Poetry Biography

Harrisham Minhas was born in India.
She is an Electronics and Communication Engineer. She currently works as a Web Designer in U.S.A.

She won Merit Award in the 24th ITO EN Oi Ocha New Haiku Contest, Honorable Mention in The Mainichi Haiku Contest 2012, Honorable Mention in Vancouver’s Cherry Blossom Festival Haiku Invitational 2011, Second Prize in The Mainichi Haiku Contest 2010, International Section.

Her poems have been published, or are scheduled to be published in: The Tribune, Creations Magazine, paper wasp, Harvests of New Millennium, Barnwood, On Viewless Wings Anthology, LiteraryMary, Mu, Mayfly, Haigaonline, Muse India, Modern Haiku and others.

Harrisham writes in various poetry forms and styles. She is the inventor of two poetry forms: Harrisham Rhyme and Harrisham Sonnet, which are being internationally used by poets.

Some of Harrisham's Poems


He stands here as a bonsai
in spite of his tall old body;
slightly stooped -- partially with age, partially in awe,
            as romping children metamorphose clouds into commodities;
                              filling them in fragile bags of a grocery store.

He feels like a dated "new pictures" folder in the computer;
ready for being updated.

Sky has undergone desensitization
towards the birds
who are performing acupuncture on its cheeks.

The children create origami in the moist air
with the static electricity of their hyper hair,
and then leave their origami to float, grow
into something they can come back to, if they wish.

Some acrophobic patterns of clouds
exude their sighs -- rain.
Rain --
    like the ambidextrous tongue of a chameleon,
    lunges out continually
    to grab something between the earth and the sky
    and then crackles it
like poppadoms
                          in the sky.

© Harrisham Minhas
Published in miller's pond

Cold paper wasps and the moon

From the tube of today’s winter sun,
this old woman has absorbed much ointment
for her aching knees.
Now she’s looking at the moon.
A fragrance reminds her of something –
something she thinks she remembers
but doesn’t want to remember,
for she wants to live in this obtuseness
like a tiny seed amongst other tiny seeds inside a bell pepper –
The body language of the cold wind
becomes a bunch of paper wasps –
meandering in the same evening vicinities,
annoying everything non-woolen.
Some neighborhood children tie and dye cloths with their hands
in the colorful Indian way,
and wonder how the moon — the kneaded flour ball
would look like in their hands,
and if it would allow them to tie and dye its calorific body.
The old woman’s husband sits on a rock,
his wrinkled neck covered with a muffler.
He likes to create origami with his handkerchief,
successfully transforming the wiper of
his generally-saliva-cornered lips
into something which can look hygienic.
The blackness of the night begins to whiten
as if all the night insects
hiding underneath the organic and the inorganic,
emanate fog out of their mouths
while speaking persistently.
Birds have descended to trees to touch wood,
so that they don’t lose the lychee flesh of the moon,
which they endeavor to taste one night
and have moon-flavored paws.

© Harrisham Minhas

Published in Muse India 2013

fingerprinting the skies

I think that all the flowers
are miniature replicas of the sun.

The stems of some flowers
exude milk when they are plucked,
they paint the preying fingers in white,
just like it snows in some places
when the sun is plucked from their skies.

The night is the flavor of the moon.

Sometimes the moon is my sponge pad,
I touch it with my fingers,
moisten them with moon-color,
and then I forget to turn the pages.

Sometimes I hide the sun and the moon
placing them inside the pouches of my clouds,
for I own the stencils
which custom-shape my clouds.

© Harrisham Minhas
Published in Muse India, 2014

Some Indian roads

(Poetry Form: Haibun)

We are on the way to the airport at 4 in the morning. In this darkness, a teenager cycles towards his tuition classes, with a heavy backpack on his back. An old lady worker searches for metal splinters by moving a magnet-stick besides the road. Some rickshaw drivers somehow manage to sleep on their rickshaws in a way which makes it look effortless. Some autorickshaw drivers sleep on the pedestal outside closed shutters of shops.

behind a broad tree
a light shines
in the small temple

The advertisement banners outside the hotels and malls shine distinctly. Three men repair a scooter on the road-side. The windows of an empty school are lit by the street lights. A middle-aged couple are on their early-morning walk with their Pomeranian. In a small restaurant, cooks knead some dough and prepare curries alfresco. Occasionally, we cross other vehicles at this deserted time. A small truck ahead of us is stacked with newspapers of the day.

holding the truck’s rear
firmly with one hand
a cyclist avoids pedaling

© Harrisham Minhas

Published in World Haiku Review, January 2011 Issue.


(Poetry Form: Harrisham Rhyme)

Residing in a house amidst a sleepwalking tea garden,
gives you no reason to assume untimely caffeine in your nights.
Sun fetches waters in its earthen pots, as nights are laden,
nodding to every yogic Surya Namaskara offered from all sites.
Garner colored moisture from falling petals when autumns harden,
reshape every day into your own motif, as your body reads, soul writes.

Published in Barnwood (2011)

A soldier's fetus

Respiration whitewashes his insides
in a shape known to none,
his earth is momentarily like a trampoline,
a heartbeat divided between different levels of air.
Nauseating salt-birds peck his skin's moisture,
he craves for a moon
that would fill his land's parched mouths
with buttermilk.
The stretchmarks on his feet
reincarnate his patriotism.

Publushed in:

Barnwood (2010)

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