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SOLO POETRY
SYMBIOTIC POETRY
LAKE POND OVER LAKE POND 3
Micah Cavalerie
lake pond
over the reflection
lake pond
history of moss is hardly the same as history of social cliques
at different levels cliques rise up into families, coalescing into neighbors and states
moss even over miles of hectares, acres of moss, is the most fragile ground and food for caribou and little field mice.
PORTRAIT OF A LADY
Steven Carter
Eighty-three years old, she lives alone in a fairy-tale house by the lake. With its unexpected nooks and crannies, a short flight of stairs that leads nowhere, and one of two tiny bedrooms she uses for painting the mountain apple trees of a Hawaiian childhood, the house isn’t so much a reflection of her as it is her—or so a neighbor has observed.
She appreciates the solicitousness of neighbors, though she’d rather be alone, even in winter, when the lake freezes over and she can watch eagles, coyotes, and red foxes make a meal of the dead elk dragged onto the ice by a neighbor astride a small John Deere tractor. In early April when the lake begins to thaw, she stations herself on the tiny rickety deck with a pair of binoculars, waiting for Canada geese migrating north.
Childless, widowed for nearly forty years, she knows she’ll die alone in this house, almost welcoming the thought, though she’s in good health. I know what they’ll find, she thinks with a trace of amusement, a half-finished mountain apple tree on the easel and my head on the pillow. More than twice she’s told neighbors who pretend to admire her
paintings: They tasted like a rose smells. At night she dreams of the lake in summer; Hawaii’s salmon-pink twilights; blank canvases—and the touch of
her husband’s hands on her back.
moonset
four a.m. —
the same raven's cry
sun low in the sky
never quite right—
color of the apples
Haiga by Elizabeth McFarland
BEFORE A COLD FIREPLACE
Steven Carter
Night thoughts—
To me, what makes contemplating never seeing a beloved person again cruel and unbearable is that eons will pass; stars will blossom, wither, and die; comets will fizzle out and the earth be swallowed by the sun—all Creation fading into a thin, cold haze; and I’ll still be bereft of that person.
When I talk like this to friends, they roll their eyes and accuse me of lack of acceptance.
I accuse them of lack of imagination.
Then—inexplicably—I burst into laughter.
drinking alone
. . . on her ninth life
Old Calico
HAIBUN
Gerard John Conforti
1.
Tears burn my eyes remembering her passing many, many years ago.
So many flowers blooming in her heart till the autumn withered her away.
daffodils bow near the pond gone
2.
Eric, so many days staying in your small room you were planning how to die.
When April came you sped your car into a tree.
so young the rain clouds pass over your grave
3.
Night comes with tears from closed eyes rolling down your face:
How a broken heart took you away.
she left never to be seen again only memories
4.
He gazes out the dewy window when the rising sun dries the glass.
The following night the dew comes rolling down the window glass again.
alone he talks to himself unknowingly
CLASS REUNION
Alexander Jankiewicz
“She’s here, you know. She’s standing over there at the table.”
“Who?” I feel compelled, for some reason, to act as if I didn’t know.
“You know who… which college did she go to?”
My best friend from high school always had a way of getting right to
the point. I see her standing across the room.
“Go over and say hi.” The volume of his voice suddenly becomes irritating.
She’s wearing a yellow dress. I remember how her favorite color was yellow.
“She’s not married. Bill just told me she never married. She lives in
Boston now. You should go over and say hi. She asked Bill if you’d be
here.”
I remember how when I asked her to marry me, she just smiled and said that we were too young. I’ve known over the years that she was right. I can feel my heartbeat starting to race as I take the first steps back in time. When she sees me, she smiles.
the kisses
we once shared
alone
we stand together
years from where we were
Haiga by Elizabeth McFarland
HEAVEN
Alexander Jankiewicz
I place my hand on her gravestone. I feel the loneliness of remembering when there is no one else to share the memories with. I tell her that we will see each other again.
one last hope
alone smelling carnations
I whisper her name
THE WORK WEEK
Roger Jones
Traffic makes me grumpy. Driving up the freeway this afternoon, admiring the usual vista — the flat, treeless farmland; the auction house; the old defunct motel; the ski boat sales place; the concrete plant – I try to get caught up in a reverie about highway-as-pathway, and the trite old dream — freedom and the open road. Then I look in the mirror: a monster pickup, with a giant chrome grill, tail-gating me closely.
under buttermilk skies
a man leading a horse
back to the barn
Haiga by Elizabeth McFarland
SLEEPING IN
Roger Jones
Tuesday morning. A cold soaking rain outside. Once in awhile, a quiet shudder of thunder. The garbage trucks are cruising around, slamming and beeping. Several men run around throwing barrels and yelling at each other. I stay in bed, nestle further down. Why not? No class to teach today. No pressing work, and the house full of warmth and late fall dark. The cats lie around the house, asleep. The calendar will tend to itself.
November chill
the red oak at last
turning red
SEQUENCES
the way through
Jenny Ward Angyal
in a house
of locked doors
she dips her brush
in green-gold light—
a forest beckons
I enter
through brushstrokes
like briars
the deepening canvas
of the heart
following
the echo of birdsong
inside us
we make our own way
through a pathless wood
Haiga by Colin Stewart Jones
hide and seek
Jenny Ward Angyal
the words
of a child’s prayer
to Our Father
dead on my lips
I enter a silent grove
in this hollow
between hills
like breasts,
my search for bloodroot
still blooming
unable
to name what stirs
in dappled light
I cry out only come
come come come
TO THE EDGE OF TWILIGHT
asni amin
birdsong
for a moment
I forget …¦
drifting downstream
songs I'll never sing again
he calls me
by another name …
in the silence
unspoken words
echo
things you said
wish I could string them together
like a string of pearls …
till then dance me
to the edge of twilight
unpacking
traces of dreams
unraveling …
I let them go
to yesterday
SPRING
Ramesh Anand
distant hill
a river carrying
the spring
waters of spring
father backstrokes
into healthiness
spring drizzle
the bipinnate leaves
fold into shyness
spring day
spots of rosiness
in the bud
spring morning
a rose wallah
dresses a boquet
Haiga by Máire Morrissey-Cummins
AUTUMN
Ramesh Anand
autumn sky
patches of twilight
in the falling leaf
autumn dawn
mother serves white rice
on an almond leaf
autumn dawn
she sees a white hair
in my mustache
autumn
listening deep
to my inner voice
on a stone bench
mother fingers her wrinkles
autumn loneliness
CITY SEASONS
Don Ammons
Copenhagen, Denmark; observed
from a third floor window
spring warmth bursting buds
leaves suddenly embrace trees
slumbering flowers
stir to odoriferous life
smells reaching me on high
summer shower stops
wet asphalt glistens under
a chrome sky car tires swish
trash swirls down gurgling culverts
crowds congest steaming sidewalks
autumn colors fade
leaves fall crinkle and turn brown
cover back gardens
front walks sidewalks sight and sound
of neighbors raking sweeping
winter snow falling
covering back gardens front walks
sidewalks sight and sound
of neighbors shoveling sweeping
and trucks slinging salted sand
WIDOW’S WALK
Edward Baranosky
I see my beauty in you.
Rumi
The portrait happens
when the brush disappears
stroking a precarious image
drawn from the sheer form
My studio chair stands empty,
the one of existence.
Bereft of consolation.
even the pulse of the tide
carries your sated heartbeat
with the salted blood.
The truth is neither a door,
nor mirror between times,
but once awake, what beauty
is there to dreamless sleep?
NOTHING TO LOSE
Owen Bullock
nothing to lose
I open
my hands
nothing to lose
today
won’t come again
nothing to lose
I give myself
what I need
nothing to lose
tears come
to my eyes
nothing to lose
but hair, teeth
illusions
Haiga by Máire Morrissey-Cummins
THE STEADFASTNESS OF THE LEAF PEEPERS
Robert Demaree
foliage in the rain
yellows do better than reds
tourists not deterred
damp gray October
orange and red in the mist
glow with inner light
leaving New Hampshire
oak trees umber in the fog
winter not far off
TRAIL MIX
Ruth Holzer
over the bay
a long string of pelicans
wavering
thoughts
that pass
a span
the length
of a breath–
yellow butterfly
on these bluets
not much
wildlife today–
a stag
with a bad leg, trying
to cross Sugarland Run
the green curl
brushed with fine black lines
swings on a thread
from my finger:
brother cankerworm
chocolate chips
nuts, berries, seeds–
trail mix
for when I
find a trail
IN REMEMBRANCE
Elizabeth Howard
mother’s wake
I feel faint
from the scent of lilies
honoring dad’s wishes
I place her worn Bible
at her bare feet
grandchildren gather
a cluster of field daisies
on the satin pillow
filling the new grave
even at a distance
the thunk of earth
wanting to hold on
I transplant her heirloom lilies
to my garden
VISIT TO A JAPANESE GARDEN
Jeanne Jorgensen
dedication plaque
beside the teahouse
. . . these words
a fence
around the garden
everything greener here
Japanese Garden
the hedge in bonsai form
by still water
bright, afternoon sun
the candle in the stone lantern
unlit
stone temple
engraved Buddha
faces all directions
the wooden bridge
over a shallow pond
no fish at all
on her way back
to the Japanese teahouse
the gong sounds
Haiga by Máire Morrissey-Cummins
SILENCE IN THE DARK
Chen-ou Liu
the Faith Saves sign
on the manicured lawn
of a white church...
in its long shadow
one dog mounts another
in the shade
of a wooden cross
the mute man cries
with his trembling hands
I was abused as a child
bang! bang! bang!
shatters this midsummer night
lingering
in the moist air
Knockin' on Heaven's Door
at daybreak
as I remember the look
in his eyes...
did he see the face of God
in cherry blossoms?
NEBULA
John Martone
down a long hill
into fog
that lens
no one
at your side
fog is all
winter fog
just like any
other book
lost in fog
you remember
how to fly
pissing
right through the fog
that sound
winter fog
one lightbulb
bare as can be
in winter fog a clearness about the body
winter fog
you still hear
that crow
winter fog
everything else
is skin
coming home
from winter fog
to sketchbook
same as everyone else this fog
everything else the same – this fog
Een dolende ziel
Paul Merken
hef hoog het glas
voor het lentefestival
Highlands Amersfoort
te dronken
om de uitleg van de gids te snappen
de dolende ziel
rust in de wachtkamer
even uit
zij verwaardigt zich niet
op zijn sloomheid te reageren
zet je schrap liefje
voor de zomerfilmmarathon
van Novecento
Depardieus nieuwjaarsverrassing
een knuffel van een goddeloze Rus
rode bosbessensaus druipt uit de dankszeggingsdagdoos
geboren tussen de stoomtelefoon
en het vloeibare Tetris-spel
de politie vond hem
verplet door de boekenkast
met al zijn romans
in bed aan mijn vriendje
ma’s laatste brief voorgelezen
onder de dekens
ruik ik de ontbijtovenschotel
ik zal verrast zijn
Jefferson versmaadde de etiquette
op iedere gast een toast uit te brengen |
A Wandering Soul
Paul Merken
raise high your glass
to the spring festival
HowTheLightGetsIn
too drunk
to catch the guide’s explanation
the wandering soul
finds in the waiting room
a moment of rest
she refuses to dignify
his indolence with a comment
brace yourself love
for the summer film marathon
of Novecento
Depardieu’s new year’s surprise
a hug from a godless Russian
cranberry sauce drips from the thanksgiving box
born between the steam telephone
and the liquid Tetris
the police found him
crushed by the bookcase that held
his latest novels
reading in bed to my friend
mother’s recent letter
still snuggled down
I smell breakfast casserole
I shall act surprised
Jefferson spurned the etiquette
of toasting to each of one’s guests |
FOLDED AND MUTILATED
Sergio Ortiz
I am what is left
of his life
the black map
describing his voyage
of deep descent into himself
I am the map
of a wet dreary town…
exchanging
secrets in whispers
lilies bend beneath our bodies
you grasp my hand
steer it to a place
beyond maps…
I am scared of the shock of arrival
the raw landscape
if my life were a map
it would be one of a man
in the snow…
picking mushrooms
at the edge of dread
Haiga by Máire Morrissey-Cummins
LEARNING ENGLISH IN CHOLON
Nu Quang
no language lab
some teachers read to us
with thick accent
the spoken English I learn
a version of Englishes
"in" or "at" or "on"
singular or plural
for "eye," for "thought"
no small matters
for a non-native speaker
"I" in uppercase
for a moment it pumps me up
right away
Father’s dry cough within earshot
"pardon me, it is English"
verb tense?
I say "go" for the past, present,
and future in Chinese
to get the grammar right
I have to learn it by heart
memorizing
all the irregular verbs
I repeat
go went gone, Mother says,
"That sounds like English"
Haiga by Máire Morrissey-Cummins
SINGLE POEMS
Ellis Island
wearing her crown, I become
the Statue of Liberty
with the borrowed torch
I brighten my own dark corner
Nu Quang
night-light –
the sleeping child
curls one hand
Joanna M. Weston
the house I build
will stand forever . . .
a smile
at the corners of my mouth,
stars sitting on my tongue
Sergio Ortiz
sunlight fades
your favourite cushion
empty chair
Rachel Sutcliffe
deep valley –
a rip
in the map
Joanna M. Weston
Chinese books
brought from Vietnam
keep me
in touch with my roots . . .
a country I’ve not set foot on
Nu Quang
inching
nearer my toes
incoming tide
Rachel Sutcliffe
putting side by side
what I have planned to do;
what is done
I see a void . . .
evening is approaching
Nu Quang
rollercoaster
screaming louder
upside down
Rachel Sutcliffe
my sister and I
competed for the best clothes
for our paper dolls–
she wears Chinese-style pant set
I’m wrapped in skirts and blue jeans
Nu Quang
her stiff lip
breaks into a smile
clown for hire
Alegria Imperial
adopted
by ethnic Chinese in Vietnam
birth parents unknown
Ancestry.com cannot help me
dig up my roots
Nu Quang
steady rain
the long grass
shrouds a doe
Joanna M. Weston
why should I mourn
so much our cat’s death?
she’s now in Kitty’s Heaven
I still have to worry about
a roof and three meals
Nu Quang
swinging
on hooped earrings
bag lady's air
Alegria Imperial
ambulance siren–
smoke from the gun
splits apart
Pravat Kumar Padhy
weaving in and out
of whole conversations
his Pinocchio nose
Alegria Imperial
Curonian Spit ...
our boat divides the flow
of the spring light
lost in dreams
I breath your silence
Ramona Linke
I carry
silted water from my well
come to you
with damp earth and capillaries
of change on my surface
Sergio Ortiz
Vanilla fragrance
rises from the jade bowl
shivering
I feel your whisper
as once in May
Ramona Linke
last night
weary eyes blossomed
in the closet
his cold cotton shirts
warmed by my hands
Sergio Ortiz
chaos all around
the graveyard remains
in silence
Pravat Kumar Padhy
simplicity,
a pendant chained to my heart—
dolphins swim
around the aura
of a lunar eclipse
Sergio Ortiz
.
she bears her decline
with a toothless mouth,
silent
under a barrage
of unkind words
Sergio Ortiz
I draw a smile
in the misty train window
last goodbye
Rachel Sutcliffe
AMBER
Ellen Summers
Tree’s teardrops once, thick
honey rheum oozed
from wounds, redgolden
sap dripped decades,
centuries, flecked
with insects sipping their
sarcophagus, slowed
into stone.
Polished, drilled,
strung round a woman’s neck, wee
headstones glisten. Gems
of honey-glass drop
yet, drop still, glowing spilled
life of tree and fly,
blood arboreal shed,
healed, sealed, and
sweet.
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