GHAZAL
THE TIME IS UP…
T. Ashok Chakravarthy
The flowers of martyrdom
Wilt without attaining freedom
Their blood has gushed out
To transmit life to a new plant.
The chill wind which often blows
No doubt, blew across the dew
The advancing season of summer
Unfolds several of its true colors.
A flower itself is a dream shattered
Its aspirations are at all times fated
The chill wind slices its petals delicate
The hot Sun snaps the life in haste.
Similar is the position of own life
Surrounded by travails and grief
Dreams shattered, the love-lorn heart
Like the doomed flower is about to wilt.
The moment of martyrdom is precise
The freedom from agony is imprecise
The element of love, I transmit yet
I know, the time is up for the ultimate.
DISMANTLED LONGINGS
T. Ashok Chakravarthy
A poem finds fertility to sprout
From the seed of a disillusioned thought
I assume, it’s a beginning perhaps
To reach the peaks of a new musing.
Enclosed in self imposed circumstances
When can we share peace and serenity?
Moving within, as creators and destroyers
How can we establish a kingdom of peace?
The tide of peace had already run ashore
Desperate, we stretch hands unto the giver
Without a nest to dwell, the dove of trust
Flew-off across the sun beyond every view.
Until the burst of violence rocked everyone
The time gave many a chance for peace
When engrossed in joys, we ignored its worth
Now, the same tendency flocks for peace.
The fastened doors of peace lay abandoned
Instead, brutal and vicious violence greets
Together they plough and trample peace
The longings built seem dismantled forever.
Like a sower who scatter seeds in a field,
Who can scatter the seeds of peace now?
If the field itself is soaked with unholy blood
Does a scope exist to plant a garden of roses?
REIKI RAIN
Tree Riesener
Can't depend on curing your recurring ills yearly with Easter cake and
champagne?
You need a hand on your head, traffic director conducting the green light of
reiki rain.
Keep prowling lions and the angel of death away by concocting covered dish
suppers;
feed the shift sleeping inside and the ones sleeping their week in the joint-achey
rain.
Not a paper towel, sponge or tampon, healer, keep a finger in heaven's dyke;
don't let curfew ring until we're strong enough to be cured; hold back the
breaking rain.
Terror! No one here for your remaining days; a watery bit of gold, a cold
grey sky;
at breakfast endure with all-night-soaked cornflakes, watching snowflakey
rain.
Throw mercy into the mix. Tomatoes benefit from a pinch of salt, corn
from sugar.
S and M, who's on top today, who's on bottom? Slaughter hides in
mandrake rain.
London bridge is falling down; lovers suckle in our arms, the door turns,
universal
jumps with toothpicks. Fear no blessing wounds in heaven's gentle
slaking rain.
Single lustrous feather tumbling from branch to branch; crow become looping,
lapping
sky mass, abandoned tree slowly rebounding, refuge still there in reiki rain.
FINAL RITES
Tree Riesener
The children could hardly go on carrying the coffins,
their dead playmates were too heavy in the coffins.
Rain-soaked, sun-stricken, they walked on, eyes ahead.
Had they been such bad boys, to be responsible for the coffins?
So many miles, they couldn't hold the boxes steady;
the gaily-colored prize-day banners slithered from the coffins.
Finally they could carry them no more, eased their burden down,
breathed a moment before starting to push and pull the coffins.
Sliding on the new graves' overflowing floods of oil,
they slipped into the gaping holes very easily, the coffins.
The snake-oil man tried unction with his claiming sign,
but the mothers cried, don't let that touch them in the coffins.
I saw this just the other day, passing through the streets,
but they have stern rules: you must not photograph the coffins.
Now, under the trees, in their last home, silence, but I am troubled
that, in those graves, they are awash in oil, floating, the coffins.
HAIBUN
IF I COULD
For My Mother Julia Conforti
Gerard John Conforti
If I could I would reach for a star and hold it in my hands. If I could I
would cease the raindrops falling with the autumn leaves. If I could I would
bring the sunlight to your heart and give you all the happiness you deserve. If
I could I would bring buttercups from the spring meadows and give them to you.
If I could I would walk a million miles to be with you. If I could I would take
away the emotional pain you feel deep within your heart. If I could I would
stand upon the mountain summit and watch the moonlight spread light upon the
green valley below. If I could I would gaze at the nightly stars and know there
is a God. If I could I would I would seek shelter from the storms raging across
earth. If I could I would walk a lonely road and pick a white blossom from a
tree.
Spring meadows:
pools of rain ripple
my heart in sorrow
If I could I would seek the sunlight wherever it shines in the birth of
spring. If I could I would I would walk with you down the roads lines with
white pines and know the silence you held within you for years. If I could I
would never be alone without your memory. If I could I would never leave you
alone to suffer like you once had to. If I could I would gaze up at the
towering pines and see the full moon shine into my eyes.
Lost tonight
I go seeking love
this autumn night
If I could I would know where there is darkness I would bring you the
sunlight in spring and seek the spring clover in the meadows. If I could I
would bring down the walls which held you so long. If I could I would bring
the love from the bottom of my heart and know the pain you feel. If I could I
would give back the years lost to you when there was isolation in your heart.
If I could I would begin again and make what happened to you never again. If I
could I would bring the spring moonlight on nights when you are alone in your
thoughts. If I could I would do all these things and know you’ve been a
great mother of four sons.
Summer shade:
cool winds blow beneath the leaves
stirring in my heart
PAINT CHIPS
by Gene Doty
swift boat captains steering into a hail of hostile pixels paint scraped
from the wall falling in a swirl of chips the twigs limbs stems trunks of the
vines the bushes the rattle of bullets inside the TV tube sounds like nothing
so much as silence between syllabic holes stitched in a cicada's song
unraveling the grape vine running the spell-checker on the divine word yields
too many coinages not enough tattered phonemes trembling where the moon
completely free of brush and vines shines in a haze of darkness four flags
rippling from the SUV recall the desire the fear the agony the hope no one
stands on the moon or anywhere near it
The way I heard it, my friend, the astronauts carried
cicadas
With them to the moon, carried buckets of blue to paint the lunar sky.
TRAVELER'S MOON
Karma Tenzing Wangchuk
The Bodhisattva Institute
Last night I left my room in central Tucson and began a residence at the
Dakshang Kagyu dharma center on the east side of town.
In fall of next year, four members of our sangha are scheduled to enter a
three-year meditation retreat in northern California. I moved to the dharma
center in order to make preparations.
Leaving one
temporary home
for another,
a waxing gibbous moon
my companion and guide.
I MISS THE MOST
Betty Kaplan
I miss him most not when I climb into bed at night. I've grown used to that.
It
is the long day and all the little things we did together.
I wash the dishes and
think of all the dinners.
I fold the laundry. Where are his socks?
Emptying the
grocery bags, I miss the surprises he put in when I wasn't looking.
And those
very special long trips.
It's all of this plus more.
Oh darn!
the light is out
how to change the bulb
it's up too high
I'll have to climb
TWO COMPLEMENTARY SHORT STORIES
Werner Reichhold
We have been invited to a grandchild's heyday. After the wedding ceremony,
dinner was served at the community room of a church in Oakhurst, California. The
guests have been placed at twelve round tables, each of the tables equipped with
a digital camera for taking pictures of relatives or friends, resulting in over
four hundred photographs to choose from.
One of our grandchildren, age sixteen, a first prize
winner of the National Horse Riding Competition for Juniors, seemed to appear
at the party very absent-minded. Where was she? Suddenly she pulled out a tiny
computer and started typing. I asked her what she was writing about. Her
answer: "Want to read it?" - "Yes please" I answered
rather shy, and she showed me this:
r no 1- 6
( ) e Mon
luv u 24/7
This means short for:
'rents* not home from one to six o'clock pm
'moon-cycle' ends Monday
love you twenty-four hours seven days a week
'Instant message'?
Secrets of shortest poetry, reduction-madness?
Bon jour math-destruction?
(*rents: a rented couple of grown-ups, all mixes of genders available)
The incident reminded me on what I copied out of a
newspaper more than ten years ago, later published in our magazine Mirrors.
It is the last part of the end game of a Chess World Championship
Lautier could not
well answer Kasparow's
sharp 14d4 with 15de?!
because 16Ne4 ed?
17Qb5 Bd7 18Nf6 Qf6 19 Qd3
Og6 20 Qg6 fg 21 b5 Ne7
22 Be4 c6 23 Ne5 Be8
24 b6 wins
for White
in this hypothetical line
16 Bc4 is also bad
because of 17 Nf6
Qf6 18Qe4 Rfe8 19Rfe1
Kf8 20 Ra7!
Ra7 21 d5 Ne7 22 Ne5 d8
23 Ng4 Qd6 24 Bf4
Qd7 25 Qh7 Bd5 26 Qh8
Ng8 27 Nfg! Gh28 Bh6 mate.
One can't help but to admire the highly calculated links
and shifts reflecting here the Chess players' ability to adaptations in a
similar way as we are all asked for in everyday situations.
At the same time, doesn't one feel that those lines
somehow fulfill most of our expectations about writing a poetic sequence?
Please look at the 'leaps,' deconstruct where and when they come into effect.
In this game, done by partners, and likewise elsewhere experienced by persons
catastrophically in love and put on the spot, still hesitating to decide for a
move but finally almost absent-minded, paralyzed acting, and becoming a mate
or getting 'mate' - do they react by choice, or not quite?
HAIKU
Negative twenty
frozen tears on my eyeball
the wind swept you out.
Serena M. Agusto-Cox
white skin, concrete head
red nose chilled with wind
stubborn, glued to you.
Serena M. Agusto-Cox
lipstick kissed away
dark smudges 'round sparkling eyes
cheeks flushed and flaming
Victoria McCabe
sky tinted teardrop
pale silk cheek of riverbed
lip tremble velvet
Victoria McCabe
SEQUENCES
MONTAUK
hortensia anderson
morning fog -
the sound of seagulls
from somewhere...
dozing on warm sand -
a few clouds drift off
into the blue...
red hibiscus -
the hummingbird's wings
leave me breathless
ripe orange hips
on the wild rose thickets –
lingering heat
moonlight
spreading on the oaks -
I step through shadow
wandering home
with buckets of blueberries -
evening cool
BLUE
Dave Bachelor
out in the cold
shivering
in the silence
old words
rattle in my head
outside the
pulmonary clinic
nurses in white
puff on
cigarettes
solitary bag lady
trudges past
a church
round a bit of candy
grackles chatter
after these years
of yearning
a tiny stone
drops from
my shoe
great ideas forgotten
where do they go
after the windstorm
dust beneath
the door
one day we are born
on another we die
the blue flowers
of the iris
again and again
REPAIR GANG
Tony Beyer
tea break
bib and braces overalls
and roll yr owns
rag of flame
the wind tears apart
under the billy
boots crunch
deep gravel
between the ties
who said ties
they're sleepers
mate
part way
into the tunnel
tracks still gleam
first mild
spits of rain
the hut awning
rolling freight
slow pour sideways
the shunter waves
day's end
this time the job
takes them home
TAROT MEDITATIONS
shirley cahayom
5 of cups : you look at the overturned cups
and feel deep sorrow
have you forgotten the other two
which symbolize hope
that you can build on ?
8 of
cups : say adieu
to a broken relationship
though it is hard to bear
time to move on
grab the chance to start anew
the
hermit : this is the time
to leave your busy world
go deep within yourself
to find the guidance
from the inner recesses of your soul
the
star: there is a release
from difficult situations
life opens up
be inspired by your sense of hope
and follow your dreams
the sun : after all the pains
sorrow and suffering
the sun always shines
you can open your arms
to embrace its light
FOR OCTOBER
tom clausen
winter sunrise
as I sit on the edge
of my bed I wonder
what thought, if any
will seize me...
it was the two hours
before dawn
when it rained so hard
that I could not sleep
sifting life thoughts
for all the progress
in our world
an old woman on the bridge
slowly pushes an empty cart
talking to herself
on my work break
I see no way out for a tree
but to stand there
and take it, growing
and reaching for all it can
this unholy thought
that the young couple
with their lovely baby
are mere organisms
being used by life itself
something awfully sad
that my own son
in the comfort of our home
would simply enjoy
a movie about war
could be I'm tired
or lost, but to close my eyes
and nod off
while the world goes on
gives me certain peace
SUMMER HAIKU HARVEST
Leslie Einer
country road
unpaved and puddled
curving into pine shadow
through the heavy air
of a summer noonday
burst yellow butterflies
golden stepping stones
cross an ebony sea
pathway to the moon
gusting night winds
the tap-tap-tapping
of a broken shutter
a stand of aspens
shivers in the chill wind
autumn music
a cold rain
drizzles on winter-bare fields
drips from rusted barb wire
pale moon
clutched in arthritic fingers
of black winter trees
glints of starlight
glimmer coldly in the blackness
of a desert sky
pale sliver of moon
anorexic cousin
of autumn’s full orb
a foghorn moans
the waves come rolling in
from a blackened sea
hanging fat and full
over fields of frozen stubble
harvest moon
spring thaw’s trickle
gathers volume and a voice
roar of the rapids
sparkling
in the lake’s evening mist
a diffusion of moonbeams
brazen ocean breezes
reshape
the shifting dunes
old southern town
a passing tornado
integrates housing
‘neath a moonless sky
the rolling surf unfurls . . .
furls
A POSY OF ROSES
Amelia Fielden
it was hot,
nearly empty bus
with a driver
massive thighs bulging
from uniform shorts
she was plump
and blond and pretty,
all in black
with a chunky toddler
clutching her tight skirt
one hand held
a posy of roses,
one a purse-
stepping up on high heels
she says "excuse me
excuse me,
does this bus go to
the cemetery ?"
"we go to Woden" -
the engine is idling
"which bus goes
to the cemetery then ?"
urgently -
"no bus to the cemetery,
taxi stand's over there."
"you can walk
from Woden terminus"-
a passenger
wants to get going,
looks at his watch
he doesn't see
the shoes, or the toddler
or the tears
streaking mascara -
she begins to back off
there's a lady,
the old-fashioned kind
in the front seat -
"sit down next to me, "
a voice to obey
she's talking,
the blond in black, can’t
stop now that
someone will listen -
"it's my baby there,
my Ryan,
four months he was,
had cot death.
only I've never been
back to the cemetery
Jason won't
take me, reckons no point
in flowers
neither - stop whinin' 'n
I'll give you a lolly"
the lady
decides - "you're coming
home with me,
we'll have a cup of tea,
then my husband and I
we'll drive you
to the cemetery"-
I'm ashamed
to be just listening,
just listening and hot
A GIRL MADE OF WATERCOLOR
Mary Rand Hess
A jar o f water,
Burnt Sienna, Cobalt Blue –
a picture yet unknown.
Brushes sweeping
across a rain soaked city
and a girl – alone.
Her shadow
hovers by closed shops
reflecting off the streets.
One raindrop
smears the cheek
of a girl made of watercolor.
The city needs the dark
but she’d leave
if she could walk off paper.
NEW YORK NEW YORK
Ruth Holzer
into the tunnel -
a flag and a sign
Lest We Forget
this clean place
I don't know it -
Port Authority
rubble
on Eighth Avenue -
a Greek vase
subway racket -
indistinct dialect
of my city
talking of brownstones
we stroll past
women in boxes
uptown restaurant -
twice I upset
tumblers of water
craft fair
under white tents -
summer drizzle
who's first in line
Haitians or Russians?
a Babel of fists
missed express-
waiting in fumes
for homebound local
PLAINT
Elizabeth Howard
Smoky Mountain cabin
where five sisters refused
to yield to man or government
flycatchers sweep in and out
feeding fledglings
twilight blizzard
a thrashing limb flings
a kestrel into the beyond
I quaver about the hearth
face bathed in a rosy hue
belittled
the boss's party guests
gather at the lily pool
watch a black carp swim about
snapping prey
like the orphaned lamb
I fed with a bottle
you lie in wait to butt me -
if you'd allow, I'd cuddle you
against my bruised breast
note penciled on the door
CLOSED FOR FUNERAL-
so like the country store
site of a murder-suicide
and childhood dreams of blood
Statue of Liberty closed
we tour the grounds
see the icon from all sides
snap photos of French soldiers
mourning our loss of freedom
VIEWS FROM A PATH
Fran Masat
country lane -
a lone tree’s shade
where she used to lie
barbed wire fence -
black plastic flutters
in the wake of a car
stopped on the road
flecks of blue twinkle
through rushes
roadside shoulder
a motionless snake
with its stomach to the sun
an open window -
tomorrow’s weather
through a lone overpass
riverbank -
sunlight reflects
off the bottom of a bridge
prairie interstate
dark line
of cattle on a trail
sunset
alone on the road
I climb the last hill
hot black night
red and green lights
far above a field
JAZZ-FILLED NIGHTS
Summer in Montreal would not be the same without the Jazz Festival!
Thelma Mariano
darkness descends
as I surrender
to the sound of blues
beyond the moist night air
the smell of hot dogs and beer
my body sways
to the rhythm of his guitar
taking me
to another time when
all I had to do was let go
music that
I hoped would help me forget
she sings
"baby, I need your loving"
the night you are gone
the fluid motion
of hands on African drums
a staccato beat
like the constant rhythm
that plays out between us
the slow tempo
of this number reminds me
of you or is it
the way he moves his lips
on the harmonica?
pale orange lights
and a legendary moon
all the props
the two of us did without
to make the night magic
FROM A GARDEN
June Moreau
it comes from a place
that has no name
and it is
the very heart of beauty –
the red rose
in a garden
with red roses
a child’s song
is a sky
for the dove
in the twilight
of a spring day
it is the friend
of my solitude –
the white rose
it is so far away
I can’t believe
how far away it is –
the sound of a violin
in torrents of rain
it settles here,
it settles there,
in doing so
it settles everywhere –
the red dragonfly
the white moth
flittering along the path
I think it flew
from the window
of a dark, gray stone
at midnight
the sun decided
to come back
I thought it were
a huge marigold
when I looked
into the mirror
this morning
I saw the song
of a bird
A L O N E
R.K.Singh
Waiting for the train
alone on the platform
swatting mosquitoes
After the party
empty chairs in the lawn -
new moon and I
All guests gone:
after the late party
night and I
Nothing changes
the night's ugliness
in the lone bed
5 Alone
in a shrunken bed
aged love
In the well
studying her image
a woman
Knitting silence
my wife on the bench
after lunch
A moth
struggling for life
on wire
Between virgin curves
he deep-breathes evening mist
rests in the hollow
Shell-shocked or frozen
he stands in tears on hilltop
craving nirvana
The lone mushroom -
a pregnant woman
stares out of the window
Facing the sun
the lone flower
dying to bloom
A dead leaf hangs
by a spider's thread
invisible in sun
Under a tree
in meditation sunken
a lone stone
Alone
on the National Highway
Hanuman
F E A R
R. K. SINGH
Slung-jawed awake
two grinning skeletons sit
bolt upright in bed
hear the shrieks next door but
too scared to call the police
The nightly ghosts crowd
my mind's passage to forge
gods' names in disguise
I fail to scan the face
of thought and life in the dark
The chill outside
deprives me of the bright moon
I breathe in my fears:
asthmatic bouts haunt and
jealousy itches the throat
Night's prisoned friends
keep me wake with planes
flying over the Ashram*
every now and then I watch
the direction matters
One thousand miles
traveling together
in tense silence
he and she contemplate
the next round of duel
I can't cement cracks
nor save the frames from collapse:
the wreck reveals the myth
I need not knit new dreams
if truth's so cold and stingy
(*spiritual sanctuary)
SOUTH COUNTRY FAIR SUITE
Fort MacLeod, AB, July 2004
Richard Stevenson
a day to go -
I buy extra camping gear
and a Donovan CD
only a buck
to see the headless woman -
the smile lasts all day
first time at the fair -
his bag of mushrooms lost
while riding the river
lobster boys -
too busy making the scene
to use sunscreen
new age hippy -
four decades late but still
the elfin dancer
short, squat, middle-aged -
she can wear an umbrella hat,
floral pantaloons
with his sunburn
he looks like a cherry freezie
squeezed out of the tube
Kimberly T-shirt -
If it's tourist season
why can't we shoot 'em?
"Church of the Long Grass"
the song the band is singing -
grass trampled flat
Yahoos on timbali
"hoping to be discovered"
at three a.m.
twigs in her hair -
dandelion gone to seed
fragile in the wind
Fuckowee tribe -
"where the fuck a' we?"
homeless and free
not just granolas,
psychedelic relics,
but soother cool kids too!
massing thunderheads -
ground sheet swathed speakers
pop and hiss
SIJO
creek-bank sitters
with cane poles
plastic bobbers
wet with sun
snapping turtle:
its beak pokes
from
deepest pool
of dark water
the water clear,
my stringer empty:
Oh, catfish,
where do you hide?
Gino Peregrini
DREAM
Tree Riesener
Something
new in bed last night. Submit. Fall into the arms of God. Perfume
cool smooth sheets, my body, seduce prophetic dreams. Cat leaping and
stomping in the night, settling from time to time on open window sills, fitting
his body along mine to await dawn. My last thoughts before sleep?
Ascension Day stretching all the way back and all the way forward, placing us,
humans, always with God. Pentecost coming, the wind and the flames.
My last dream before waking? Oh, the bed is so soft. I'll remember.
No, up and to my notebook, write quickly.
Tall candle striding
through the church dark
in shadows and
fragrance,
flame overhead,
blaze leaping to my eyes.
Turning to pass,
so I refuel
diminished candles where choked
flames gutter
low.
EMISSARY
Tree Riesener
Creation from void-- ball of string, two sticks, endless
variation: afghans, sweaters, mittens, socks. Fish nets. Mouthfuls
of air sucked in, pushed out, manipulated by lips and tongue into songs of
love. Slice of tree pressed flat, black liquid, sharp stick. Swirl and swoop,
cross and dot, leave behind trails of black design. In front ,
nothing. Behind, meaning, black marks that leap through space, cue rage,
love, understanding.
Follow the pen, black letters
flowing onto the white page.
Dropped into the opening, go through
the tunnel; I cannot follow.
Emerge, leap into his eyes, leave
the abandoned page white.
SOLO RENGA
MASK OF MADNESS
Jane Reichhold
equinox
the skies unable to be
sun or rain
on dried grass and soft dirt
someone lies in the meadow
the moon so full
hills flatten into valleys
of shining
from the patient’s eyes
the twisted stream of mind
frozen fast
a tongue to the pump handle
is also iron
the solitude of winter
is like unto an illness
going far
to see a new doctor
my old ailments
his eyes looking into mine
touch shadows of my horrors
why do you hate
yourself a child of the gods
with a gift of life
love is a far country
where pleasure is the coin
unable to count
the nonsense of incense
uncurling smoke
what color is it?
touching skin to skin
petal soft
the white pink of ideas
before dawn
walking in dewy grass
because I want to be taken
budding trees
leaf out in a green
worn by nymphs
warm winds fragrance
growing begins in the south
again
I am a child burning
with shame
the Man in the Moon saw it
happening all night long
an owl hooting
soft feathers cover
sharp talons
the only sane day of the year
All Hallow’s Eve in my heart
trick or treat
I’ve never had a choice
in mice and men
the perversity of Santa Claus
coming down my chimney
there is cruelty
in the fairy tales
of life
which we accepted
not knowing any better
my face
given to me by my mother
slapped by father
the school of hard knocks
made of willow switches
tearing apart
the flower of mystery
only to find
the shimmering of moonlight
scattered by puddles
wanting a doll
to clasp my neck
and hold me
the plastic faces continued smiling
even when dropped on their heads
I am beautiful
even as I am dancing
do you love me?
the boy child only saw
a fish on a bicycle
the fountains of Rome
magic was in the hands
of bronze makers
coins crossing state lines
in the girls’ velvet purses
the brocade path
as trod by the Japanese
in these woods
a pond is a friend
of the circling moon
crickets
echoing crickets
sky grass gold
from mountain to hill
the Indian love call
when young
at the movies I understood
the pull of desire
the body old remembers
too well the other life
the virtues
of the blood pressure meds
celibacy
for what does one scheme
when out of the chase?
religious attainment
remains in the myth of potency
Viagra
the high price of mouth
to mouth advertising
how can they call it spam
such an offer comes brown bagged
the wine bottle
passes from hand to hand
in generations too
visiting famous places
seem worn and frayed
with rising mist
from Niagara Falls
on the starch box
the newly-wed
irons on his favorite shirt
more wrinkles
oft-creased letters
read again by grandchildren
giggling in horror
our ancestors were famous
and did it too!
"thou shall not covet
thy neighbor’s ass"
pornography ring
run by priests
exposed
between the birch trees
pagan church of the moon
reading something
in the autumn wind
red leaves
swirling around circus posters
bits of torn tickets
the train
leaves the station
stationary
picked for Valentine’s Day
a card covered with hearts
knock knock
who’s there?
Amsterdam
Amsterdam who?
I’m so damn tired of love links
daffodils
where I planted
the tulips
the brightest pink
in her lipstick
the perfume
all the way from Paris
an unpronounceable name
no logos on these clothes
or labels to scratch the neck
who is old now?
mums open whitely
under a new moon
a freeze predicted
picking green tomatoes
gifts
planning dinner around
the bounty
more children living in poverty
each year the rich get richer
trade the known governor
for an actor?
the recall election costs us
twenty-six million dollars
violets
as plentiful as memories
in the spring
water gushes forth
in sparkling drops
before sleeping
the smallest bird chirps
with my prayer
beginning the journey
chanting to the pillow
scared to go
happy to arrive
the travel weenie
Big River even larger
seen from the kayak
how romantic
yet who can make love
in a canoe?
a pair of ducks
land on the lake
an island
no one knows where
they go
nightfall makes a sound
that is beyond spelling
the full moon
above the far ridge
drums
going into the sweat lodge
thirteen women circle
on the beach
farewell to a body
diminishes us all
she goes to haiku meetings
only to meet the men
what a surprise!
she falls in love
with a woman
building a snowman
for target practice
icicles drip
in the warm sun
high overhead
contrails connect countries
without diplomatic relations
there is no peace
as long as one person
oppresses another
the roadmap blown up
by a suicide bomber
leaves
thin on the graves
of the young
ignoring the moon
fall previews of new shows
on TV tonight
cider and popcorn served
at the art show opening
city guests titter in superiority
as they narrow their eyes
the mountain girl
becomes a wife in spring
the age-old crime
cherry blossom virgins
flaunting their holy state
lessons in love
the acts of beasts
without words
padded with mother’s chest hairs
the nest for rabbit babies
our characteristics formed
by our inadequacies
such is life
the drama script
we live to write
CASKET IN THE HEAT
Lewis Sanders
Casket in the heat
my sad steps
back to the car
From a tree
blackbird dropping to the grass
Empty farmhouse
forgotten house shoes
by her bed
Sickle moon
a beer in my silence
Night walk
only shadows
among the trees
Morning scent
of her in the house
Returning
to the city
her grave far away...
TANKA
at summer's end
all that's left of this moth
an empty shell
the tapestry of its wings
the poetry of its life
an'ya
Cafeteria -
whitewashed walls, white
tables
We eat in silence.
Peaches, plums in
the fruit-bowl
to remind
autumn's colours.
Cristian Mocanu
piles of shoes
soup, fallen leaves and mice
all orderly
what on earth would happen
without gravity?
kirsty karkow
winter
in this downtown
japanese apartment
i try warming up my feet
in a cold blanket
john tiong chunghoo
December, December
I turn into a crystal
someone puts me
on a little fir tree
deep in the forest
June Moreau
in the panes
a rose, blood-red, reflects
another hundred days in Baghdad
from my unkempt garden
petals fall orderly
James Wren
tonight the moon
went into its closet
to knit a dream
for the old bear
in its rock-laden den
June Moreau
mountain trails
city streets
can't find my way home
where do I go
when I go to sleep
Betty Kaplan
this cloth left to dry
still at the backdoor landing
reaching to touch it -
was it April rain, March rain
last wiped from your mud-caked paws?
Lawrence Fitzgerald - to Bastion di San Marco
the sight
of dawn's blue-tinged shafts
through broken clouds
a larger meaning
just beyond my grasp
kirsty karkow
doubled over
after a hailstorm of fists
a bloodied cherub
allow me this pretense--
don't "cry uncle"
James Wren
belying
the scent of death
violets
spill from a ribcage
hide the rusty trap
kirsty karkow
Korean wedding cups
seven white cranes circle
cracked glaze
tossed into my backpack
how suddenly love shatters
James Wren
this heart of mine
is a great horse
it has been known
to gallop
beyond the horizon
June Moreau
still waking daily
to this nightstand photograph
you crouched on my knee -
can it be just three short weeks
then your college years begin?
Lawrence Fitzgerald - to Lauren Kate Fitzgerald
Kinkakuji
summer vacation around the corner
my parents whisper--
off-guard, down-wind
only kinkakushi in sight
James Wren
almost lost
in memory
that café
frat boys singing the whiffenpoof song
someone asking for my hand
doris kasson
in a half sleep
I roll over to find him
no longer there
all the years
now yesteryear
Betty Kaplan
snuffed out
a half-smoked cigarette
in a dark sea -
filthy habits burn on
but never follow the
tide
James Wren
one daughter says "Hi Mom"
the other "Hello Mother"
so different but . . .
which one loves mother the best
I know they love the same
Betty Kaplan
some talk to a stone
others whisper to the sea
wherever they are
it is our hearts
that hold them
Betty Kaplan
inquisition kiss
maternal hostage rebuke
to ignorant child
sacrifice to elder lies
fire branded jubilee
Victoria McCabe
and now these crutches
i wonder what it was
i prayed for
all those years ago
all those genuflections
doris kasson
choking light escapes
the depth of superstition
transitory thought
the breath of liberation
shaking fist in heaven's face
Victoria McCabe
comes around dawn
this surreal dream
you dying again
me finding the time
to kiss you goodnight
doris kasson
WITHOUT GENRE
TOPSOIL
Sheila Murphy
contralto to a second shadow
turns to thirst across the makings of a sea
across the makings of a sea awash with
drift in toward the silence
to select the feather from the breeze
of change | uplift the season
of remunerative leaves that launch
these divots of the daylight
of the recent siege one sees
through juried eyes the pinch of blame
the sacral shortage
the endorphins thinned to woven seed
how are we to manufacture daylight
from the cover of the seizure of this day
give us our work
our simplified one step before the next
before such window light
HAND ME DOWNS
Sheila Murphy
even cotton's something
slaughtered. wheels
pumped glasslike hems into
these borderlines. we curve
into potential
cures, vault over
natural rejection. relatives
turn matrices. the hemisphere
dips into its inverse.
a shadow limns brash although
shapely light. then din gives
in to quiet likened to
the chalk wings of this moth.
something does not matter, and I'm trying to remember
what it is
across the life span of dreamtables
lives the penny drum uplifting accurate, resplendent
information from beneath the veils of data
shelled from protein filaments turned to ash
a sash across my divan minimized the place to sit
he heard the nightlit foster care of avarice
begin to dim his lights / accounting for
the touch tone panty line approaching
tendencies one brought to writhe
upon the follicled young nest / there lay the test
that quilted even rivers while we worked beside
and brushed our hands across the night
what is present tense but an elastic band
of hope or fear slipped between heresy and a window
seat facing imagined truth then moving past
more quickly than anticipation finds fruition
