GHAZALS
WATCHING THE 101 SOUTH
Korie Beth Brown
The hills drop away. Skyscrapers materialize.
Los Angeles comes into view.
Yesterday, it was Easter Sunday. Today
I am no longer surrounded by eggs.
Last year, I was thirty-something. Next year
I'll live in a different decade.
The country station dwindles. Rap emerges.
The freeway gains another lane.
The Backstreet Boys are this years' collective
Heartthrob.
Does anyone remember New Kids on the Block?
President Clinton is no longer President.
A second George Bush has gained the office.
An hour ago, our car flew south.
Now we travel the speed of "one car per green light."
I once owned a bike with a Banana seat and white basket.
Now my bike is for fitness cycling.
In another fifty years, will "Korie Beth Brown"
Be remembered by other aspiring writers?
AFTER THE READING
Jane Reichhold
bagels gone into the shape of their centers
energy dispersed in weaving webs well
when the lights close the ringing room
with whorls of spray softened to mottled gray
crumbs lie on the floor with the early fears
haphazardly syllabic in close to perfect rhyme
where applause arced, pivoted, rose and slipped
back into the white circled faces of cups
squared chairs sleep in the attitude of listening
cotton threads that caressed the button boxes
sage stones clatter from the slopes of the mesas
hawk feathers flare as dust is lowered by raindrops
women return to their bodies whole and renewed
age-spotted and vaguely trembling over that one
I watch them slip into the waist of red gym trunks
small books for their fingers that sparkle - sparkle
too full of ideas for one swollen heart that bends
fine hands outstretched with her bowing
a stifled roiling groan to shatter the coldest cold
a face turned as air vibrates with thrills unfolding
the gorge returns to the owls and drumming
and the flesh was beaten – pounded to a pulp
as a date on the calendar rolled into the sun
Jane returned to the speechlessness of words.
ORGAN-EYESED WATER
Jane Reichhold
a thousand stirring wings find their way into the air
scrape and tarnish your hands in the cottonwoods
a dark vision of you buying me coffee and muffins
the limits of consecutive grammar remain muted, even startled
strolling through the museum of rotted wood and dust
when we are changed into minnows within a river
for these reasons I reach across the knife point's voice
while the foolish greenhouses of women soak in cold milk
their bones stiffen into skulls of roses as the boat
of the blue one touches the red one's stomach
you lie down between two pillows of broken rhythms
reach to stroke a brow and press against your lover's face
automotive taillights, something that cups the plates the
napkins
before realizing that other people also have emotions
clouded as if painted by El Greco such a baroque evening
when all the living fluids swirl within the hiding
every draft begins in the serenity of tomorrow
but Jane insists on the resistance of hold habits
BROKEN POTTERY SCRIPT
Jane Reichhold
white paper's sun glare
fight raper's sin stare
the Rorschach shape of desire
dragged away by distance
to translate pottery shards
would that be too exciting?
would you walk beside me
without floating up on wings
rings of words carried aloft
by flowers' fragrance on my porch
fanned out in blooming
like a woman hot and panting
I cannot hold the pencil any longer
HAIBUN
EATON CANYON AT NOON
Korie Beth Brown
Today, Eaton Canyon is green and brown, the sky above it
blue and white. Yesterday's storm may not be quite over; the wind continues to
pick up and wind down in oddly measured beats, neither rhythmical nor
cacophonic. The streams are pregnant with water rushing down the gorge.
Like
most parts of natural Los Angeles, Eaton Canyon is not quite riparian and not
quite desert: the rushing stream that I now jump across will dry completely up
in one or two short months. In an El Nino year, flash floods destroy
everything in the gully. This is not an El Nino year; it is wetter than most
years, but the rain itself has arrived in a steady stream of storms rather
than in one or two "Pineapple Expresses." Today, small trees grow in
the streambed without being uprooted by the water.
Below the water, the stones
glisten where they've been scattered in the mud. Above the water, swallows dip
and rise, seeking bugs to be eaten mid-air. They will soon get fat and sassy;
there are more bugs today than I've ever seen here. Lizards scamper away from
the water, seeking heat from the dry section of the riverbed. Everything here
measures itself by its relationship to water - where it rests, how it eats,
whether it will be here next year. We walk slowly, distracted by the smell of
chaparral and the colors of early spring.
Fragrant sage snapping
Under my exploring feet
This April morning;
In September, the streambed
will be completely dry.
YEW-TREES
William Wordsworth, Shiki and Paul T. Conneally
There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Which to this
day stands single, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore;
Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched
To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Of vast circumference and gloom profound
This solitary Tree! a living thing
Produced too slowly ever to decay;
Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note
Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved;
Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane;--a pillared shade,
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,
By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged
Perennially--beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked
With unrejoicing berries--ghostly Shapes
May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton
And Time the Shadow;--there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship; or in mute repose
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.
William Wordsworth 1803.
Shiki - Paul T Conneally
a Yew-tree
standing in its own
darkness
you notice him
in a crowded room
everyone does
we were so much alike
he even shared my make-up
a young man
standing in his own
darkness
solitary tree
of vast circumference
evening shadows
he stayed with me
for the first few months
but then he left
a man like him needs space
we live in one bedroom
solitary boy
in the shopping mall
a few loose coins
pillared shade
four trees with huge trunks
of intertwisted fibres
we come here often
resting under the yew trees
on the old park bench
his dad comes sometimes
when he remembers
pillared shade
he makes this weeks rent
in the coppice
below the branches
grassless floor of red and brown
leaf litter
he's a good baby
never causes a big fuss
just like his dad was
according to grandma
he can already say "dad"
below the branches
grassless floor of needles
and swabs
noon
boughs decked with berries
form ghostly shapes
noon
boughs decked with berries
form ghostly shapes
IF YOU'RE EVER IN WHITE RIVER JUNCTION
Larry Kimmel
I'd just got into White River Junction by bus and
I gave her a call. She said she'd be along in about a
half-an-hour, so I crossed the street to a bar, and ordered a beer and a shot of
whiskey. I was the only patron in the place. Said a few words to the bartender
and poured a glass of beer and dumped the whiskey into it. And than all of a
sudden I hear: "Hey! What do you think you're doing?" And just like
that, the bartender grabs the glass and the bottle and
dumps the whole business down the sink. "What!?", I say, and he says:
"What do you mean, `what'? You don't do that in my bar." I made a
helpless, questioning gesture, and he says: "Where did-ya learn that?"
Catching on I say: "Everybody does it where I come from." "Well,
I'm glad I don't come from there. They must all be crazy." I shrugged
again. "I don't like seeing young guys like you doing that sort of
thing." I don't know exactly what was said or happened next, but within a
few seconds he is setting up a clean glass, bottle of beer, and a shot of good
ol' Corby's, just like that, and says: "Now you drink it right. I won't
have a young guy, like you, in here acting like an alki. Jesus Christ, what got
you started on that anyway?" And on and on he went in that vein, as he
polished glasses and racked them overhead.
I ask you, did I look that callow? I
was twenty-five and had been steadily drinking for seven years without let up,
by then.
I mean, come on now. Any bartender worth his salt
should have been able to see that. I mean, I was a pro. A stone, freaking-ass,
professional drinker at that point. Jeeze. And all I'd done was pour me a beer
and dumped the whiskey in to make a boilermaker. And what's the freaking
difference in drinking it separate or mixed? It all goes to the same place.
Right?
The girl
could have done better
in White River Junction,
than run into my arms
and the set-
ting
sun.
DIVING FOR TURTLES
For my parents
Gary LeBel
The nape
of joy when young
never questions
from what far country
the wild geese fly
It is very hard to probe one’s deepest
memories. The simpler they are, the more illusive they become. And I’m guilty
as I write these words of gleaning far too much from so little. Perhaps it is
the poverty of a small mind, one that measures in the scale of an inch rather
than in the mile of a conqueror. But I do know that at times a conspiracy of
detail erupts from life and out of its cinder cone comes enough experience to
fill even a conqueror’s arrogant boots, and the shoes of a dreamer.
Is there a danger that the idea in a memory might
become more alive than the thing itself? Yes. I will take that risk. After all,
I have Plato on my side.
The outward trappings are meager at best: a lake,
turtles offshore from an island, a boy and a boat. Approaching the special spot,
the outboard motor is turned off; water laps gently on the aluminum hull; the
boat drifts. He sees the turtles as they bask in the sun on fallen tree
branches; the boy slips into the water quietly and approaches them from below.
He is alone with the island and the lake and the turtles. Time is only an angle
of the sun. The turtles plunge into the water and he gives chase without ever
touching one of them intentionally. It is only a game, and the sheer joy of
seeing them in graceful underwater flight is his singular desire.
Combing the bottom
in a diving mask,
a boy content
with nothing more than sunlight
dancing beautifully in water
What is the springboard of his joy? Is it the
sun? The lake is radiant with its steady presence. Everything that is green from
spruce to pine is blended to form an intricate mosaic that pours into the day
out of a marvelous vessel of being. He feels it then but has no words, for words
are not needed. And its flow will not wait for his stasis to catch fire: its
secret lies in not-thinking, breathing only, seeing only, touching.
Glimpsed from under the water, the sun’s
penetration is breathtaking. It fractures itself into tiny echoes over the
lake-floor in a shimmering landscape where fish of all types wander. Their
lidless eyes look straight ahead, affixed only on the present they are swimming
through.
The water leaks into his plastic goggles
reminding him of his limitations. When he surfaces for another breath of air, he
hears only the sound of his breathing and a tepid breeze pushing the water along
in wavelets. The clean lake water has a sweet mineral-taste which he does not
know will travel with him like a birthmark from that day forward. He gazes down
into the clear depths known to him intimately from the neck down and takes
another deep breath before descending again, shivering as he glides through a
cold stream along the bottom.
Ah, for turtles,
the long afternoons
without clocks,
languid summer days
without names
The turtles have fled, but it doesn’t matter.
The boy is Ulysses on an adventure. He is the offspring of a welder and a nurse
who love him in their way. And that love has left its signature in the cool
shadows of the pines on the island, in the freedom they gave him without
reservation to be alone.
And the water? How does it feel to the body? How
does one describe its sensation to another who may never have experienced
swimming underwater in a lake?
For him it is like a "glove" of being
for the flesh; it is all action, a glorious loss of self. He has no need to gaze
at pictures he himself is inside. And he waits impatiently through the seemingly
endless New England winters for this greatest of pleasures in each new summer,
the touch of water.
The boy paddles to the island shore, removes his
gear and dives from a smooth boulder that protrudes from a ledge. He might say
years later that buoyancy, the equilibrium between two mediums, is our most
perfect affair with fluid, and that gravity is beautifully distorted in its
viscosity. The physicist may describe swimming through water as moving among
laminar films or layers that deflect around the body. If this is so, the boy
feels the constant rising and falling of its changing layers and edges as a
hundred thousand fingers in direct contact with his skin, though this would
still be far from precise.
The common painted turtles he seeks are only an
apostrophe in the contraction, a means of connection. Gathered together again,
they tumble down off the half-submerged tree and into the water as he waits
anxiously below its surface to watch them flee. Scattering like dandelion seeds,
he gives chase but they always remain, as if by design, just beyond arm’s
reach. He pulls handfuls of water excitedly behind him, and then with a light
thrust of his fins, glides with his arms outstretched like a forward rudder
defining his plane of movement.
Stretching, reaching out
to touch a turtle’s smooth back,
an awkward stranger
chasing
tremors of grace
Despite his frantic strokes and grabbing at
distance, he cannot keep pace with the turtles. But his failure only gladdens
his thumping heart, whose inner chambers now surge wildly with infinite
possibility.
He boards the little boat again, shoves off and
starts the engine. Without looking back, he throttles it up to top speed and
encircles the island before heading home. That is why he is not a conqueror.
Just as all roads
once led to Rome’s great city,
all the paths of my life
lead at once to a lake and a summer
of twenty-one days
A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A TEA STUDENT IN KYOTO
Giselle Maya
Out of the futon by 7 a.m. Eight mean breakfast
of miso soup, rice and pickles. Dressed in kimono and walk to the tea school. A
throng of light and dark kimono enters the building for the morning lecture –
about the casting of iron kettles. By noon, lunch in a hall with students from
all over Japan and a sprinkling of international guests. A short walk along the
streets of Northern Kyoto and a visit to a shrine.
Clapping hands twice
at Jizosama's shrine -
may our knees hold out
the teacher bows
adjusting a white lily
By 1:30 afternoon practice. Kobayashi-sensei
enters in an elegant black kimono after all students are seated on their knees
in seiza. We practice kagetsu, a particularly intricate ceremony
where guests take a turn as host. None of us gets the footsteps right – a
measured, precise walk where each step counts – no stepping on tatami borders.
So we repeat all afternoon, sitting, rising walking, preparing and drinking macha.
By 5 pm we leave, exhausted. I go to the public bath (o-furo), to soak in hot
water into which someone has put a clump of roots to give us strength.
body and mind
into very hot water
the heart of a flower
hidden with the chafed skin
of an earth-colored bulb
touch and go 11/17
marlene mountain
craig i just spent an hour-and-half on phone with
apple mostly on hold until i finally talked with tristan
who called frankie while i was on hold who is suppose to call me to say that the
first external modem didn't work and i'm to say again if i'll pay that
percentage for another one so frankie can call dan and tell him but i said
several times to tristan that dan said that greg said that i have a new cs
number that's to fix everything on the mac free including the zip drive which
tristan knows nothing about tho he's dan's boss and a cs manager and thinks he
knows that greg so forty-five minutes later i'm still waiting for frankie to
call but of course now the store has closed and it's
friday. lovemm
in a pickle with a lemon from apple it's
touch and go bananas
LAGGING LEFT
Sheila Murphy
Domestic birds offer commendable withholding of
our recent fears. This is what I woke up thinking in the
creased new sheets we nearly sent back based upon an overrun of subtlety in
colors green to gray to ether wool. The latch was still ajar when I arose to fix
the tilt of sun that streamed from mini-blinds. This day, my stretch goals,
poisson ce soir avec a priest who would forgive as he forgives routinely
everyone within his path. What won't surprise will still the threshold of
suppressed own sentences that reach near heights. Dream cannot be told in prose,
but that is plenty reason not to quantify a slow boat's
aching into hemispheres unknown. Today I don't know who I want to be afraid of.
Matriculation is an enviable process, or it was. For a self, mere tresses lank
their way down shoulders. Maybe they would wither where I almost walk. Recessive
genes are furious with grief. At least that's the
impression I received when coffers opened widely. Wells are often full. That's
the philosophy I start to preach when occupied by ventures. Think of thrush. The
restive generosity comes close to having been consumed,
when all the clothesline asks is to be plucked. The traffic signals pause.
Within the scope of hearing, centrist integers go prime. Our magnified
indulgence happens to be pawned as matrilineal indoctrination trades
acceptance for chapped kiss rehearsal.
Exorbitant new kinds of wheels, hewn to level
majesty, aside from norms, astride their quivers
MANTRA BREAKS ME
Sheila Murphy
Evenly, in two, philosophy splits open so I see
both sides. Events have often predeceased their outcomes. Thus, the color velvet
glows almost porch-side or a balcony apart from what really occurred. I venture
guesses as I venture speech. The Rolodex is full of offers I decline. Then
whiffle language offers selves to glee gods, goddesses. I rove in twin domains.
I supplicate indentured lay free tokens of indebtedness. If ever there were
squalls, I might accommodate the notion peace is just this side of Cuba. Stripes
decode our indecision, possibly. Host prints seize viatical endorsements of who
is likely to recede into a covenant. Nautical neglect means there are young,
lean floating objects latent with imagined life. Watch Styrofoam be sensed so
living motion won't subside. Each of the nights confides new information I did
not know lingered. What is safe to say is also moderato in our legion premises.
A covenant entails two sides. Our river rafting means we'll flow somewhere with
current neither of us can deride. It's raining every afternoon bequeathed with
tall humidity. Some stunning silence means a quark or two to be investigated or
invested in. I say words slowly, as I cease to think.
Practice pause, delicate sea birds moving with
and in supplanted wind
SHE WOULD LACK, LIFE WOULD SUFFICE
Sheila Murphy
Engendered third-party decisions test the mute
cone in collective trumpet taste. I think I'm young enough now to be fed the
glory that will not bleed into epidermal rants. The quest is like the coast is
like the silver tray. Be dumbfounded in keeping with the sly new tact reported
by a fiery young integrity. Watch each branch lean low to middling near the
window cusp of wood distinct from usual adobe. If a prayer were strummed, it
would sound thus: malinger, stow, refresh. If centered in fictive domains, one
part of us might relish even snow. Hear boots crunch on hillsides, lumbering
that presupposes squeaks and forwarding new style. Brass instruments remember us
to parties heretofore unknown. That rhyme with our own speech. I tell her fever,
and I tell her stories. I admonish what she's seeded back to bellwether
delusion. Fall, swell, stipulate, refuel become our wandering agenda set. Excel
is how we lark our way into neutrality blessed by the hoards of minions.
Lucid stall, the question about objects in our
speed of thought, arrangements
WHEN I PLAY MUSIC I PLAY
Sheila Murphy
Slow, dark repartee, I pour out souls I have not
had. I render mendicant advisories. I portion out the languor I would quantify
to mint condition allegretto. I decide how passion might be lured to cloisters.
Or I wryly wait for seams to fortify what lies between. She always integers my
faithless snow. She waits. She rations what I know. There are details to fathom,
and I launder faith as though it were a few long weeds to stow. The paucity of
young detail is urgently revised by learned contentment. Then I sow a few yarned
wheat lengths of the glow. The routines are stories near enough my theoretical
receipt of the directed theory parsed from practice. I hear the falter work its
way toward treasure, leave a wake of likely strength. Is this the parchment song
was written on. Measured in the scent of hurt. A failed canary dangling fevered
melody near what we know.
Whole tones left to rise, the faculty of
recollection
MAY I HAVE THIS DANCE?
Rod Thompson
I stopped on the side of the road, shut off the
headlights, then the engine. The northern lights were
shifting across the stars like a huge silk bandana blowing
in a silent wind. I wanted to describe this wonder to you when I got home so got
out of the truck to get the full view. Veils of green light swept across the sky
so quickly and with such sudden turns and folds that I expected to hear the hiss
of light rubbing the cosmos. Instead, a coyote yipped from a distant hill. Soon
every dog, wild or chained, joined in like bull-riders
hooting at a rodeo dance.
That's when I figured out how to explain them to
you. When I first saw you at that dance in McKenzie Hall.
The feeling in my stomach - put that in the sky and you have what every
stargazer saw tonight.
night sky magic
men cry 'aurora borealis'
the coyotes laugh
to hide their fear of fire
dancing among the stars
PIGEON MOUNTAIN
Linda Ward
As I cross the one-lane bridge a few cattle pause
to glance up at me from the swiftly-flowing creek below,
then amble up the bank to the monastery's pasture. A sharp
curve leads me up from the creek bed, and I feel the
weight of built-up tension fall in a rush as the familiar bell tower emerges
between tree tops.
low glide of turkeys
down the slope of a field
gentle toll of bells
At the foot of the convent's walkway I stop for a
moment and scan the rolling hill below me, searching for
the huge old apple tree whose fruit I know will be gathered
by nuns and deer in the fall. I find it toppled by a
recent storm, its ridge of dark roots protruding from the
earth. . .
shades of twilight
a pale crown of blossoms
whitening
Pressing the visitor's bell, I silently give
thanks for the ancient traditions of this Cistercian
Order, who provide solitude for those seeking refuge from the distractions and
demands of the day-to-day world. Sister Claire, currently assigned retreatant
duties, appears at the top half of the Dutch door where I wait, as instructed by
a faded notice posted on the wall.
Rocksport-shod
sister in traditional
black and white
. . .age-old blessing
and embrace
An old farm gate locked behind me, I drive slowly
up a gravel road that leads to the retreat cabin isolated
on a rise overlooking a pond and the stone remains of an 18th-century ice house.
My favorite handwritten sign is still in its place by the door. . .
hermitage rules:
when Sister cuts the grass
please refrain
from speaking
unnecessarily
And this is why I come: silence for five days
without telephone, television or computer. Immediately I
sit zazen, the spirit of this place caressing mine. . .
just after sunset-
the raucous signaling
of Canada geese
The rustic three-room cabin is equipped with a
wood stove and has a small rotating library stocked by the
sisters and retreatants. A crucifix hangs over my single bed, yet the reading
material reflects a diversity of teachings on meditation and prayer from Sister
Teresa to Krisnamurti. I find a small round of gouda in the refrigerator--the
livelihood of these dozen or so nuns whose cheese barn adjoins their convent. A
loaf of bread from a Trappist monastery is also provided.
hands joined in labor-
flavor of a simple meal
intensified
Darkness settles more suddenly in these mountains
than it does along our coastal plain, and I eagerly crawl
into bed, knowing from past visits how quickly my whole
being slips into the cycle of meditation, study and simple
chores this contemplative order follows, as though attuned to the biorhythms
nature intended. The geese too have quieted for the night and sleep comes almost
instantly. . .
echoes
of monastery bells
awaken me
in my cabin retreat
ghostly taps against the wall
When the bell for matins stops I listen for the
odd noise I thought came from just outside. . .how soon
silence has released my hidden fears! I raise the window shade to reassure
myself that my solitude remains undisturbed. . .
3 a.m.
crossing the dew-covered lawn
glow of the full moon
Bracing my back against the rough log wall behind
my bed I begin to focus on my breath, somehow reassured by
the idea that the sisters too are meditating in their rooms.
in stillness of night
solitary moan of wind
rising and fallling
Walking meditation at dawn, my legs adjusting to
the steepness of the rocky mountain paths--such a
change from the flatlands I'm accustomed to. . .
morning mist wavers
only the caw of the crow
crosses the pond
At the crest of the trail the faint trickle of a
nearby creek and countersongs of birds cross the hills.
. .
orchard oriole-
the whole body throb
of his song
My afternoon alternates with periods of writing,
reading and meditation. I try mindfully washing dishes as advised
by Thich Nhat Hanh. Later, I take the mile walk to the
cloister, then follow signs to the visitors section of the small chapel where
vespers will be sung. Concerned that I might arrive late and interrupt the
service, I find I have instead arrived early. . .
smoldering wax
in the empty chapel
a kneeling pad creaks
Soon the sisters file silently in. . .then lost
to my
view in their private corner of this sacred place. . .
not knowing
this weight had become
so heavy. . .
the nuns' chant at vespers
unstoppable tears
On my last morning I sweep the cabin, strip
linens from the bed and bag up my small bit of trash.
After dropping these off in the convent's parlor per instructions, I leave my
car radio turned off, relishing a final period of silence. I'm grateful for a
cool, cloudy day, allowing me to keep the car windows closed against the
traffic.
four days of silence
in the old log cabin
-my mind
haunted yet
by those it released
PUR
John M. Bennett
sur mount nor light nor
count less sand les
drinking in the room foam
lice leached "singing was"
sleep above it's "all" nor
(ringing, doubtless; R
SPRAY SAY
John M. Bennett
Say lung, spray high, le
an away 'n at, it ch
an ear, dry yr nose
keep adding up. na da
r storm, it's all just . . .
stooping, plying. s horn
all ways are won yr
nap drips yr wake d
at reams creamly drys the
steps. beaking utter song
LAST AWAY
John M. Bennett
Fit to dry I nak ed
wob ble in the sulate the
air water, skin a
beach. or cliff. ac
curate, flapping fli pping
through the see the nee
d low. the floorish
bends the treat trou
ble insular yr hair
flooder (mud and belly
LANG
John M. Bennett
t ime humming
w edge im
mouf
(roof, uid
SWIM OF A NARRATIVE
Werner Reichhold
Swim of a Narrative
the gurgle the r before the g
one drop’s tongue into the path
not passing the one so far ahead
drop the repetition loaned
to softness for a while.
My pillow of wolf-haired yellow
undated at dawn the fur
the earliest riddle.
Is there a plan compressed
mixed motion? From the breath of a fang
one feels a premonition is here
its blouse unbuttoned
as if a shift has meaning
in an age of corridors
sweeping the self’s slow long view
II
In a dense net of a player’s toy
lured in with a swarm of guests
the spider at a museum
in the frame work of a picture by Vermeer
above the unexpected baby
diagonally cutting the format
the girl holds her lover’s letter folded
Dutch light gives the season questions
a doorway of defense the doorstep viewing
a catalogue of planned journeys.
Off quicksand, footprints and argument
periodically
one interior, one depreciation. Aladdin, his rusted lamp
needs sanding, needs a quick shine focused
on a silhouette’s internal face.
Equivalences before priorities. Such an effort to
serve up personified transgression, the cuckoo’s
foreign egg colors the nest; an eulogy of neglect, hinted?
Can one demand that such a collage becomes the invitation
for a swim dominated by salty strategies? Is Sunday
Saturday’s warm grave or simply a lower parallel, a unique view seemingly
parted?
One may express it mathematically as the rule of
three, but one can also figure it out emotionally as a warmer, as
a more wet device: the dowser arrives smoothed, a still green switch preparing
infrastructure, meanwhile thirst and the confused handling of wishes talk to
each other.
The liberation of literary tools wrecking
resources. Bricks before they get fired red like a rose in a far away
lover’s dream.
What is a spoken word’s record, a will, foolishness
fluctuating with permission?
Scorpion
the entire neighborhood grows into
grows apart by this earth or orb sign of the Zodiac.
Trade wind. Shall I be going to send Diana new
arrowheads? With a dart of her tongue she seizes the
comrade-in-arms. One arrow points to a web site advertising
pig-skin slips click wrong page
keeping land mines abysmally active.
The left breast tattooed, the ink chooses to
follow a blue vein. A vowel mutates to the map of
putrefactive river spawn just as two people finish in puce
the laying side by side
stung a bee’s lust fleeing hive-wards virgin honey
III
It doesn’t support choosing. A former event
passes by, its form seems evenly distracted, followed by a
tail of light.
The night comes with the charm of financial
arrangements.
I pay and you wear a petticoat for an alternating route.
Later we wish to place ourselves under an open
skylight.
Something not yet articulated holds up pressure.
Against glass it occurs clear, touchable only by
leaning
forward against a larger eye, the telescope.
Seldom one feels so very close and separated
like on the last day of December. Suppertime
on our plate
a painted swan takes off
the white of porcelain
IV
The line an artist draws refers to a dialogue. A
lifelong impatience is kept in a hand’s movement.
Francis Bacon’s colors are shaped through dialogues, resting finally in
painfully winding bodies of his friends. In fact, the pieces of dialogues are
owned by us, the visitors. Masterpieces fall in love with each other and stay
with collectors. Often, well balanced dialogues happen between objects before
men interfere.
Today, only a handful of American Indians would
try to exchange the softness of a daughter for a new bow. The hunter’s tendon
is tuned in D major before the arrow makes contact with a deer. Then, a new
dialogue occurs, the downer’s mind travels
contemplates
oh think how fast how
brown-skinned will be our tribe
V
A snake’s belly
up my ankle
say, Miss Tsí’gone
do those teeth bite
if I wish for again?
question marks ascend
red above the point
the sailboat’s lanterns
as they sink
to a near dive under the horizon
enrapture of intrusion
the private sphere a membrane
through the cellular
a man she had not seen
the sound of a beggar
insistent
indulgent
collaborative linking
the paper the pencil
epidemiological rouge
depending on the eraser
we speculate in the kitchen
why those two faucets
for different reasons
drop simultaneously
but unequally strong
VI
she / he
(the empty space reserved
for the unknown
mind
moving in)
The size of this
morning the root of this
hair
noon
circling in the face of its dreamer
two wishes for one lake deep but not yet
permanently
stone and ointment the call
at the present
located dawn
flattering at a barn owl’s beak
Luck of a flutter-kick, the breath bereft of its
length released from talking. The liquid consonant a fool’s
choice, adjustable. A weep for marble-framed assemblages
barely lit. Charmers’ reconciliation about masculine attitudes.
The youngest pair of scissors, her quibbler lost. A tale-bearing talisman makes
her street shadow ring
spare bedroom guest
the one jogging in Half Moon Bay
depending on headphones
VII
Beribboned
slim fingers’ quest
on bottles
scent
beside his letter
as part of an astrological chart
she meets herself
night fades
carrying adamantine bits
inside a dark voice
nearby
a creek finds her
polishing leaves
in both eyes
the glimmer
occurring as if it is not there
before one believes in it
reading in reverse
up my spine the mother’s
frail connections
white appears
bone-folded
we’re occupied
by spasm
when a cardinal connects
(as the physician calls it)
heat waves
some sound sent
as we speak
does not arrive
over a migrating tongue
scrupulous inflamed
at which speed
aiming
ailing
she circumnavigates it
not unwillingly
curling the air attentive
a black cat’s tail
writes
doesn’t it?
forward backward flag
VIII
Distortion, dissuasiveness? Since men can enjoy
the fits surfacing a sub why not women, too? Distress
after fun? In a stainless-steel-age crime burst in like Lautréamont’s flooded
stories. Energy, if so charming in disorder, what would it
be arranged?
words on both sides of a door’s
eye unwilling ears
Possession of an ocean that deep? In case Pandora
would be hanging around, let us say unemployed by mortals,
she could be the Priestess in Command on board, her
swaying altar black with the smoke of sacrifices close to nuclear devices.
Morning glow. Bells. An E oracle from Delphi arrives:
Look, this screw’s threads can be thought
without ends.A well oiled nut moves freely by magnetic
powers. Neither spring is longer in the path of summer nor
will autumn stop winter from circling by the law of pull and push on the gloss
of an eggplant.
Breakfast. Pandora in the process combining her
knowledge about koans with the message of a Greek sister’s oracle. She keeps
sucking on an angled straw dipped in warmed spinach water. Longing for the
conditioner, and after a delicate make up painting her eye brows as high as the
waves roar above the ship, she lets herself into one more meditation. Guided
prayers and the cobalt box can spend time to fuse until they become one at the
target
incense? the smoke not to see through
incontrovertible sleep.
Swim of a Narrative (eight
chapters) contains ghazal, free verse, one-liners, combinations of 3-liners and
5-liners, prose, dialogue, stage-like scenes, riddle / koan, symbiotic
techniques (link / leap / link), mythology, artistic and theoretical concepts,
the very nature of social and political aspects.
SIJO
erotic dream imagery
finds desire awakened
poking a lit match into darkness-
the blue puff of the pilot
how her naked hip warms my palm
as freezing rain falls
gino
peregrini
glazed by the moon, the silver maple
holds one planet, bright and clear
hydrangea stalks cast shadows
over the cat squatting on snow
this thicket of ink conceals words
with the moon in their eyes
gino
peregrini
our tom-cat curls his shaven back,
his sutures painted yellow
as he sleeps, winter's first storm gathers
over fields on far plains
beside my leg, the cat lies calm,
his stubbled skin gleaming
gino
peregrini
the moon hides in Leo
while freezing rain speckles window-panes
gangster rappers string stank rhymes
into gold chains of sonic bondage
all the lions in the Ozarks
roar their anger when moons freeze
gino
peregrini
bright garnet weaves through cloudy streaks of
apricot and amber
backed by twilight blue with touches of cobalt mauve and indigo
her favorite colours - I knit into this soft wool scarf
Kirsty
Karkow
Strong neck arched, ears attentive
sleek flanks glisten in the sun.
The Arab side-steps, pirouettes,
quickly dodging the angry bull.
Horse and rider dance together
...'til the work of the blade is done.
Kirsty
Karkow
was that a glint of crystal wings among those
clover blossoms
do I hear skips of dancing feet on dandelion petals
laughter trills like silver bells...there are fairies in this field
Kirsty
Karkow
My searching eye long measures take
of stubborn banks of white.
The neighbor's boy prepares his bike
while I sow lemon lily dreams.
But now I shop for bedding plants
for summer came last night.
Elizabeth St Jacques
once echoes softly filled cold rooms
and spilled into wide halls
from maiden hands flowed fantasies
while royalty sat mesmerized
destiny all talents claim
yet ancient lyres weave dream-light still
Elizabeth St Jacques
TANKA
x-ray
black and white photo
of my toe
where's
the pain
David Bachelor
listen
mourning dove's call
in the blue morning sky
contrails
of those who left
David Bachelor
VISION QUEST
Edward Baranosky
windward specter
clatters against a worn gate.
a broken shark's jaw,
macabre feeding frenzy,
articulates a brisk dance.
the memory is
you throwing glowing frisbees
no one catches.
my painted kite takes the wind,
tacking above spinnakers.
nascent plumes of haze
obscure the buoyant moon
autumn storm
whistling through the breakers –
flights of sandpipers.
when did we arrive?
keep talking, don't look back.
instinct is to turn.
for a moment there, it seemed
we were trapped in the past.
cliffs' prow beyond
Purgatory Gorge cuts through
emerald surf.
stark horizon exposes
the brackish layers of spindrift.
TIDELINES
Tony Beyer
among shoreline trees'
imitative shadows
the sand holds
signs of repose
and movement well
here tea was poured
and here
a wasp crushed
with the flat base
of a picnic cup
bird song
gongs
in the high branches
soundtrack
for colour and light
a kingfisher
turns bright side out
at speed
down the face
of the cliff
from the water's edge
I watch you
in hat and dark glasses
basking over the pages
of a trite magazine
waves lift
the lace skirt
of the shore
a little higher
each time
constant small
fallings of sand
will by evening
have erased
our presence here
~!~
pale wisp of white cloud
form blurred in the morning fog
burning away in
the encroaching heat of a
Los Angeles summer's day
Korie Beth Brown
!LOCAL HISTORY:
Guillermo Compte Cathcart
The Rock! And tango...
a table and others
in the Circle
My parents dance with my
expensive chopped paper
(Year 1955. Dances of Carnival in the Social
Circle Longchamps. There are a tango orchestra and a rock
band. The children and girls hurtle chopped paper. As the bags of
chopped paper they were of high price, each boy could spend three or four bags
in one night)
A gargoyle
she cries for stone being
at Christmas
in Boris' garden
Drago street of Longchamps
(Year 1954. Boris and their family arrive from
Hungary escaping from the Russian. They have a gargoyle in
their garden. My mother and their mother are made very friends and the two
families celebrate the Christmas together. Tatiana, Boris' sister tells me that
the Gargoyle this sad one for stone being)
Ghost city
that I inhabit day by day
they laugh the ancestors
when putting me with their grandsons
in an angle of two times
(I am 55 years of age old. When I walk for the
streets from Longchamps memory to people that no longer this or to the buildings
that have disappeared. I see the grandsons of my friends and me I know that I am
between two an angle times)
Broken china
with Napoleon fighting:
the earth is drunk.
Scottish warriors,
Colony Monte Grande
(Year 1825. First Scottish Colony in the
Argentina. "Colony Monte Grande". At the moment
a team of archaeologists this digging in a very old house and they found china
with illustrations of Napoleon's wars. Some of the Scotsmen that arrived in 1825
fought in those wars. In fact an uncle great-great-grandfather, the General
Lieutenant George Cathcart fought in Waterloo)
Cloth sparrow
it flew in Longchamps
it is your helix
a great raised monument
by Louis with their chess
(Local History: A french pilot , Henri Breggi,
with a cloth airplane, made in 1906 the first flight in
America of the South, in Longchamps. In 1963, Luis was an employee of the
Country Club Longchamps and it challenged the president of the club to play 10
chess departures. Luis won and like prize asked that the Club made a great helix
to remember the flight of the sparrow of France)
The empty house
three horses, a pig
three sad meek thin dogs
the Brother George
the lamp and their cross
(Local History: Arrival of the Brother George
Rüttershoff from Germany the 6 de August of 1917 to Calzada
Village for built a church in a lonely moor)
~!~
while planting bulbs
my wife unearths
a childhood cap gun of mine
i hold it
trying to grasp back then
Thomas P.
Clausen
she's died so early
not even fifty yet,
that golden summer ago
when some of us boys
saw daylight between her breasts
Thomas P.
Clausen
where my life has come
to this feeling so much
gone by forever
in the rush of traffic
i am
Thomas P.
Clausen
another day
i witness
the sky grading out
my life too, so caught
in circles
Thomas P.
Clausen
I can't penetrate
any further
this life and death
up before our star
erases all the rest
Thomas P.
Clausen
Thinking of you
Lonely in the afternoon
Summer heat beats down
A red-tailed hawk's piercing shriek
Splits the humid air
Maggi
Sullivan Godman
A RED ARROW
Elizabeth Howard
heat lightning
backlights the forest
a lurid patch of mushrooms -
the knobby mass
in the x-ray
on the pond bench
listening to a chorus of frogs
until a green heron lights
amid pink lilies -
the waiting silence
on the bluff edge
a lone woman
a silver thread
of river far below -
Don't! I want to shout
screech of rusty legs
cicadas tuning up
the elementary concert
an orchestra of strings
my teeth on edge
a rose-spotted lizard slips
from the fissure of light
in the scattered boulders -
a scarlet slash
across my chest
basking in evening sun
on the river bank
reeds rippling
a wren's anthem ringing -
I startle at the heron's voice
once a turbaned woman
in a car at the trailhead
too weak to go but yearning -
now my turn to sit
remembering
the sky as blue
as periwinkles on the hill
a cardinal singing
in the white cherry tree -
is this the glow of virtue?
casino lights-
after chemo I wager on health
red chips on faith
white on aesthetics
blue on laughter
coming toward me
through the snow
like a red-feathered arrow,
a cardinal -
joy in the morning
~!~
newly created
in a neglected field
a labyrinth
for passing pilgrims
to circle inward
Kirsty
Karkow
trailing crows
a red-tailed hawk spirals
through the clouds
I ponder how to move beyond
black thoughts that torment me
Kirsty
Karkow
reclusive neighbour
finally visits to say
his wife has died
surprising how I miss
someone I hardly knew
Kirsty
Karkow
a roiling sky,
the traffic light blown
aslant -
if there's anything I don't need
it's another day at work
Larry Kimmel
in the midst
of the sunrise parking lot
a shoe -
perhaps I have lived apart
too long
Larry Kimmel
I wish I could show you -
how the daddy-long-legs pins
its shadow,
with a kind of elegance,
to the wall's pure white
Larry Kimmel
looking up
from the mini-manifesto
on her T-shirt,
I get this loathing look - "hey!
I'm a slow reader. okay?"
Larry Kimmel
this chilly morning,
over oatmeal, my wife tells me
she's only sorry she can't
remember them -
last night's erotic dreams
Larry Kimmel
the frosted window
and the curls of ice beneath
my fingernails -
how to put away childish things
while remaining child-like
Larry Kimmel
just as I snap
a banana from the bunch
the hawk sweeps by
grasping, at the very least,
a talonful of leaves
Joann Klontz
the sign reads
no parking from here to bridge
so civilly
we birders and anglers
practice disobedience
Joann Klontz
in town for a wedding -
the trolley car sparks
memories of a spinster aunt
and summer sunday rides
to the end of the line
Joann Klontz
DEMENTIA SERIES
(excerpts)
Thelma Mariano
she always told us
to eat our vegetables
now she has
ice cream for breakfast
cheesies at night
she says
her drinking water now comes
in brown bottles
I see in her pantry
a half-dozen beers
her own version
of international time -
she confuses
five o'clock in the morning
with seven at night
it eludes her
even as she struggles
to get it right
a small mechanical thing
beside her unopened cans
how badly
she wants to convince
her social worker -
the neatness of a home
that was always cluttered
hours of
dealing with her problems -
on my way home
I feel the tenseness
leave my shoulders
caught
between deadlines at work and
her increasing needs
I forget it's pay day:
my own time slipping away
RED LOTUS
Autumn Palumbo
Red lotus blossoms
On crimson waters at dusk.
Blood from my lover's
Tragic bullet wound darkens
Like the night waters.
THE BALLAD
Carol Purington
The ballad
of a long-ago princess...
the children's eyes wide
with the splendor of that world
my mother wove for me
White with snow
and blank of memories
a new year
in this new landscape
my tongue now names as home
First left by my parents
in a hospital room
in isolation
the dark of their going
the dark of my staying
Only snowflakes
and the shadows of black-and-white birds
in this frozen world
Pink daffodils will bloom
and I will be happy
A pond that beaver made
fished now in the magic of twilight
by a tall heron
it is time to go indoors
but I'm not living in time
The white bear that walks
the borders of my world
in narrowing circles
one rosy dawn I will see death's tracks
pool with pink light
A strand of hair
blown against my cheek by a breeze
that lingered long
among Persian lilacs
gathering peace
Blurred the colors
swirl emerald to crimson
ruby-throat's summer
to pause with steady heart
before each day's unique bouquet
TANKA:
R K Singh
She receives my call
complaining why I don't go
to see my father
while he says it's alright
only gums bleed and joints ache
Bored with politics
and news of falling sensex
he folds the paper
and flips through the old PLAYBOYs
to see the nudes seen in youth
~!~
in the forest
as water follows the river
our love awakened -
your hand gently touched my face
in a fragrant sky of stars
Maria
Steyn
his smiling eyes -
the calm brightness of sunlight
on windblown pansies
so patiently gentles
this dream-borne soul of mine
Maria
Steyn
birch trees . . .
in the growth rings
of our arms
love slowly deepens
into summer seasons
Maria
Steyn
between snow spots
a butterfly brown and white
on pine needles --
to know brightness and calm
in this cold world
Elizabeth St
Jacques
in sunset glow
around the smooth boulder
white water swirl
the way her slow fingers
twist a long blond lock
Elizabeth St
Jacques
twilight lake
of my childhood
glittering memories
my father's eyes
as he baits the hook
Elizabeth St Jacques
an eagle's shadow
crosses the Little Big Horn
in my dream
tourists buy indian bread
along a narrow road
Marc
Thompson
when dawn breaks
the earth turns into colors
and animals
that only see in black and white
are graced with shades of gray
Marc
Thompson
in the early chill
of a mid-November day
a bald-headed man
hides inside his jacket
and smokes a cigarette
Marc
Thompson
the school crossing guard
walks slowly from his corner
three thirty PM
he complains to his hotplate
at the close of his day
Marc
Thompson
the card players
take their usual places
Thursday afternoon
the smell of the food court
and orthopedic shoes
Marc
Thompson
a tinny guitar
echoes through the bookstore
Saturday night
another cup of coffee
and another cinnamon twist
Marc
Thompson
the caretaker
at the cemetery
died at his desk
behind the line of trees
a line of trees
Marc
Thompson
painting mountain faces
by this rock-flour stream:
palette of blues -
my cold hands real content
is in your amber eyes
Rod
Thompson
before sunrise
tensed for the coming day
i reach out
your hip - such strength
in the curve of a cradle
Rod
Thompson
want an egg?
yes but hurry i'm late
you poach 3
2 for me glistening on toast
our morning for 30 years
Rod
Thompson
crowded passengers
intent on journey's end
glass-eye silence
only the child holds her tummy
when the elevator lifts
Rod
Thompson
crows joy-ride
past my desk on updrafts
children laugh
lighting up 30 floors
of elevator buttons
Rod
Thompson
I hold a paddle
where glide used to follow kick.
Strokes or hissing skis
the cadence leads me through
a fine dance with the seasons.
Rod
Thompson
A damp morning
with rain dripping
from the eaves -
every vein in my body
bears the pulse of spring.
Jane E. Wilson
How far we have walked
along this dusty road,
thinking only
of blazing forests
and smoldering mountains ...
Jane E. Wilson
After midnight, I stand
beneath a late summer sky
and wonder
if you are watching these same
fast moving clouds.
Jane E. Wilson
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