untold miseries  

etched on the faces  

of those forced to leave  

their homeland, their heritage,

their only place to live freely.  

It was hard to interpret  

the words that pierce hearts,  

the wounds too deep  

to heal without miracles,  

the tears that roll  

down the cheeks  

of the helpless, of the vulnerable,  

those without a voice.  

It was hard to interpret  

the silence of old women  

sitting on the rubble 

of time,  

finding no answers  

for why’s been scapegoated—  

a thousand innocent souls.  

It was hard to interpret  

the prayers locked 

in quivering lips,  

unspoken, ungranted, 

until the very end.  

It was hard to interpret  

the peace after massacre—  

still unfolding the wings  

of another war within.  

-----

home alone 

“I can see everything now, can't I?”. I asked this question to myself before lying on the sofa near the window that opens to the garden. I want to make a constellation before going to sleep but the grayish white clouds made me draw the curtains instead. I scroll through the social media posts and find nothing relevant and interesting. I start staring at the roof where I can see the dappled light of the lamp reflecting the tiny stars. It’s time to connect the dots. I made a small constellation with the stars and named it after my childhood nickname. The nickname that I never heard of for years and that still echoes through my memories. I still am not ready to let go of things that were once a part of my life. 

sleepless night 

the flashes of 

distant lightning 

-------

echoing childhood 

“You make me dream of dragonflies, O little rascal!”  she screams from the hilltop.

He is her childhood friend—the one she always wants to be around. After ten long years, she has returned to her hometown, the place woven with the golden threads of her early memories. City life has drained her: routine, noise, deadlines, loneliness but no real joy. So she comes back, searching for some peace and real happiness. 

She wanders through the old town bazaar, where she would come with her parents and her childhood friends. The local park greets her with rusty swings; their creaking sounds seem to recognize her touch.  

Then she climbs the hillside behind her family’s old haveli—the place where she and Sunny once sat for hours. Their evenings were filled with stargazing, chasing fireflies, listening to crickets, and finding shapes in the full moon.

“It was routine back then,”  she murmurs, taking a deep sigh. 

The tears roll down her cheeks, and she lets them fall, unbothered. She screams into the vast sky, but only her own voice returns, echoing through the valley, sharp and empty.

With a heavy heart, she walks back to the haveli…

back home late

the dry leaves cling 

to her shawl

-----------

deep winter night 

“She took the last piece of cake and went back to her room,” everyone whispered at the party.  

She wants to eat it alone—especially after her recent illness, which has kept her mostly confined to her room. It’s their 50th wedding anniversary, and her husband has thrown a lavish party, eager to present their marriage as perfect to his social circle.

He shares a carefully worded post on social media, tagging her too. The steady ping of notifications irritates her, and she puts her phone on silent.

Taking a small bite of the cake, she mutters.

 

“Why do people pretend their imperfect marriages are perfect, especially on social media?”

She tosses her phone onto the bed and moves to the window—her usual refuge when sadness creeps in. Gently, she touches her faded purple scars on her wrists and thinks about her traumatic past. 

Outside, evening fog is shrouding the street lights. She looks up at the sky where the stars are almost dim—barely holding on their light. 

blurred window—  

 she scribbles her initials   

 without her family name 

My 10 poems (haiku, tanka, freeverse, haibun, and gembun) in the latest FromOneLine anthology, Vol 07. The FromOneLine paperback and hardcover versions are now available to purchase from Amazon!



ASIN ‏ : ‎ B0G5NQLPRZ
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Independently published
Publication date ‏ : ‎ 7 Dec. 2025
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Print length ‏ : ‎ 258 pages
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 979-8277722510
Item weight ‏ : ‎ 399 g
Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 14.57 x 2.13 x 22.19 cm

Paperback : https://mybook.to/FOL7
Hardcover : https://mybook.to/FOL7H

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0G5NQLPRZ?tag=uklinktagbk-21&th=1&psc=1&geniuslink=true

https://kobayaashi.wordpress.com/

---------------------

is it a long way
down memory lane
double contrail

----

the calendar was out of days

hospice wall
shadow after shadow
her memory fades

----

shadows
always find a way
in the backyard
childhood memories
on the wall

----

three keys

hung on a hook
of the family house

since last year
when we are forced
to leave our place

----


they arrived

under cover of rain
wind howling
midnight dreams

out of the blue

in each fold 

of the bedsheet
his last call

winter stars

tears fall
without sound
my lingering grief

----

we gathered
at the end of time

without gravity
we still become
the center of universe

Pages 46, 91, 113, 170, 188, 252

Paperback and Hardback versions are now available from Amazon

Paperback : https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0D9RJVGW7

Hardback : https://bookgoodies.com/a/B0D9XJSVPC

The Paperback is available in India from Pothi : https://store.pothi.com/book/meghan-dargue-fromoneline-unseen/

You can also find the book (with relevant links) on the Kobayaashi site : https://kobayaashi.co.uk/fromoneline-the-unseen/

Prune Juice, 2025

raging sea–
the scattered remains
of a migrant’s boat

December’s winner for Josiah’s Complete the Haiga, Prune juice, Issue #47.

------

first winter rain 

I slip back 

into my blues 

genocide— 

this urge for life 

on another planet

Prune juice, Issue #47.

https://prunejuicesenryu.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/12/pj-issue-3.pdf

winning gift

Smols Poetry Journal, 2025

inkblot shapeshifting my shadow


delusional circle of crows moon

Smols Poetry Journal, December 03, 2025

https://smolspoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2025_12_03_archive.html

Circle of Salt, 2025

in plumes of jasmine incense a wandering dervish

Circle of Salt, December 02, 2025

https://circleofsaltmag.blogspot.com/