Haiku About Memory

Memory haiku arrive through the senses before they arrive as a thought. Deborah Guzzi catches AN ORANGE PEEL SCENT and is returned to GRANDMOTHER, with a closing turn onto MY GNARLED HANDS, as if the hands had been the memory all along. C.M. Rivers does the same with a house: THE WOOD-HEATED HOUSE OF MY REMEMBERED BOYHOOD and the smell of LENTIL SOUP. Taste and smell open rooms that no photograph can.

Objects are the other trigger. Rebecca Kane climbs to an attic where UNKNOWN ANCESTORS IN SEPIA are SMILING AT ME, a family album with the names missing. David White finds YELLOW ENVELOPES that are ADDRESSED TO YOU but dusty, near fishing tackle, envelopes meant for someone and left to gather dust among the gear.

Kathryn Ross is plainer about the cost. MY FACE IS MELTING, the poem says, and under each fold is a story the speaker will not REMEMBER. The poem is honest that remembering has limits.

Walking back

Alan Summers lets WORKING THE ICE CREAM turn into a walk ALL THE WAY BACK TO YESTERDAY. The distance is literal and the return is not, which is why it works.

Dust as an archive

Carl Scharwath’s DUSTY WALKWAY at the front doorstep RECORDS MY HISTORY, and David Hutt gives the dust a grudge: YESTERDAY FACES snort off their hardback books in THE RESENTFUL DUST.

Questions readers ask

Can a memory haiku skip the story?

It names one trigger, such as a smell, an envelope or a face, and leaves the story to the reader. The best of them point to the whole past through a single object.

More themes to read

FamilyTime and AgingLoss and GriefHomeRegretAll themes

Last reviewed November 2026. Poems are the work of the poets credited and link to their pages in the original issues.