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GHAZALS
I'VE BECOME
C.W. Hawes
I've become a saint by being a sinner;
I've become a rogue by giving up religion.
My turban's the ground, my prayer mat the grass;
wandering about like Shams, I've become a begging bowl.
Prostrating at the mosque, my religion got lost in a dark corner somewhere.
Oh, yes, I became a rogue the moment I walked out the door.
Whirling makes me dizzy and the flute gives me a headache.
I've become a drunkard sitting in the gate of the tavern.
That dark-eyed one, with the curly tresses, plies me with cup after cup
and now I've become her favorite.
Only a rogue dares to love the Beloved;
I've become a lover and therefore a rogue.
In a world of ice-cold blue sky, I lost my way;
but in the spring of my old age I became a seeker.
I composed a song and then another to woo my Beloved;
a wondering minstrel I've become: lover questing Beloved.
The sun is setting and Suleiman sings a song, dons perfume;
he's become the wine glass eagerly awaiting the wine.
SAILING
Ruth Holzer
A Sunday surprise, you invited me sailing.
I didn't know very much about sailing.
Elderly fishermen lined the wharf,
caught in a dream of their lost years of sailing.
Light chop, a breeze from the south;
we agreed ot was a fine day for sailing.
Your friend had already left with his boat,
eager to seize every moment for sailing.
On the dock of the bay we wasted our time.
Ruth thought it was far better than sailing.
GHAZAL OF THE STARTLED SILENCE
Steffen Horstmann
It is the crevice a shadow crawls inside,
The cage of ribs the heart stalls inside.
It is the depths of an abyss
A stone endlessly falls inside.
An absence evolved from dimensionless Time,
The lost spaces all sound dissolves inside.
It is the maze of secret rooms
Masons built moving walls inside.
The emptiness of a pitch-black tunnel
The prisoner crawls inside.
It is the palpable void in abandoned cities,
Bombed houses the rain falls inside.
The dusty journal in an attic,
Notes the captive ghost scrawls inside.
It inhabits the abode of a sorceress,
Housing only the darkest shawls inside.
ACROSS THE BAY
Steffen Horstmann
A figure in black robes steers a ferry across the bay,
Through shades
of moonlight that vary across the bay.
Fish shine like knives in lucent shallows, a seagull's
Shriek answers
an echo's query across the bay.
Stone madonnas pray in a garden, rising at night
To wander ruins of a
monastery across the bay.
Blown leaves scurry in a ranting wind
Laced with voices that carry across the bay.
Below an indigo ridge, fringed pines shade
The hidden grave of a
mercenary, across the bay.
The chanting echoes will cease only at dawn
In the ghost-infested
cemetery across the bay.
A white dove was released from its cage & sent
Into the dark like an
emissary, across the bay.
Pearls adorn the hair of a mermaid, emerging
At twilight in the
estuary across the bay.
It saw a comet's trail dissolve in sparkling water,
The pelican whose
flight is solitary across the bay.
10:30 A.M.
Elizabeth Snider
Dawn long past, a memory at mid-morning,
I sit on the dock in the chair I made.
Maiden alone amid cricket screech,
legs rub together, hot sound rings.
Rings around the roses, scent rises,
hummingbirds and bumblebees pause.
Paws on my knees, she stares at me,
her black muzzle peppered with gray.
Gray skies, clouds gather from the south,
hang above the dock to shed their tears.
Tears smear my sight as I look down
into eyes that dim and glaze with death.
Death creeps in the door at mid-morning,
I sit on the floor with the dog, unmade.
NIGHT DESCENT
Richard Tice
sunset just ahead,
shadow on the clouds just behind
hiss of cabin air
no further than the curving glass
descending through haze
above a moving freeway of fire
beyond the wing tip
spikes of yellow from each street lamp
flight attendant’s red jacket
right down the middle of blue lights
HAIBUN
THE ROAD
c w hawes
The road is strewn with rocks. As though a giant was tossing pebbles no where in particular. The sky is ominously black. The clouds, roiling. I am sitting by the side of the road, my feet encased in
cement. My fingers are Parker Duofolds empty of ink. My tongue, swollen and sprained from too much talk. My throat burns with acid reflux. My mind pondering the word problem which is the past.
scent of roses
Sunday's crossword puzzle
set aside
NOON
Charles Hansmann
Time again, each morning when we wake -- and place too -- us, then me, you -- separate sides for swinging out our legs, a day taking place (we say, though meaning taking time) as approach succeeded by
withdrawal, as if the highlight were exactly that, our lives meridian-centric, a countdown to a moment -- the gunfight in the western street, the church bell or the firehouse whistle -- and then a count away from it.
lunchers
in the clock-tower shade
eyeing their wrists
SELF-PORTRAIT IN PLATE GLASS
Charles Hansmann
You pose on the sidewalk, aiming from the belly. Inside the dim diner, three Greeks by the TV (through your reflection you can just make them out) pose for the portrait they think you are taking.
arced in the gutter
in the street-sweeper's spray
a rainbow
CAUSE AND EFFECT
Charles Hansmann
The chickens bock bock bocking in the early morning coop, the heat of the egg in my hand, I think hens sit on nests these cold dawn hours to keep their bottoms warm.
the rooster
high-stepping
frozen ground
FOOTNOTE TO THE SCROLLS
Charles Hansmann
Be not overshadowed by God or gods; he, she, it, they are shadowless in adequate light. Be not aroused by thoughts that you should not exist; there's sex enough in your body parts to resist otherworldly temptation.
reading
the fossil
birdprints
WORKING MAN
Roger Jones
Driving a hundred fifty miles north to my best friend Jay's father's funeral. Jay died years ago in an accident; his father was best man at my wedding.
It's early January. I go through many familiar small towns, but mostly the journey's farmland, quiet sunlit yellow grass, and soon, tall East Texas pines. I get absorbed in the landscape, reminiscing all the way.
I recall how Mr. L____ believed in physical labor, the old-time work ethic. He considered my college studies a waste of time – wouldn't even stay in the room when I talked about them – but he liked me
anyhow.
Arriving twenty minutes late, I straighten my tie as I walk through parked cars toward the chapel, hearing from inside the laughter of someone's shared anecdote.
open coffin
a face the color
of old coffee
ON BERKELEY WAY
Tracy Koretsky
Walking south, I meet a woman walking north, both of us simultaneously drawn to the thingamabob left on the curb for trash pick-up. Four-inch-wide metal pipe, powder-covered, and white, it's shaped like
the gums in a set of false teeth – both upper and lower. There is a bicycle seat of sorts, on the lower jaw, if you will, and two hand bars where ears would be if the frame were gums. The hand bars were covered in the kind of black foam they cover hand bars with in gym equipment.
The north walking woman shrugs. “It’s new,” she says. “Whatever it is.”
In my mind I contort myself into it, seating myself in the hinge of its maw, restraining my arms at right angles.
“Abs,” I say.
And she sees what I mean. She rubs her back like a woman who knows what back pain feels like.
I see what she means.
“You don’t need a thingamabob to work your abs,” I report, like a well-informed modern woman who may have occasionally from time-to-time engaged in self-loathing over the matter of her tummy.
And I see that she sees what I mean and we both laugh together at ourselves.
“That’s why it’s on the curb,” I say, and she says, overlapping, “That’s where’d it’d be at my house.” And for a moment I imagine that we are both thinking of some stupid thing that we bought once.
Two blocks from home, I see a young man ambling west, his arms full of groceries, his head through the thingamabob.
students back –
I vow
to write more haibun
DOG STAR
Ray Rasmussen
tea kettle whistling–
steam clouds
the windows
Thursday night. Another wife-daughter fight with raised voices, crying, doors slamming; I grab my jacket, call the border collie and bolt into the frigid night. The ravine trail is barely visible, the stream frozen...
beneath
the skin of ice–
dark waters
An owl calls. I pause, wait for the next call, and let the silence sink in. Branches sweep toward a star-filled sky. The dog presses close, warm fur, her tail wagging...
Sirius
on the horizon–
a nudge toward home
[Note: Sirius is known as the dog star and is in the Canis Major constellation. Not including our sun, it's the brightest star in the sky.]
WHAT ARE YOU UP TO?
Ray Rasmussen
The sun's rays filter through a stand of black spruce where 20 horses, each loaded with 150 pounds of gear, are hitched. Dave, a lanky outfitter, and I are unpacking them. We chat about the grizzly sow and
cubs spotted earlier in the day, about how the horses are holding up, about the people on the trip.
men's talk
the smell of sweat
and manure
As I struggle with the ropes, Dave asks, "Ray, what are you up to these days?"
I think of telling him that since I've retired, I'm embarrassed to receive a monthly check without having to work. That I no longer wake up by an alarm clock, my mornings unfolding slowly. But I feel guilty
about those who have to set their alarms, rush breakfast, fight traffic. During the day I write and when the light is right, I grab my camera, wake the dog and go for a walk. I exchange e-mail with writers, meet pals for lunch, and visit my lover. I do a daily workout, experiment with cooking, and chair a committee to enhance my city's park system. But I view most of these activities as luxuries in a world stressed by war and poverty.
Finally I say: "Well, I write and do some photography."
Dave replies, "Oh, is that right. Do you sell your photographs?"
"Some, but not enough to pay for the film."
So, there it is. I can't simply sit on the back stoop and admire the lawn growing, the shadows lengthening.
"Well," Dave grunts as he hefts a 150-pound load off the horse, "must be nice to have time to pursue your interests."
Yes, how many times have I heard, "Now you have time to become the poet you always wanted to be?"
We slide back into easy chitchat. The horses don't like being corralled, and I don't either. In earlier times I was “a young man doing edge sports,” “a professional,” “a dad,” “a leader” and “a teacher.” Now I'm “a retiree” which carries undertones of “geezer,” hints of “useless.”
We release the horses and follow them as they race out the gate. They kick up their heels, roll in the black loam, shake it off and begin to graze. I wish that the rawness I feel could as easily be shaken off, that the wildflower meadow could be entered so easily.
monkshood bloom
the whine of mosquitoes
seems diminished
AHAPOETRY.COM
Jane Reichhold
The whole weekend and my daughter’s visit had gone over the keyboard and into our several computers. After twelve years it had been the time to clear the cobwebs out of the ahapoetry.com website and she had the will and patience to get me started on the job. Every day after she left I spent all the available “good work” hours going over each of the 1,044 files. By Friday night, and with no calls for help, I was ready to upload my gift to the universe.
I called Heidi to get the final set of instructions on the procedure to hook up to the server. While eight hours away, on the top of her mountain, she raked pine needles blown down from the first rain of autumn. I could hear the scratch, scratch of the rake as she talked on the phone, guiding me to fill out the menus. One field of light, called the remote host, was filled in by default and she admitted that she did not really know what else should be put into that option. I was so determined to get the job finished, well at least up on the web so I could see what additional fixes the pages needed, she agreed that I should try making the connection with the information I had.
In the perfect style of computers, one small lack and nothing worked. I gave up for the weekend and fell into bed with the waning moon. As the morning sunshine nudged me awake I had one more dream.
There was a poisonous rat loose in the house. Everyone in the family was afraid of it. The rat would magically appear in the room, run from corner to corner, only pausing to look at someone as if they were meat for dinner. After calmly observing the rat’s appearance several times with due regard for its danger, I noticed that each time it disappeared it leapt into an electrical outlet.
The next time the rat was running around the room, I stepped over to the light switch and to my good luck it chose just that outlet for its exit. Without thinking of the consequences, I grabbed the rat by it its throat. Then I remembered that its bite was poisonous, so I grabbed its upper lip and pulled it down to its chest and with the power of my thumb, held it helpless.
As if watching a slide show, the next scene showed a celebration of the riddance of the rat. Some guy from NPR was interviewing me as we bustled around setting up a table and chairs for a party. He asked me how I felt when I realized that the live rat I had caught in my bare hands was poisonous. I replied, “Phau! That is spelled p-h-a-u.” and I woke myself up.
My first thought of the new day was the correction needed in the remote host address.
work of days
slides through the month’s mouth
ripening fruit
WHERE DID YOU GO? OUT…
Richard Straw
Rain or shine these summer days, I ride my coaster-brake bike, a red Schwinn. It has matching wire baskets over its rear tire and a combination speedometer/odometer on its handlebars. Wherever I go, I use its rearview mirror to watch for any familiar cars that might trail me on my town's tree-lined streets.
I discovered an abandoned limestone quarry on the north end of town earlier this summer. It isn't far from the Workingman's Friend gas station that stands right where our old home once was, next to the
Jesus Only Tabernacle.
Other kids bike to this quarry, too. They ride fast over its grassy humps and along its weedy paths, then swim in its dangerously deep cold water. One kid on a rock screams warnings to the others about
mining equipment below the surface and to watch out for snakes.
I keep to myself though, not because I fear those kids or whatever else might hurt me here. I worry that, if I make friends with anyone, my parents might find out that I've disobeyed them and left our safe residential neighborhood on the other side of town. I never know whose blue-collar parents might work with mine.
release...
a tiny bass darts
into shadows
STILL
Jeffrey Woodward
As if the warmth of the sunlight never visited us before, as if this budding green were the first and leaf a name hitherto unknown or as if a sky devoid of clouds were a fictive world of clarity destined to
remain the darling of the perfect-bound pages of a popular novel… Here in this public park and garden hideaway of some few acres, here with the midday urban traffic an audible hum never faraway, here with
the man who fetches a stick from his golden retriever and here with the young mother whose toddler cries higher, higher above the rusty crick and creak of a swing… Now is the time for a deathless song, for a flute and voice, but no such song is forthcoming. Now is the time for a taste of that forbidden fruit of our father’s father or of his father before him, but no such fruit offers itself in this, our manicured
garden. Now is the time for all good typists to abandon their salaried cells and sterile assignments and here they are, even so, blinking their eyes to adjust to the novelty of a plain and unadorned light. As if, in the end, another hour than this present ever could or did exist, as if a minute were a stone or a cloud or anything you please other than an indecipherable whisper of a soothing breeze or as if, in the beginning, one were able to foresee anything other than what is, for now, this end….
still,
for a time,
in the blossom shade
IN THE COMPANY OF THE CLOUDS
Jeffrey Woodward
Befriend the clouds. Study their movements throughout the four seasons and throughout the myriad changes of their day. Every cloud distinctively one and no other; every cloud constant only in change.
Do not forget the child, an eager companion of the clouds. Do not forget a fair weather afternoon with a bed of grass – hands folded behind the head, eyes fixed on the heavens – what did you see?
make of it
what you will …
cloud-viewing
Clouds high, clouds low; clouds hurried, clouds slow. a massive cumulus cloud folding in on itself, folding out to greet you: now a ridge and path to a peak’s summit exposed, now the scales
from neck to tail of a dragon. Or, for a time, lazily with a stem of grass for a straw, gazing into what little is there and what soon will not be:
leaving little
to the imagination –
a wisp of cloud
Befriend the clouds. Penetrate the secret of their nature and thereby discover your own. Let another balance the account and number what is lost and what is found.
… and if
the sky clears –
alone
THROUGH THE CALM
Jeffrey Woodward
What became of that young man in his proverbial garret? And why? I wake, sweating profusely, and sit up in bed. The chilly gray first light of early spring and a mourning dove’s deep cooing only are there
to greet me, still disturbed by the vivid color and action of a dream, of a memory really, of 20 or more years ago.
Staying up all night, devoting evenings to drinking coffee and excitedly discussing our most recent finds –
now a sinuous lyric neither of us had read before, now a painting previously overlooked in
some master’s ouevre, now an Elizabethan ayre or an etude for piano perhaps – driven by shared ambitions and reciprocal rivalries, desirous of creating an art to equal that of our shifting enthusiasms.
20 or more years ago relived vividly with eyes closed – another all night session, our excited talk ending only with utter exhaustion, the two of us sitting on his tiny balcony on an early May morning as quiet
and still as Eden’s very first morning, a quiet gradually deepening with our realization that nothing more might be said, nothing more need be said:
a magnolia
through the calm
cascades
20 or more years ago until, soon after, we slowly drifted our separate ways, my own increasingly irregular efforts to renew the friendship forestalled by his gentle evasions: 20 or more years later – the nightmare’s segue from that brilliant May morning of boundless promise and peace to a dire winter
solstice some two or three years later, a winter solstice of discovery of such deep betrayal, when I received a tearful telephone call from the brother who found him, the segue now from the trance of sleep to this gray, abiding light:
my friend only in a dream
forgets his suicide to bring
tidings of blossoms
SEQUENCES
GIRL WITH A PEARL EARRING
(from a Vermeer painting)
Edward Baranosky
You feel unseen eyes
Boring into your back,
Your shoulder
Turning toward the mirror,
A silent word on your lips.
A sudden gesture,
The naked teardrop earring,
The contrapposto
An unforeseen classic pose
Stopped in mid-question.
The hazy light
Muting old Amsterdam,
Lights your eyes.
But there is only one pearl;
A Malay pirate wears the twin.
The artist’s hand
Caresses the canvas.
Lost in paint,
The imprimatura of dreams
Becomes invisible.
Your almost smile stops,
A blush rises quickly
And fades slowly,
The sight of your self
Reflected in his eyes.
LITHOGRAPH BY KAETHE KOLLOWITZ, 1942
Edward Baranosky
Black lines of liquid light,
Flailing arms grasp for resistance
Into the night wind,
No Pieta in this scene, no
Immaculate Easter anguish.
Children will always be
Children, no secret here to reveal,
Or comforting liturgy.
But my weakness is still in my faith,
Kneel with me, Mother.
Am I not food,
Clenched in this infant’s fist?
Time passes seaward.
The crayon traces the anger
Between chattering teeth.
Who do you think gasps
For unforgiving air
So far from birth?
Am I not the toxic source
For my dying son?
What do they say I am?
Don’t human impressions
Linger past music?
These embers of burned bread
Are too late for small hands.
INTERLUDE: SUNSET
Carl Brennan
Lighter than dreams
the ornate sarcophagus lid
I brush aside.
My family ranged around me
stops their indistinct whispers
To me they've bequeathed
this tomb's unspeakable calm.
Here the silence wakes
a memory of dead glory:
Yes, I marshaled armies once,
routed pagan hordes –
my mind and sword unresting,
the cause pronounced just;
my name bruited, a byword
for matchless strength of purpose--
"Dracul"- much revered
wherever Christ's ensigns shone...
Something intervened
between myself and the sun,
withering all my glory
in its quick cold
embrace: as roses touched by frost
or this transformed hand...
So the honor of my name
suffers eclipse. Still I live
as a peasant lives –
fulfilling appetite,
obedient to thirst–
an iron chain of urges
constraining my thoughts, my will;
as a townsman too,
with the wolf and bat Remorse
penned in discreetly;
but most as an old soldier
whose only pastime remains
the difficult hunt...
Let my deer secrete herself
in deepest vault
or mountain fastness, with armed
sentries posted round the clock–
I will find her.
Born to bleed, my quarry shall bleed.
Call her Lucy,
her cries taste delicious. Pity
any who disturb our sport
UNTITLED
Gerard John Conforti
Like day and night
coming and going
the days are the same
and the nights too
so alone with myself
the bowing winds
I feel the cold winds
freezing my face
into icy eyebrows
and melting by the fire side
if I could change
my life around I wouldn't
it was meant to be
and people do get me wrong
when some will understand
GARDEN AND MOUNTAIN
Glenn R. Frantz
by abandoned roads
alone
among the hills
white-wing butterfly
we stand still to hear
stone-piled fence
silent speaking
to our right and left
someone is walking...
nothing but flat
field... i lie
down on burning rocks
now having taken
fleeing into
wandering
slowly he walks back
silent the garden
among the pale
white mountains
of stranded boulders
a voiceless flower
brushes,
singing faintly
a white butterfly
when i raised my head...
suddenly the hand
of leaves
inquisitive breeze
over and over
garden and mountain
in a frozen
awakening time
RAIN SHADOWS
Glenn R. Frantz
out over the lake
rain for you today
nearer and nearer
uneven shadows
after the shower...
quick, quick, out
and seek
a single droplet
After bells had rung
also hidden
as rain drops
in the cool evening
nightlong in the cold
water lapping
the fallen
branches of the pine
ROYAL BLUE
Elizabeth Howard
vacation over
we drive winding roads
toward home
ours the only vehicle
the only headlights
lights sweep across a sign
Royal Blue
once mined and clear-cut
now reclaimed
a wildlife area
we cruise ess curves
on a foggy road
thinking of home
family and pets
mail and mower
all at once
a bull elk looms
in a hairpin turn
the wheels spin
our mouths metal
ASKING PASSAGE
M. Kei
asking passage
of the briars,
I step deep into
the hollow forest
trash tells me
that other feet have
trod this trail,
but today
I am the first
windchimes
tall saplings
bare of leaves
sway and rattle
their branches
a moss carpet,
greening before
the trees
acquire new leaves
and close the forest roof
two dark birds
hopping through
the underbrush,
slated-colored, like storms
without names
last year’s
brown weeds
slowly sink beneath
a rising tide
of new green
“nothing in haste”
the brambles remind me,
gently, slowly,
ease through
the difficult parts
robins
the blackness of
their heads
proclaims
the mating season
yellow blooms
of woodland strawberries
darkened for just a moment
by the flicker of
a bird’s passing shadow
woodland hiking
the youngest shades
of green being born
shining like a mirror:
the end of a discarded
beer can
before the weeds
cover it
try as I might,
these boots
trammel green things;
the crack of sticks
rebukes my heavy ways
stones at the root
of tall trees
covered in moss;
the bones, sinew, and skin
of earth himself
something large
and not human
laid down in these weeds,
made a nest,
and rested a while
looking back,
the trail I have left
is ragged
and wandering,
a stranger to this land
a sunny thicket
blinded,
I cannot find my way
in shadows
unless I too am shadow
that trail
through a tunnel
of greenery
wasn’t made for
human beings
an orange stake
labeled “control point”
flagged with
blue and white ribbons
in the middle of the woods
discarded soda cans,
“Moon Mist” flavor
next to the stake
that calls itself
“control point”
again that
barking birdsong
I know so well,
but never have I seen
the one who sings it
walking through
tall weeds beside
the highway,
the white bones of
a deer skeleton
surprisingly human
these vertebrae,
leg bones scattered
in all directions
hollow ribs,
empty of marrow,
hollow vertebrae,
empty of will,
all things come to this
no skull nor pelvis,
but an empty soda bottle
where a heart should be,
the bones disturbed
before I ever found them
today
I take a path
never taken
that can never be
taken again
tall brown weeds,
their toppled stalks
point the path of
the prevailing winds
the remains
of another dead deer
the stench drives me back
to view gnawed leg bones
and a torn pelt
a nest of dead grass
where the doe first lay,
her leg bones torn away
and licked clean by
something hungry
those first bones
were so very small
without the dead doe
I would have never
known the fawn
a bramble rose
snags my sleeve
a reminder of
this living world
about to bloom
a faint perfume
from a tree with
pale flowers,
this too is a thing for which
I have no name
clumps of
yellow blooming weeds
in this field
it is I am who am
useless and unwanted
I want to go home now
this forest no longer
gives me passage,
brambles and deadfalls
block my way
thorns grab
my clothes and
hold me back,
but this rock
offers me a place to rest
this cool breeze,
this bed of wild
strawberries in bloom,
bird calls all around . . .
perhaps I shouldn’t leave
in these
freshly toppled weeds,
I recognize my own trail
and follow myself back
to whence I came
after the woods,
the bleeding hearts
planted by
a previous tenant
are pleasantly domestic
pungent green air
the smell of the woods
clings to my shirt
my black boots
still in the shower,
drying off
after hiking
through the woods
POEMS AT FORTY-THREE #3
Sanford Goldstein
(these unpublished poems
were taken from my tanka diary of l968;
in the sixties and seventies,
hardly anyone knew tanka,
though some of mine got through –
now I am 81)
seeing my dad
alone in the kitchen
drinking beer,
I realize something of
what being seventy may be
I avert my eyes
in the college corridors
these days,
not wanting to play the phony
ready to agree, ready to make a point
my mind
so full of thought these days –
even at breakfast,
don't want to see my kids
beside me playing with their food
sometimes
like my dog under this chair,
I want to sit,
to rest, at the feet
of a master
what's happened to
not to think, not to think?
these days
my skull's riddled
with thought and doubt
can't sit still
this summer day,
walk for coffee,
scribble some poems,
take notes and toss my book aside
that face
caught in my car's lights,
was it lonely
or did I make it so
this summer night?
my kid
squirting his gun
at bugs
at red and white flowers
this summer afternoon
DRIFTING WITH A CRYSTAL BALL
In this first sequence I have linked the 5 tanka with two things. One with the repeating "I dream" in every fifth line. And the second link is with the various shapes and textures that are considered dreamlike.
Terra Martin
these feathers
lazily afloat now
drifting down
in wispy curls
I dream
field poppies
the crossroad aflame
the rising phoenix
in love's ashes
I dream
Queen Anne's lace
intricate, delicate
a survivor
seamlessly
I dream
the dandelion seed
as if a crystal ball
borne on the wind
carried by a wish
I dream
late summer light
on a granite stone
ears of wheat
in a golden harvest
I dream
CROSSROADS OF LIGHT
In this second sequence I have linked all the verses that involve light changed a few of the lines around so that light/dark themes interplay touching on metaphors of light and dark with the bible and devil suggested.
Terra Martin
a sliver of light
shows the way
branches parting
to a leather bound
book
late summer light
on a granite stone
ears of wheat
the gold of harvest
stored in a seed
the dandelion seed
as if a crystal ball
borne on the wind
to the land
of the midnight sun
northern lights
in a dance of veils
like a roused genie
you quicken
my desire
rising phoenix
at the crossroad aflame
devil's sunset
forgiveness scattered
in love's ashes
TEXTURES OF TIME
I have linked all the textures of
nature threading them throughout to create an emotional translation of a situation by suggesting a beginning, middle and end.
Terra Martin
rough hewn bark
the cracked pigment
of a canvas
between furrows
a tilled smile
Queen Anne's lace
intricate, delicate
a survivor
I sew the seams
torn by thorny words
white heather
across the moor
a bridal dress
waits by an open
window
a tangle of roots
and alligators
in murky waters
our veiled secrets
wavering
an hour glass
on a granite stone
trickling time
the gold of harvest
stored in a grain
DANCING SPIRITS
In this 4th sequence I have taken the original single tanka (which is the first one in this sequence. Then I have built a whole new theme around it. Using feathers as the introduction and moving the second tanka into drum beats, third into Dallin's bronze, fourth to an elder and fifth finishing with a wooden flute. It took on a native Indian element from tanka 2-5.
Terra Martin
these feathers
lazily afloat now
drifting down
in wispy curls
I dream
the beat of a drum
steadily
as the spirit moves
I let the rain
wash over me
the open arms
of Dallin's bronze
Appeal To the Great Spirit
I plant next year's
seeds
an elder
dances in a circle
awakening the past
I tell the stories
of how we met
a soothing tone
from a wooden flute
I come of age
and am nurtured
by sweet memories
WAVES OF GRASS
This fifth sequence is a variation on the 4th sequence "Dancing Spirits" I start off with the same tanka and move in yet another direction.
Terra Martin
these feathers
lazily afloat now
drifting down
in wispy curls
I dream
the pink crystals
of the fragrant grass
a rosy sparkle
when friends mention
your name
quaking grass
it's lantern-shaped tail
silver and white
so tender the love
I hide
switchgrass
upright and open
in a haze
I invent things to do
to stop thoughts of you
pampas grass
with it's slender strand
waving a flag
I try to come to terms
with this piercing love
COUNTY FAIR
Linda Papanicolaou
show barn –
the blue-ribbon heifer's
polished hooves
a gingham cover
on each pickle jar
two farmers in their
John Deere caps discussing
ethanol
corn dogs
my fingers sticky pink
with cotton candy
grandmother almost
wins the raffle
midway lights
stretch out beneath
the ferris wheel
ARK
Linda Papanicolaou
zoo fence –
the lions' outdoor
habitat
a group of city children
in their camp T-shirts
this way to the seals
rhinos polar bears – that way
zebras tigers wolves
penguins chimps giraffes but
no more elephants – they died
how silently
the animals line up
at feeding time
the silverback gazing past
people making monkey faces
FÜR GEORG JAPPE
The German haiku poet and artist Georg Jappe died on March 15, 2007. He was an avid bird watcher as well as one of Germany’s best early haiku poets.
Jane Reichhold
vom Zaum
um neues grünes Gras
ein auffliegender Vogel
from a fence
around new green grass
a rising bird
gegen den Himmel
die Form seiner Flügel
sein Gedicht
against the sky
the shape of his wings
his poem
Ei-gesprenkelt
braun und ganz dünn
sein Buch
egg-speckled
brown and very thin
his book
Worte als Zeichen
in die Zukunft weisend
wir fligen nicht allein
words as signs
pointing to the future
we fly not alone
ANDIJK
Alan Reynolds
Andijk,
small Holland town
whose houses ride big farms
across broad polders diked against
cool sea.
Eyes tear
as bikes bite wind
and pedals churn
through fields that dream they're still beneath
that sea.
A hawk
we see, don't hear
preys meters to our south
and ten above us as she hangs
to stoop.
Green hangs
near Blue today.
And Grey, soft-edged as Spring,
takes wing and kisses wet flat land
to life.
'False light' -
sun shopped through clouds -
bathes ewes who show their new black lambs
old paths up dikes to freshest grass.
Crows wait.
MISTRESS
Alan Reynolds
He walks
their balky dog
through rain to a phone cell
to check how she spends Christmas Day.
Alone.
No crowd,
just her, her phone.
No spouse, no child's delight.
No prize. No party feast for four.
Alone.
He talks,
half soaked, alert,
the phone cell light with love.
Wet rubber boots, dog left outside
alone.
At home
his wife puts kids
to bed, and says, ‘sleep tight’
and goes upstairs to take a call
alone.
AUTUMN
Ashley Rodman
autumn cold
a dark fish skims
my toes
falling leaf
the starling flock
changes shape
the crisscross
of popcorn strings
autumn begins
the warmth
of morning blankets
having you back
evening mist
yellow leaves cover
the red
an open door
autumn clouds
the kettle
dark house
a wrinkled pumpkin
in the window
late autumn
silence in the trees
wakes me
gold mums
young cousins gather
the centerpiece
OVER AND OVER AGAIN
R.K.Singh
Short nights and long days
sleep loss rustles a friction
echoing in bed
the cycle of cravings
over and over again
Rises with
the lingering shadow
of the dream:
the serpent of love
tickles between the thighs
The body that died
and the body that quivered
with menstruation
is me in dream fear and hope
shake love to light the flame
The cocktail of drink
drug and meditation –
nightly yelps
tease unshared guilt
the hell of silence
REBIRTH OF A WILDLIFE SANCTUARY
(a sequence in English and Spanish)
CarrieAnn Thunell
a heart
beat
away from me
my mate conducts
the wind to his garden
of bamboo chimes
I with spade
and he with shovel
turn the turning Earth
Gaia is greening
beneath swallow song
in the
garden
a greening community
quickens—
together we plant
a western red cedar
springtime
nursery—
we search row after row
of perennials
for native plants
to build a habitat
the lawn replaced
with a sprinkling of flowers
native trees and shrubs—
rabbits and birds attend
the opening ceremony
we
sit
beneath our cherry tree
amidst
the contentment
of bees
RENACIMIENTO DE LA RESERVA NATURAL
CarrieAnn Thunell
un golpe del corazón
lejos de mí mi compañero
realiza el viento
a su jardín
de carillones de bamboo
yo con pala
y con él con pala
palas la Tierra de la vuelta
Gaia llega a ser verde
traga abajo la canción
en el jardín
una comunidad vueltas a verde
germina—
plantamos
un cedro rojo
tienda de jardín de la primavera—
buscamos las muchas filas
de las plantas perennes
para plantas natives
para construir un habitat
el césped reemplazó
con flores dispersadas
árboles y arbustos natives
los conejos y los pájaros asisten
la ceremonia de apertura
nos sentamos
abajo de nuestro cerezo
entre
el contento
de las abejas
THE PEACE IF MUSIC –
Diana Webb
proliferation
of great white poppies,
a fountain plays
mute swans glide by,
their ebony marks
she knows
but does not speak,
showing the way
into the wood
leaf by mellowed leaf
at bedtime,
'Please can I do
a moon rubbing?'
that first date,
his highly polished shoes
just a a slip on the ice-
within days
two burials
here on this spot
their shared ancestry
a picture of girls
in Victorian dress
their hair in ringlets
today a different ribbon,
this one's for hearts
through diamond panes
of the church window
magnolia blooms
Gregorian Easter chant,
the peace of music
SINGLE POEMS
the power cut
blinds us with darkness
that was always there
like a cherished belief
demolished
William Hart
jammed in traffic
by the entourage
of a bigwig
we coin sarcasms
to speed his passing
William Hart
his poet's mind
formerly a kingdom
now stalks two rooms
bewildered by memories
of flying
William Hart
Please judge me not too harshly
for leaving my shanty place.
I longed for a land paved with gold
where no one ever sleeps hungry.
Have you heard of sex for food,
please judge me not too harshly.
Victor P. Gendrano
it is almost closing time
here at my favorite bar
I ask for yet another drink
this one for the road I said
I did not tell anybody
that today is my birthday
Victor P. Gendrano
the visiting son laments
his loss of their backyard tree
where as a teen he carved a heart
to express his very first love
his widower dad explains
twice there I tried to hang myself
Victor P. Gendrano
as I brush mom's golden hair
she keeps talking to unseen friends
she accepts me now as a friend
in the hospice where she lives
sometimes I wonder if she knows
I am her least-liked daughter
Victor P. Gendrano
He searches for his daughter
in the desert of broken dreams.
She joined others to try their luck
to cross the border north of them.
Above, he hears a vulture's shriek
somewhere close by a feeble cry.
Victor P. Gendrano
I could not help but help her
the old lady with a walker.
Guiding her slowly to the car
she rewarded me with a smile.
Right then and there from distant past
she is my late wife and mom.
Victor P. Gendrano
this early spring night
with the waning half-moon shining
through the thin clouds
I wonder whether you will
try to hang on like the snow
c w hawes
my hand
caressing your cheek your breast
this afternoon
the hands of the clock
stroking the time to part
c w hawes
sunrise
and no breath
of wind
in the stillness
chanting of prayers
c w hawes
OLYMPIC COASTAL BEACH
by Carrie Ann Thunell
Hiking down to the beach
on the wild wet Olympic Coast.
Sunlight shines on water
sparkling like diamonds on each wave.
Bright blue sky yields to dusk,
sun sinks past rising opal moon.
MOONLIT NIGHT
by CarrieAnn Thunell
Moonlit night, ocean waves
swirl in silver phosphorescence.
Kayak dips, bobs and glides
between jagged sea stacks in dusk.
The incoming -tide swells
engulfing wet cliffs and my heart.
MY WILL
Alan Reynolds
All Will
and no talent.
All I share with Shakespeare
is thinking on bad nights we both
are dead.
Copyright © by Designated Authors in 2007
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