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GHAZALS
ONE LAST TIME
Bernard Gieske
I can't remember when our tongues first tasted yummy sugar.
I still recall our buttered bread sprinkled over with sugar.
Saturdays were the days we caught the whiffs of coffee cakes baking.
Sundays were the days we ate up all of Mom's cakes of cinnamon sugar.
We feasted on smooth-white cones and sugar sweet-colored ice-balls.
Children's delights on hot summer days, the blessings of sugar.
In my teenage years my face was splotched with ugly, acne pimples.
With decision I ate my cereal one last time with sugar.
When I was of age to sip my first cup of coffee, Ugh, no! And I
learned to substitute milk for sugar.
On every table salt and pepper make a married pair.
But on my table they are divorced from the bowl of sugar.
Even making lemonade I prefer pure lemon over sugar And over the years
my use of salt has gone the way of sugar.
DUDUK*
Ruth Holzer
If you’re happy, it will make you sad, the duduk.
If you’re sad, it will increase your tears, duduk.
The apricot tree, heavy with fruit,
grows old in Eden and returns as duduk.
The trembling earth is balanced in its breath.
A wedding dance sounds mournful on duduk.
Wind from the mountains, dust of the plain;
the shepherd laments to black skies on duduk.
If Ruth passed in the night, she’d be content:
She has lived to hear the voice of the duduk.
* Armenian woodwind instrument
COMBINED GENRES
THE RETURN
Cindy Bell
leaving the bar
after many drinks –
laughter
We scatter a trail of music behind our 4-Runner – slide over the double yellow, drive on the wrong side, and lean a little too far into each hard turn. Linda, Cathy, and I use the momentum to play a childhood game, to see how hard we can push each other into the side doors. The wheels strain for contact with the road and we squeal and laugh at every lurch.
in the cooler
empty bottles clink
behind my seat
I close my eyes and open again; green and brown forms blur by, then a house, over and over. The last time, I open them and see the cut bank, solid and steep. We are losing in on it. Randy stomps on the breaks too late. The road turns sharp to the right. We do not. Somebody yells to brace.
metal and earth
merge – leaving dirt
in my hair
I lunge forward. My foot catapults off the back of Mick’s seat, hits the console. The truck slams onto the right side. I land on Cathy. After a moment, I realize she’s yelling. I reach up and grab the head-rest, pull myself off her, and perch on the inside of Mick’s seat. The burnt scent of deployed air bags mixes with earth and fills the space. Mick turns down the radio and speaks, but I’ve already wiped off my face before I understand his words; “Don’t touch your eyes. You might have glass in them.” The others unbuckle, climb up through the two side windows using any hand and foot holds they can find; Linda steps on Cathy who yells again. I follow Linda, quickly placing my foot on the side of a headrest and pushing myself up. Once on top, I grab a firm hold on the window frame and ease myself off the door; my stomach rubs past the undercarriage and I reach for ground.
flip-flops left
on the door panel
I climb
Ted crawls out last, palm delicately covering the back of his head, and doubles over giggling. He’d been sitting in the back with the cooler. The six of us are dispersed around the vehicle looking at pieces of plastic spread out on the pavement. Ted stands, walks around the truck, and starts pushing at its roof. He says we need to push it over, but cannot muster much force through his fits of laughter; He alternates – one moment pushing with both arms outstretched, a leg braced behind himself and the next moment
chuckling with one hand on the truck and one hand protecting his head, unable to stand straight. Someone mentions that we should dump the cooler full of empty bottles. Mick crawls back in to retrieve them, but they are scattered, no longer in the cooler. He gropes in the dark, snatching up bottles, tossing them back in. Lights flare red and blue in the distance. Ted stops pushing, his head turned toward the lights now, and goes into another laughing fit that lasts until the headlights of two police cars are shining in all our
eyes...
flashing lights
one of us restrained
in handcuffs
NOT EVEN LIKE QUICK SAND
Cindy Bell
Depression can be different experiences depending on the day. On this
day in August of 2007 it wasn't like a roller coaster, a dark cloud, or even quick
sand. It was like a cataclysmic chorus, something like...the senses deranged, a time when nothing makes sense, an acceptance of a vague reality at odds with itself...i'm sitting, listening... sand cradling my body...
There's a crackle drawing into the foundation, pulled or sucked into the waves, a sound i've not noticed before, a sound that can almost be felt, a rumble preceded by an odd bass crackle like feedback or white noise from bass speakers from a thousand tiny places, building, sounding out like an army as the water draws back or even like the crinkle of plastic from a deeper place.
midday breeze:
the feeling that i must
take notes today
Some ravens draw near, step sideways, stare. Then seeing the flock in the distance
scatter, they too fly away, and the rumble fades. It reminds me of the ocean of years past, in Florida - such force in the under toe, in the tide as in my life, such an inviting ramp beneath the water which is collapsing upon itself, receding at an angle from my location as if one could walk down this slope straight into the depths of infinity...
THAT UNMISTAKABLE SMELL
Cindy Bell
Reflecting on the scent of the Homer beach...
It could never be summed up in one word like the sulfurousness of the Florida coast. It is subtle and must be payed attention to or it will be missed. It's the scent of seaweed, of dampness, and of salt. It's a dank smell that often can't be detected from the parking lot. It's a smell that hits in light waves once across the rock berm that runs the length beach, a smell that mimics the ease of the tide, the coolness of the weather. It is barely there, patterning itself after the smoothly shaped quality of the sand, always quietly present.
seaweed drifts –
the scent of home
on the breeze
GAZING AT STARS
c.w. hawes
There is an hour before the dawn where one can touch the mind of God. The world is the most still then. The veils are at their thinnest.
This morning those two very bright stars, the eyes of the One; seeing me as I see him. For a brief moment, I find myself dissolving; ceasing to be me, yet still me. Then, once more, I am standing at my window gazing at stars.
in the pond
my reflection rippled
autumn wind
MONTARA
Ruth Holzer
Through the woven straw shade the shape of the pine emerges from morning fog. A raven calls over the mountain. Someone lets the dog out and starts coffee. All I have to think about today is whether we should go to the beach or the redwood forest.
a house
filled with treasure –
roses in the rain
FATHER'S DAY
H. Gene Murtha
June 16, 1996, Father's Day: It is a cool Sunday morning, 21 days after Memorial Day weekend, May 26, when Jacob Ryan was stillborn; brown hair, blue eyes, 6 lbs., 6 oz., 20 inches long.
dawn
caught in a dewdrop –
the empty swing
A boy appeared on the lawn, he looked familiar, then he turned and smiled. It was me, looking back at me, about age 9. An ease over came my grief; I smiled back. The icon then turned, continuing to the forest and faded away...
morning chill
a child's shadow
moves thru mine
FIRST NIGHT
Roger Jones
Still covered with vernix and blood, our daughter lies on a clear plastic cart. A pediatrician on call checks her over.
"You have a perfect baby girl," he says. "She looks great."
The nurse finishes bathing another baby, then turns to ours. My daughter breaks into short fretful cries, but mainly naps. She stretches her tiny arms and legs, still wearing the pink Paul Bunyan cap they placed on her shortly after birth.
wall clock
the long deliberate swing
to Now
Outside, people drop by to peer in the nursery windows at the newborns: a group of middle-aged ladies; a 20-ish guy with a cute small dark-haired girl; a young blonde woman with an elfin daughter; a teenaged girl on the edge who leans and watches, tears running down her face.
new arrivals
floral arrangements
in the shop window
Later, time for weighing and a hepatitis B shot. As my wife sleeps, I accompany my daughter and nurse Judith to a nearby room. Several babies wait in carts. The nurses tending them talk crudely, unaware or not caring that I am near.
"My mama found me a man in the Service Warehouse store the other night," says a short rural-looking brunette nurse; "she said, 'he looks like just your type – six foot tall, slightly overweight, and dumb-looking!"
Judith soon rolls my daughter to another room for her first-day picture. A camera on a machine's pointed down at the blue-green cloudy-looking mat, where Judith lays her down. Two quick photos, then back to the room with mother.
Tomorrow when my wife and I see the photos, we remark that our daughter, like all newborns, resembles a small space alien. In days to come, she will become human, and start to feel at home here.
new moon
over the back trellis --
scent of earth and roots
Haiga by Charlene Wareham
SEQUENCES
SUMMER WITH CARL & INGRID
Carl Brennan
Butterfly wings
I dismembered as a boy
the lawn's healthy glow
Fireworks
pushing through darkness
stained roses
After a hard day's
idleness – vision of her
upcurling lip
Steady winds
return the moonlight
her changed mood
Heart beating wild
against my heart– longing
sharpens her breasts
My refusal
to fight shadows– vortex
of her embrace
Stripped naked, bound
her soft command outlasting
my cat-o'-nine-tails
How many minutes
remaining before sunrise?
the dead solitude
Sleep in the cellar
where spiders weave– restoring
her playful temper
Horizontal rain...
a crumpled letter addressed
to my night-girl
Midsummer dazzle
contralto rebuking me
for daydreams of nymphs
SCRIMSHAW
Ed Baranosky
My sole employment is, and scrupulous care,
To place my going beyond the reach of tides,
Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare,
Which Ocean kindly to my hand confides.
Henry David Thoreau
More than affinity, nor yet by accident,
The salt in the blood is of the seaborne
Pulse. We ceaselessly rise
Again with the moontide, but fall off
With barometric pressure. And we dare
Sail through another’s song,
The scent of the sea, of wet oak and pine,
Of asphalt and festering dulse. Long
Our mal de mer may be forgotten, but beware;
My sole employment is and scrupulous care
Polishing rejected relics
Of bone and ivory, tooth and tusk,
Brined in memory and sand
Home to worm and becalmed
By impractical eyes,
Remarking on many sides
The flights of flying fish, the passage
Of clippers by night and day;
The etched drama of whale and docksides
To place my gains beyond the reach of tides.
Before the fading light I turn
The baleen and tusk of walrus, and stare
Unblinking beyond the candle flame
Grasping an image from memory.
Carved upon haft of bowie blade,
Or ivory bean or button to wear;
Blue water sailing on a miniature sea
Full-blown gale in a rum bottle,
The sea-rapture in each sculpted tear
Each smoother pebble and each shell more rare.
The brass chronometer strikes
The time from the depth
Of geared wheels reflecting
Into the amber window shades
Dampening the setting sun.
The resident deck-cat chides,
Finding no fish among the fish,
With its feline vague contempt
For the remnants fate decides
Which Ocean kindly to my hand confides.
THE ART OF FISHING
Dina E. Cox
heron's bark
how gracefully it glides
to the shore
still pond
the Great Blue Heron
draws its reflection
limning the pond
the early morning lines
of fishermen
a slight breeze...
the heron steps silently
among reeds
catching
not one ripple
from the Blue Heron,
I wait with my camera
for the perfect shot
unseen movement...
the heron tenses
its body,
I hold my breath
and focus the camera
against the reeds
a quick flash of silver
then nothing
replete, the heron
steps onto a deadhead
but my film is done
IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER ERIC
Gerard J. Conforti
The pouring rain
after the sunlight went away
but the sun came back
to brighten my spirits
and think of you
Why did you weep
when I was going away
for the holidays
you wanted to come with me
I embraced you until they took you
Another Christmas
has come and gone
with memories
of how it used to be
all my brothers were young
Alone in this room
is all I really know now
what I did to Eric
what you were doing inside
four days gazing at the walls
I really feel for you
Eric I know your innocence
was very alive
why were you so depressed
and wanted to die for what?
in my heart
I will always love you
I’m a part of you
a part you never had
and now cannot have
A WORK IN PROGRESS
Sheri Files
old greyhound
sleeps beneath myrtle blossoms
twilight
green forest
on a giant red wood tree
a row of ants
warm waves
scatter white pebbles on the beach
sea gulls
jewels sparkle
in moonlight beams
fireflies
UNTITLED RECYCLED
Elizabeth Howard
a poem half-done
the cell phone rings
an invitation
words don bikinis
float down the river
girl in the painting
spreads laundry on rocks
by a waterhole
the washer spinning
I count my blessings
surviving recession–
in discount jeans
and resoled boots
I hike to the used bookstore
to buy recycled poems
February lilies
sprouting green tips
beneath brown foliage
beyond this harsh winter
the humidity of August
this February
tornadoes one day
snow the next
much like your moods
bluster or frost
NOTES FROM A VOLUNTEER. FORT COLLINS, COLORADO.
Tracy Koretsky
aspens shimmer
on both sides of the canyon
– election swing state
her neighbor's sign
for the other candidate…
leaves half turned
under the aspens
gold and green carpet –
dialing last night’s calls
final leaves...
my last campaign, she says
leukemia
coming home
drunk with celebration –
bare branches reaching
RED MOON
Myron Lysenko
with 100 years
between them –
first love
wild wind
the roof blows off
as we argue
grass shoots –
a mushroom lies
on its side
red moon
the smell of bushfires
in the city
casino
a woman on the balcony
ready to smoke
bushfire warning
one green tomato
on the vine
behind
the barbed wire fence
a softball
a pebble
on top of the mountain
dark cloud
a tomato plant
in the cactus pot
concrete yard
sunlight
along a walking track
ants collide
WORDS
Sylvia Plath
Axes
After whose stroke the wood rings,
And the echoes!
Echoes travelling
Off from the centre like horses.
The sap
Wells like tears, like the
Water striving
To re-establish its mirror
Over the rock
That drops and turns,
A white scull,
Eaten by weedy greens.
Years later I
Encounter them on the road –
Words dry and riderless,
The indefatigable hoof-taps.
While
From the bottom of the pool,
fixed stars Govern a life.
From Ariel, Poems by Sylvia Plath.
Harper & Row, New York, 1961
Introduction by Robert Lowell
HIS PAGE OF MOSS
John Martone
moss –all
around
yr house
don’t you
see now
moss doesn’t
need any
help
nap
of these
gloves–
yes
that’s it–
moss
to think
of this–
body
someday
mosses
!
thanks
to you
moss
nothing
done
DENVER
INTERNATIONAL
AIRPORT
ayas daryl nielsen
passenger luggage area –
elegant evening apparel
above cowboy boots
baggage carousel – my
clothes appear
piece by piece
local sports celeb
waiting for
some recognition
a baby’s pacifier
riding upon
the carousel.
Haiga by Mary Davlia
PILGRIMAGE
Francis Masat
climbing Mount Fuji –
shizouka tea
with my chocolate bar
Yoshida trail –
hearing the huts
before seeing them
sunrise –
a temple in the shadows
of a microwave tower
May dawn
doves coo
on a temple gong
Fuji-san
above my head
Holy snow
descending the mountain
I remember
Issa’s snail
CITRON MAGMA
Tyler Pruett
granite tangerine ...
slanting whirling fogs
agates, cirrus
tangled white thorny brush ...
tote roads grown over through
brittle gray orchards
aloes and jewels
wash out of the snow ...
energies of dirt and pebbles
crested on the new grass
silver wheat rolling in the breezes ...
tender shoots
THE FALSE SIREN
Tyler Pruett
stark and distant roll carelessly in the gusting wind the blue ravens ...
you can see in the darkness inside the pine trees the sunshine ...
we're all in trouble but if we act selflessly the balsams might be saved ...
sundown stretching the shadows of the balsam firs I am unconvinced ...
the air comes cold shining light on the seagulls ...
breathing the air of florescent fire
roll without care ...
ENTERING THE STREAM
Anna Rugis
entering the stream
I push out into the flow
to keep my feet front
I need to employ my arms
in a sort of wing action
the water is cold
I feel as if made of brass
rigid and bitter
with a flat sheen surface like
the skin of an artifact
and yet I'm hopeful
I believe I will soften
my muscles will round
electrify and fire
the beginnings of a new skill
first the shock and then
a flip will occur between
inside and outside
nerve ends will shimmy and lift
like when the sun hits black hair
on the banks bears hunt
tear apart lame animals
drag ribbons of flesh
across lush green slopes scented
with autumnal wild flowers
I've found my balance
no argument with this joy
terror finds a note
and sings it out of itself
I just float and rock and hum
think of all the ground
I fought for and defended
I forgot my place
any page in the worst book
knows it better than I
the printed record
so heavy that it bent me
(and would sink me now)
disintegrates in the wash
a mush of thorny matter
opening myself
at random without looking
here I am again
nothing captured nothing lost
as fresh as an dawn orchid
you know when you are
expecting a grown daughter
to waltz in smiling
the certainty of that hug
you can't feel your own limits
your contingencies
have puffed off like an aphid
you are tractable
water carried in liquid
silica in a sand dune
SINGLE POEMS
what day is this
I ask myself while the alarm
insists on ringing
days of retirement lurking
fitfully in my dreams
c.w. hawes
I promise
to leave the pine decorations
on our gate
until you return
withered as they are
Ruth Holzer
thinking of the summer
so very long ago I kissed
the neighbor girl
holding your hand while we walk
I wish you had been my neighbor
c.w. hawes
she faces the world
clutching her rag doll
in fear
she'll grow up and run away
anyway
Ruth Holzer
sitting together
we’re silent on the bus commute
we just hold hands
what need is there for words
little sounds to misunderstand
c.w. hawes
my words today
are creatures
from the west wind
I turn them loose
to graze in sun pastures
June Moreau
a day in July
the street person with a cart
wearing his winter coat
c.w. hawes
sultry morning
the hooked fish
gasps for breath
artur lewandowski
if someone should ask
while thinking of him in autumn
tell them he loved red
c.w. hawes
weeping willow
green shade offers shelter
no tears
John Winfield
earth-tone tiles
they laid in the kitchen
together –
how soon the negligent tread
of strangers upon them
Ruth Holzer
my great-grandchildren
asking what’s an apple –
blossoms on the ground
c.w. hawes
sparrow's chirping
in the old apple three
I put the saw aside
artur lewandowski
August clearance sale
there by the roadside a car
in a dumpster
c.w. hawes
in the bathroom
with each undone button
cooler and cooler
artur lewandowski
ah, the wizardry
of a tree snail
it moved
into my rainbow
colored slippers
June Moreau
Over the dried moss
rains have grown new layers
making the path more
slippery for all of us
falling is postscript now
R K Singh
Grey streak in her hair
sunlight signals
end of summer
John Winfield
SNAKE RIVER # 8.
Martin Willitts, Jr
You can smell smoke before there is fire:
it hangs in swelling clouds;
the air swims with ladybugs.
The wind changes directions like a river.
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