GHAZALS
GHAZAL
Joshua Gage
The sun refused to shine its rays inside
Where blackened angels bowed and prayed inside.
Deep in the cannoned halls the ancients laughed
At meager prophets fighting their way inside.
Their Christmas photo flashed white teeth and lied
Saying that life was all okay inside.
She charged the Andalusian spike through skin
Herding the poison to buck and spray inside.
Sick by the stench, the firemen searched their trash
Finding flies on the baby thrown away inside.
Made-up and bored, she sauntered and spread her legs
For any and all who wanted to play inside.
Wrinkled with smoke and booze, Josh seems dead,
But hides the rhythms and songs of the Fey inside.
PATRON SAINT GHAZAL
Joshua Gage
Candle flame halo altering beat
Mummified box from hand snap bring beat
6 ft. smooth Sunday elephant straight
Echo hand silence warm blessing beat
Filthy not young bearded and grease
Lotus and whiskey phallusing beat
Reverse the fingers by toes smile silk
2-year-old world peace to sock frogging beat
Virgin jock mescaline guided to keys
Nightmare abortion clean cutting beat
Futuring almond pastel sink beneath
Horseman by dance tongue damning beat
Empty plus roads in south growing blue
6 breaks to 30+ vinyl sing beat
Blonde plaid velvet hobbit hole song
Bansidhe holiness echoing beat
Babies are faceless to walls melted orange
And bald personified cave glowing beat
JDs or saints hang holy glass
Noosed by tomorrow up sweating beat
GHAZAL
Joshua Gage
The leaves danced daily and survived in vain,
Trying to last Autumn alive in vain.
The ambulance engine smoked and flamed.
The medic cursed, trying to drive in vain.
She gave up her legs for a white horse prick,
But it carried the virus that thrived in veins.
The bees work their wings to a life stealing blur,
Pushing the flames from the hive in vain.
Feral with words, the Prophet ravishes the page
Refusing to believe that he strives in vain.
THE FLYING DUTCHMAN
Ruth Holzer
Who is it that sails proud as a Flying Dutchman
and comes to suspended grief, but the Flying Dutchman
From the port of Amsterdam another mariner
ships out, the lean and bearded Flying Dutchman.
Cursed as the rest of us to wander, yet for my sake,
he paused to sigh in Venice, the Flying Dutchman.
What remained after the rounded the Cape:
only the weird red glow of the Flying Dutchman.
That was the name, Ruth, you gave him when the mainmast fell
and his face dissolved in waves, your own Flying Dutchman.
LONG WATERS
Andrew MacArthur
These are the verses the drowning may say
meeting the Savior on long waters:
Treasures from scuttled ships tumble ashore.
What is wealth for, in the long waters?
Boundaries are crumbling, the sands wash away,
adding their weight to the long waters.
Andrew's tongue misses the salt of the land,
tasting the blandness of long waters.
Nobody knows where these long waters end.
Horizons contend with the long waters.
STRONG RHYTHMS
Andrew MacArthur
Look at the tapestry's masterly spread!
weaving each thread into strong rhythms.
Lovers are worshipping, mimicing God:
blending their bodies in strong rhythms.
Is kneading your rosary better or worse
than feeding your verses on strong rhythms?
Andrew's new recipe quickens the flow -
sending his poetry strong rhythms.
The strong rhythms: capturing, shattering me.
Enchanting to be in your strong rhythms.
WRONG ANSWERS
Andrew MacArthur
Falsehood and truth blend in my song:
frightened men long for the wrong answers.
Merchants are counting their gold with a laugh,
folding the profits in wrong answers.
Prophets have stumbled away from the light,
trading the right for the wrong answers.
Andrew keeps wisdom so well out of reach,
defeating his teachers with wrong answers.
Wrong answers echo insistently. Lie.
Soon we all die of these wrong answers.
HAIBUN
IN THE MARKET
jim kacian
in Djokoumatombi, between the carcasses of warthog and buck,
exposed to the dust and the onerous flies, are the
perfectly flayed hams and thighs, livers and kidneys of humans, and haggling is
expected
tropical heat—
the long
skirts
of the
venders
THE SECOND WEEK
jim kacian
traveling by myself i cross the watershed, and everything that
once ran one way now runs in another, down and down
on the surface
of dark water
my face
WAVES
jim kacian
Looking out my porthole on a ship in international waters the
announcement being made but I can’t hear the words, only identify the language
by the inflection and lilt: English first, with a segmented strength; now
French, glissading; Italian, rising to double-stopped peaks, then swooping off;
the white noise of German; finally Greek, with phrases moving liquid dropped
from a thin point of attachment and ending bulbous; and I have no idea what they
mean . . .
waves, waves
the endless falling back
into the same sea
SLATE
Sheila Murphy
I will brink her. I will sacrifice. I will loathe
offenders when she finds them. I will alter speech and charity. I will offend my
reach. I will occult my way into the dimly after-bother gap in stultifaction. No
young portico cements the specked diamond fossil as I do. And no opinion pings
the way my sullen goatee rues the broadside norms. No minions will have gathered
falter fuel the way I mince my chaste event one seedling at a time. The only
purified retainer of an avenue is how you work your way out of the slender
highway. Nautical and brief and simmering the way we ought to do. A pint is good
as grog when you are mutually reminded of a spark of tree. To wit, it works as
reverence begins to blush to do.
One class craving struggle to legitimize the lack of rationale
for safer hate
HAIKU SEQUENCE
Excerpts from
THE TRIP TO AMERICA
Ion Codrescu
the path that takes us
to the lake - here and there
the pine fragrance
torrid day...
a line of Canada geese
in relaxed poses
as I round the lake
a distant cloud disappears
behind the mountain
lingering by the lake
the endless ripples
the endless wind
sounds of the mountain
vanish into the vastness...
no aim for my wandering
mountain trail -
a fern leaf stands out
and waves in the wind
the middle of the way -
two dry pines lean
one on the other
on the old wooden house
the sign of the last flood
is clear yet
on the ground
a detached butterfly wing -
airplane's distant roar
waiting in silence
the blue heron and I
the stream between us
WINTER
Tomislav Z. Vujcic
Waiting for a crow
the nest on the branch blocks
gusts of winter wind.
First snow.
Following the first tracks
of wild animals.
Under the eaves
in the swallow's nest
two mice spend the winter.
Double refugee am I -
escaped from the enemy
and now - winter frosts.
Down the snow path
a skier's shadow
rushing after him.
Snowy winter night -
remembering spring
and my youth.
Snowstorm -
in an old house
darkness.
On a cold morning
sweating from the heat -
freedom warms me.
SIJO
THREE SOLO SIJO
Susan Butler
"Dawn always begins in the bones." Hymn to Ra,
Egyptian Book of the Dead
Dawn begins on my skin, an anticipation of light.
Earth turns, the light proceeds. Sun, a shiver of
mourning.
Sorrow for the loss of peaceful night, my bones weigh heavy.
We laugh over childhood adventure. Our treasure, living
free,
living unconcerned with life, unaware of mortality.
Remembering when, by his grave, we were immortals.
The hard weight of my thoughts dissolved, now light shines
clear as fresh rain;
each leaf and bud enunciates, a gleam, each stone in high
relief.
This day of despair washed, there comes my son, walking home.
A SIJO SEQUENCE
Kirsty Karkow
fleabitten grey flecked with mud no comb has tried
his mane or tail
yet four neat hooves beat the ground with a clear and rhythmic drumming
the gait and arch of neck belie—this pride of Araby
men at the gate leap to get the number slapped on the bay hip
plunging beneath auction lights he drags his handler through the sand
a cowboy steps up and sees a masterpiece beneath the dirt
the horse stands square, head held high short breaths cloud
the chilly air
bathed in the sweat of his own fear this young stallion frightens all
save one —the man who meets the wild-eyed gaze and dares to bid
ROMANTIC ESCAPADE
by Victor P. Gendrano
I visited Room 816 with its truly grandiose view
where I tried to recapture even fragments of memories
of that passionate weekend which turned out as our
final tryst.
INJURED DANCER
by Victor P. Gendrano
eyes closed, she sways in rhythm
with the piped-in radio music
imagining with a smile
her well-practiced ballroom dance steps
as she waits in a wheelchair
for her first hospital visit
TANKA
THE CHEMICAL FACTORY
Tony Beyer
years as weapons
time has completed
a lethal assault
on the disused
chemical factory
every window pane
broken
every suspect
asbestos roof sheet
cracked or frayed
true discoverer
of empty places
the wind
tunes its voice
through the walls
a crust forms
on waves
the tide brings up
to the railway siding
and leaves gleaming
yellow sky
in old film
of the region
exhaled above
industrial silhouettes
trackside
sulphur heaps
leached into the inlet
the harbour
and the planet's pores
imagine no rain
or movement of grass
or cloud hung
still in the
heat shudder
brittle trees
hold their shapes
colourless odourless
ready to shiver
to dust
bird life
returns
nesting in ceilings
using the roof
for a lookout
over the mangrove marsh
and thin
creek channel
struggling seaward
acrid shadow
IN A FAVOURITE HARBOUR
Owen Bullock
balanced on
the belly dancer's head
a tray with
four lighted candles and
the box of matches
on the way home,
a simple man says:
marriage is security
it means if you split up
no-one gets more than the other
hoping the couple
will ask me
to take their photo -
on my own
in a favourite harbour
in strong sunlight
the shadow of heat rising
from the top of my head.
negative thoughts
drift away
last time
a drink with father
at the local
now my oldest brother
takes his place
FAR FROM NEWS AND CAUSES
Tom Clausen
Before I was born
no troubles
yet here and there
these beauties
of being here now
in the attic
to set a mouse trap
I find a letter of long ago;
it was a fiction of a new love
that did not last
the blue sky breeze
like water falling
through the trees-
far from news and causes
this one hour carefree
even that adolescent fantasy
so hard to die,
this shaken sense out here
of a woman in need
finding me...
all these spring greens
and my one little heart
dog tired trying to keep up
this life on the backside
of a heart long fifty
blind duty it may be
to write of love
and longing
but in these time worn years
it got lost along the way
due to a premonition of death
he got married
just before going to Viet Nam
back alive he's now divorced
and driving for UPS
the event of nothingness
too sublime
to be considered a worthy event
yet there it is
with open arms and peace
pine scent
in the cemetery,
a limousine idles
this time
as I run by...
settled into the drive
I peek back
at my children
each at their window
so thoughtfully looking out
TANKA FOR J.R.
Gerard J. Conforti
Breath in the spring winds
into your warm heart
and hear the sparrows
singing in the tree boughs
and walk a path of flowers
There are times
when the sun shines brighter
upon the lakes and rivers
flowing toward your heart
where the stars shine gleefully
I hear the spring winds
singing with the sparrows
and feel in my heart
the winds of blue sky
and warm blazing sunlight
Across many mountains
and flowery meadows
I hear your voice in the winds
blowing on this spring day
where my heart is warm with love
I draw you to my heart
like the moonlight
flows into your eyes
from a drifting cloud
bringing forward your love
I hear the tree leaves
blowing in the woods
where the silently falling snow
covers the dry leaves of autumn
where violets bloom in the spring
HOT OFF THE PRESS
a series of links between found prose and poetry
paul conneally
Our Baby's Toe
The Times (London) Dec. 13 2002
GERMANY
transfixed in horror
by a case of cannibalism in which
an apparently respectable software specialist
mutilated and ate
a microchip
engineer
March 1998
30-year-old man in Italy eats two-year-old daughter
February 1999
Venezuelan confesses to eating ten men and says
"I never eat women because they have not done anything wrong"
March 1999
three Finnish men and a woman eat fellow member of Satanist cult
October 2001
two Kazakhstanis sentenced to death
for killing seven prostitutes
and making kebabs out of them
the meat was shared with
neighbours
October 2001
Six Belarusians arrested for eating a man's raw liver
--------------
a night of piercing cold
in bed a family keep warm
playing games with the baby
round and round the garden like a teddy bear
this little piggy went to market
i love him so much i could eat him up
december winds
the feel of our baby's toe
in my mouth
ULSTERVILLE NIGHTS
brendan duffin
all
these visions
floor
covered in
sick
alone
in the lamplight of the
bedroom
my plump pink
nipple
behind the
blond haired walker
black haired walker
brown haired walker
green tree
in the small room
turning and turning
endless arms
stretching and stretching
endless fingers
from the tip of
my forehead to the tip of my toes
hanging
slab of blackness
deep stars
JANE'S GENJI
Sanford Goldstein
no Genji
do I find in
our modern world
where in the after of a morning poem
colors of passion prevail
from one bright flower
to another did Genji
select and savor--
today's world is without brush,
reading
Jane's Genji,
I move
through Heian
where subtleties intermingle with pine
which Genji
do I prefer?
I ask myself--
the Don Juan Genji?
the Genji in exile?
what was it like,
Shining Prince,
to slip away
from those eyes
that watched your startling moves?
wanting my poems
to echo the sadness
of the race,
again I read
Jane's Genji
once more
the face of another
inspires me--
is it Jane's?
is it Genji's?
HIROSHIMA AND NAGASAKI
Annie Gustin
shadows stuck in stone--
the people were vaporized.
silhouettes of souls
leaning, pointing, pedaling...
laughter melted into walls.
hot baked potatoes
we dug up right from the earth,
piping in our palms--
sweet robust pumpkins roasted
still clinging fast to the vine.
all burned and bleeding
face melted like candlewax
she sat on the curb.
as i passed, my sister's voice
parted her lips with my name.
we were so worried--
would green ever grow again?
but new life sprouted.
grass blades, velvet moss, lush leaves...
bittersweet spring of lives shorn.
*****
i am a poet
impregnated by the bomb.
that summer morning
blindfolded me in a flash
--garments torn by a typhoon.
thrown, ravished by fumes
hot fires, sperm, blood and black rain
--they found me barely
breathing amidst the fallout,
pen fused like a sixth finger.
i'm still a poet.
sentences scarring paper...
see my verse turn green
in the dark. my two-headed
offspring, my mutated words.
~*~
longevity
has me at second
adolescence
backing towards
second childhood
Momi Kam Holifield
in circles I rake
smooth sand around the pond
the way you taught me
I wait on the footbridge
where are you tonight?
he shows me
the medieval village
where he was wounded
secret sharer
the enemy soldier
a braided candle
divides light from darkness
sacred from mundane
I shake the silver spice box
flame gleaming on my nails
vulture
feeding in the woods
quietly
all of our stories
the end
Ruth Holzer
ANTIQUE LACE
Elizabeth Howard
A
spider sits on a doily
in the cafe window--
little grandmother
spinning poetry
white-lace haiku
hie to the pond
to see the blue heron--
morning by morning
the dinosaur bird
flapping away
sketching the precise arches
of a historic bridge;
the pen, distracted
by a frenzy of swallows,
draws childish squiggles
signboard in the weeds
Sampson's Mineral Wells--
where grandmother bought
jugs of sulfur water
a well full at home
country church
a belated funeral
for a Korean War soldier
only a photograph
to mourn
grandmother's dinner bell
how we argued
over the ringing--
now no one to claim a turn
but me
a plaster bust
of a Victorian girl
on the library shelves
among so many books
her book unchanging
as night falls
thin clouds envelop
the harvest moon--
antique lace enfolding
grandmother's opal
BIRCH TANKA
Kirsty Karkow
a whirlwind
strips bark from the birch
pale skin exposed
I hear my mother's voice
accusing me of lies
softly tan
the belly of a birch
laid bare
all my past transgressions
beneath his scathing gaze
white birch bark
curls falling on calm water
in summer sun
the curve of a gull’s flight
against a cobalt sky
COLD MOUNTAIN BECKONS
Larry Kimmel
awake all night
I sit in the moonless dark
hoping against hope
for direction
that still small voice
but for the fridge
the night
would be totally silent
if only dawn
would never arrive
this long winter night
cold mountain beckons
still and all
a cigarette wouldn't be
too bad
WHERE I CANNOT FOLLOW
Thelma Mariano
the low score
on her geriatric tests
at summer’s end
how swiftly the river runs
to where I cannot follow
crickets chirp
beneath my bedroom window
all night long
as if they sense how badly
I need a little song
a ritual
that began with her Alzheimer’s
she waves goodbye
from the balcony the tightness
in my chest as I wave back
seagulls and swallows
fly helter-skelter
under leaden skies
it’s time to make it legal
her reasoning is gone
how quickly
the tea cools in my cup
I cannot keep
her mind from falling further
by wishing it so
first snowflakes
as leaves continue to plummet
from the sky
how powerless I feel
in light of these changes
~*~
if only I knew
how it felt
to be a butterfly
I could paint my heartbeats
on the wind!
June Moreau
evening of crickets...
i stand before a picture
of a swan flying
towards mountains in
silence
walking away
after saying bye
to every one,
suddenly i remember the tree
now out of my sight
sunlight on trees-
convalescing,
my elderly friend
asks me to put his chair
by the window
K. Ramesh
TANKA
R K Singh, India
Dancing on
the car top a girl
holds the mike
to express her love
twists the audience
Fears to see
his own image in
her eyes so
avoids seeing her again
betrays his cowardice
~*~
Sometimes, I wonder
if you lie comfortably
beneath your grave's grass.
Does the ground's embrace warm you?
At night, I lie cold sometimes.
Bill West
CLASS
Sheila Murphy
I was learning to be tracing pink, and then this washed away. A hand in front of
me through fog enough. And diming, darling, meant the caveats were usually
burgeoning with still shots left to percolate in iso(metric)-lation. Our economy
is yours. Uncanny how the wives tales brim with lasting eminence through science
and tenacious auditory flames. Come on and taint me in my lucid tracks. The
sensatorio is brave enough to wash. Is ivy and is sandwiched between obvious
young ducks. If I were mercied all the way to studios I would befriend a frame
against good looks. Is thus precisely where you fit in, folded in vines of
origami lounging among sparks.
SHAPE
John M. Bennett
rock, slab bleeds fueling
scud
half cloud heeling
IG NORE
John M. Bennett
home, muddy bucket seat
scrape
roam shifting hall
R ANT
John M. Bennett
block, camel shitter spooky
bee
scant luggage supper
YANK
John M. Bennett
cooling, sprawl lobe sample
sank
lube shawl louse
LUSTER
John M. Bennett
keep, dream score spotty
pants
cream door sleep
RUBE
John M. Bennett
oil, boat rough meds
sack
smote cluck rope
peel
hail lang saids, feel
OR
John M. Bennett
rinse, true shadow lank
crack
crub meet sank
grub
nor loofa left, cry
PACK
John M. Bennett
dub, nitch ralo era
hack
slink rio mort
pud
soga monda too, ball
