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hand-woven sweater
of thicker threads and thinner –
note from a new friend
Patricia J. Machmiller
a week after the cold snap
the lawn fills with fairy rings
Billie Dee
TAN RENGA
Michelle V. Alkerton
Barbara A. Taylor
kitchen skylight –
a dark rectangle frames
the full moon
making me nervous,
those possums on the roof
____
cobwebs in corners
wave in sync
with the music
my feather duster
an impromptu conductor
____
a line of ants
across the kitchen table
moving breadcrumbs
the long winter
pantry shelves empty
____
bedroom invasion
tap, tap, tap against the blind
asian ladybugs
my old shaggy dog
raises one eye
TAN RENGA
Claudia Brefeld
Walter Mathois
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Der Sichelmond
schneidet die Mistel
am dürren Ast
Drüben vom Wald
lösen sich Schatten |
crescent moon
cutting the mistletoe
at the withered bough
over there – shadows detach
from the forest
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Krokusspitzen –
mein Pinsel taucht
ins Gelb
Die Vögel zwitschern – im Garten
wachsen Maulwurfhügel |
crocus tips –
my paintbrush dipping
into yellow
the birds twitter – molehills
growing in the garden
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Sein kleiner Finger
in der Patronenhülse
neckt eine Ratte
die schwarzen Augen
des Dorfes – aufgerissen |
his little finger
in the bullet casing
teases a rat
the black eyes
of the village – torn open
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Flussabwärts –
ein Blatt streift
den Mond
morsches Holz
treibt ans Ufer
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downstream –
a leaf touching
the moon
rotten wood
drifts to the bank
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Klaviermusik –
sein Husten dringt durch
Schneeflocken
Käuzchenflügel streifen
die Dämmerung
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piano music –
his cough pervades
snowflakes
screech owl’s wings touch
the gloaming
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Feine Schneeflocken –
vor dem Bürofenster
zittern zwei Krähen
der Bildschirmschoner
ein Paraglider
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wispy snowflakes –
in front of the office window
two shivering crows
the screensaver
a paraglider
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Am Brückenpfeiler
- Hase, ich liebe dich! -
Die Möwen kreischen
Ein Fährschiff löst sich
mit dumpfem Tuten
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on the bridge pier
- honey, I love you! -
the seagull’s laughter
a ferry puts out to sea
with a loud toot
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… Zug fährt ab!
Eine Blechdose kullert
durch die U-Bahn
Auf volle Lautstärke
zwei Teenies rappen mit
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…train is departing!
a tin can rolling
through the metro
at full blast
two teens rap along
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Büroschreibtisch.
Sonnenstrahlen wandern
in den Feierabend.
Versperrter Ausgang –
ein Reinigungswagen.
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office desk
sunbeams flitting
into the evening
obstructed exit –
a cleaning cart
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Haiga by an'ya
AT THE WINDOW
Tomislav Maretic – Croatia
Sasa Vazic – Serbia
gazing at the sky
from my misty window –
nothing but drops
the sound of a gutter
from somewhere
sliding down the window
leaving winding lines
never meeting each other
waking up –
morning glories look
at my room
so look him mowing my grass
this fat neighbor
getting stuck between
the blinds' ribs – this crazy
buzzing fly
AT THE END (dawn)
Tomislav Maretic – Croatia
Sasa Vazic – Serbia
drop drip drop
drip dripping and a drop
right into my coffee
adding some milk –
the world is less bitter
vanishing act
of a mime enveloped
in a cloud of dust
stepping down
from the stage, the actor
seems different
getting into a dead end
after visiting my ex boyfriend
on the porch
two empty coffee cups
waiting for the dawn
Haiga by Melinda Hipple
RIPPLES
Patricia Prime
Catherine Mair
park bench – graffiti fades in spring sunshine
down from the valley the westerly parts our hair
on the hillside farm, white-faced cows graze
leaning on the bridge my reflection ripples
across the river – the wings of a Welcome swallow
moss slowly spreads across a haiku boulder
the scut of a rabbit disappears down a hole
6 little diving ducks lazing midstream
the silted-up jetty overgrown with grasses
playground - the hectic colour of the woman's hair
EXCLUSION ZONE
Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime
'more' says the toddler at the foot of the slide
library window – the children's stenciled horses
leaning over the swing her cleavage quivers
school holidays – the slight motion of the jungle gym
flicking his hands the man emerges from the loo
'dog exclusion zone', the statue's dog reclines at his feet
the sharp perfume of crab apple blossom
two long-haired dachshunds – one whizzes past us
the sound of rat-tail grasses brushing against sneakers
lying beneath the pink magnolia – a ginger cat
BLOSSOMS FLUTTER
The Last Light
Max Verhart
Paul Mercken
Bouwe Brouwer
the days shorten
she comes and tells me that
I’ll be a granddad / mv
chimes blow on and of
on the rhythm of the wind / pm
the last light –
his thin hair
throws thin shadows / bb
in the balding tree
the remains of a kite / mv
African elder
his cane a token
of dignity / pm
white blossoms flutter
between yellowed furniture /bb
BLOSSOMS FLUTTER
Old Timers’ Parade
Max Verhart
Paul Mercken
Bouwe Brouwer
the days shorten
she comes and tells me that
I’ll be a granddad / mv
Old Timers’ parade
Chryslers Fiats and Opels / pm
morning light touches
snail tracks –
a sudden crunch / bb
the vapour trails pattern
less and less visible / mv
swaying arm in arm
even the moon is wobbly
after the party / pm
rest home in dense fog
one sunshade rolled out / bb
August 26, 2009
Dwarrelende bloesems
Gaffelrengay
Max Verhart
Paul Mercken
Bouwe Brouwer
1. Het laatste licht
de dagen korten
ze komt vertellen dat ik
opa ga worden / mv
klokgelui waait aan en af
op het ritme van de wind / pm
het laatste licht –
zijn dunne haren werpen
dunne schaduwen / bb
in de kaal wordende boom
de resten van een vlieger / mv
de stok van ouden
betekent in Afrika
eerbiedwaardigheid / pm
witte bloesems dwarrelen
tussen vergeelde huisraad / bb |
2. Oldtimersparade
de dagen korten
ze komt vertellen dat ik
opa ga worden / mv
oldtimersparade
chryslers fiats en opels / pm
†
ochtendlicht strijkt
over de slakkenroutes –
plotseling gekraak / bb
†
het condensstrepenpatroon
wordt voortdurend waziger /†mv
†
arm in arm zwieren
zelfs de maan is gammel
na de party†/ pm
†
rusthuis in dichte mist
ÈÈn zonnescherm uitgerold / bb |
UNDER THE LIMETREES
Jacques Verhoeven
Silva Ley
Written at an open air exhibition of objects in glass, ceramic, and bronze at ‘De Lind’, a promenade of lime trees (linden) in the centre of Oisterwijk, a small, cosy, tourist town in the south of the Netherlands, surrounded by nature reserves with moor land, woods and fens.
An archway of arts
under the lime trees
our eager stroll
chatter about the shapes
questions in the eyes
wings of dragon flies
the pond carries the fall
of sparkling glass
figures in the air
high salto’s on wires
plaque in basalt
words of Liberation Day
a blackbird sings
strange moment, as if
our gaze turns to stone
day and night’s view
now overwhelming sun
rivalry of spotlights
black ushers in guard
experience likes to wander
water ripples
the green skin lights up
in bronze reflection
the ‘sweet marble’ column
hides the hard expression
colours bind memories
a slow shuffle along
being home at last
classic masks of gods
bodies in buds and leather
unconnected figures
on cords between the trees
caged imagination
sorts of thirst in mind
downloaded worlds
fields seem turned over
the earth thrown out of gear
recipe carried out
honey breads of crystal
in houses of canvas
a thousand meanings
camera’s do the work
quick looks, flashes
vulva’s of glass
behind the family photo
aura’s around the trees
power circles whirl
across the lanes
sound waves of passers by
silent signs neglected
sudden merry chimes
meetings in the town hall
subsidies shrink
where’s and why’s come up
never closed answers
for a moment loose
from offices and kitchens
queerness enjoyed
seen and consumed
turned into own body
a lofty mental test
temple illusions
laid around dull feet
turn off the road
stop at every view
focused on indicators
the names, the trend
the know-how muddle
every depth measured
girl’s acrobatic dance
stars shoot away
cultures disappear
imagination moves
searching the next
the elements repeated
a treat of summer
this exhibition
wrapped in branches
aquamarine vases
deep sea fish as frozen
a wall of bar stools
loud voices on a terrace
the display goes asleep
lavender needs rain
folded bodies stretch
high leaves rustle
birds land on pedestals
the sculptures smile
the eyes are satisfied
arts now kissed by night
A DIFFERENT LIGHT
Frank Williams
Doreen King
quiet sunday—
a dusting of snow wafts
across the cul-de-sac
stoking the fire
to last the night
as a small treat
the badgers are left
a trail of peanuts
my cordless doorbell’s
two-toned ring
cell phone photos
starts the giggles
at the moonlit picnic
by the mirror pond
I change the wheel of my bike
***
no cause for concern
that quick-drying paint
dries a shade lighter
one side of the building
plastered with graffiti
the palace cat’s
favourite place to be
is in an old bowl
on the beach in a row
four sunbathing girls
Prom evening
they hold hands
in a different light
from the PC trade fair
he emails her every night
caught in the glass
for their anniversary drink
both of them
Will’s hedgerow yields
two kilos of blackberries
harvest over
I go for a stroll
to the sun & the moon
a fox dives under
the nearest car
***
with binoculars
the group watch a pod
of humpback whales
late evening swim
and the water still warm
a personal best,
from work to home
in twelve minutes flat
green-blue leaf buds
in the stillness of dusk
this morning
noticing the blossom
for the first time
he calls the three-wheeler
his baby robin
***
Composed: via snail-mail
Started: 9 February 2009
Finished: 11 August 2009
BRING EXPANSION
Werner Reichhold as Expansion
Jane Reichhold as Bring
ACT I
Scene: Fifth Avenue, New York, the office for distribution of hunting guns. Afternoon, inflation 2008, “Fannie May” up for grabs, endless spare time, endless?
EXPANSION:
As a thorough-going researcher under the skin of my cat’s neck hair, I’m watching his long look telling me:
“I’m a Bengal green eyes at Nirvana and here a tick
Yes man, you’re touching it – now go hunt for it” And breathing in deeply, his lungs and stomach are swelling – well, does he want to signal other troubling experiences, I, a lazy guy should take care of?
BRING: In a desire to bring care and caring to one being, you are put into the position of bringing death to a life form that wants desperately to live. Not only to live but to nourish her unborn children lying as eggs in her belly.
it understands itself through us if we come back
with discourses on nature during childhood and
early bardo between male and female life and death
surely we would still feel this was the Great Love
EXPANSION:
North/South, East/West we explored. Now lets look at the virtual net, 3-dimensional plus sound – do you see a forth dimension glowing, begging, seducing, to lead us astray?
temptress go ahead I listen
BRING: Who knew we would get information through the ends of our fingers? With only the movement of knuckles and wrists the whole world opens before us. And we thought the age of miracles was past.
another transformation of the psyche though
into the fairy tale's view, some call it rapture
would be pleasant of you in my mind to be so
someone who stands by her shut in the heart
EXPANSION:
The secretary, like always gives her thoughts for numbers wings – right? loaded with imaginations, leaving the sky scrapers’ barely functional air-conditioned prison. Hot, no ladder. Fun or obligation – do we trust the News?
Dadalus do you try again waxed wings
BRING: What brings love to us, you might ask. A pill? That is not love but simple lust. Proximity? How many people near to us do we not even lick or like? Yet what is that definite twist the heart makes when you simply hear the name of one you love? Who put that ability to leap into your body?
The strangeness is really just a stillness where I am
waiting to release the proverbial birds into my body
the clouds were solid like mountains in the dream
I was taken away from the building in a sort of haze
when I first met K and she kept saying satisfy all the
month I had memorized much of both centuries
EXPANSION:
Night. Dreams come unmasked actively working. A comet passes by. In its ice ball the dust illuminated. Where to go with it, and why?
BRING: I went on vacation to get away from it all and found I was followed by broken porch steps, dirty windows, and toilets that would not flush away the memories of childhood rewritten into horror stories. Persons I did not know came out of my past to stand in the remote country grocery store and stare at me when I was barefoot in a ragged dress made from feedbags. I am old, as old as a comet, and yet that older geezer ogled me as if I was naked. This is how a comet feels as it speeds over our earth and looks down to see telescopes and ordinary people looking up at it, and even worse, through it.
the doors in the house of gods torn off their planets
ever more developed in the notion of one's self
struggling to comprehend language as only words
walking down the dark corridors of windows lined
with the work clothes you had worn for five days
over by the yellow flowers a stranger had planted
EXPANSION:
Light-harvesting – that’s what our eyes do. And behind them, into which corner do the neurons try to drag you?
BRING: Ah I give you wisdom. Without stretching out my hands, I give you instantaneous knowledge of all that you have ever known. All seeing brings us is the assurance that what we have always known is shared by others. Again and again we delight in this comfort and then forget what we have experienced so our eyes can bring us new satisfaction in the idea that we are complete.
the waitresses in white, meals al fresco
inspired me to much imitation in the face
of the pool's light like moonlight in water
stores up the energy of backs and fingers
down, across and into a wheat field of sunset’s
late hot ashes wavering salamander glow
ACT II
Scene: An island where no one goes.
BRING: Do you know who puts the baby birds into eggs?
EXPANSION: Yes, but I refuse to tell you. In your case I'm jealous, your friend doesn't crow to me, except early in the morning when my dreams still are expanding into unpredictable areas.
BRING: Then may I ask you what three things should a suicide note contain?
EXPANSION: three virtual addresses: the one in hell, one in heaven, and one at a nest I'll return to soon (please don't forget to put some left over wool in the tree - I like soft landings.)
t-road she says ‘stop’
to the left and to the right
a detour
BRING: If I said: “as if they sparsely spoke to each other occasionally collapsing we tend to confuse nature with our rages” how would you explain this?
EXPANSION: Sparsely, because I feel uncertain; occasionally, in case I gain surprisingly inside knowledge, confused by the fact that only one out of ten relationships are not collapsing at one time or another. (I am held back by self interest not to experience rage.)
BRING: If I am BRING on an inch of ground, what would you do to me?
EXPANSION: Go on following the path of a seducer, helplessly be its victim, stay irresistible; accept the fates with five or even seven reservations in mind.
BRING: Do you think islands are the children of cliffs?
EXPANSION: Probably. Howling with the wind, keeping my pants wet, making me feel a prisoner and try out only locals, volcanic stone erases the rubber on my tires, sending me arms over legs into a hole to start peeping with sandpipers, dig for silver and find only mothers of pearl, well – an island has its advantages: at least mentally, my continent swims doped like an island and the occupiers act accordingly childish.
BRING: Could pain come to an island?
EXPANSION: Only day and night, not in between where love reigns borderless (BBC represents a different opinion.)
BRING: Explain what an island is without the mention of water.
EXPANSION:
smell of fertility
its alphabet of ink blots
in a poem
BRING: In or out poems, do you think islands are lonely?
EXPANSION: Yo, but they are familiar with quantum leaps and turn loneliness into strength. All by themselves, they have a tendency to split territories wide open, gather far cries, inhale the breath of birds and stones, love and kiss bacteria and virus, light and sperm. By the stink of friends they call in money, drill for diamonds and boy, give me a break: how does that buy female features not yet imagined before?
BRING: Back off big Boy; I am asking the questions here. What would you do with an island and an orange peel?
EXPANSION: Fertilize the ground. Spit out the orange seeds and watch them sprout with the patience of an owl radiating mice.
BRING: So you answered your own question above that I refused to touch AND my question beautifully. Good work! Still I must ask you, “Do you think pieces of land can learn a language?”
EXPANSION: Yes, since for a long time, sign language is in use: Black oak trees hanging out function as teachers. The pear says 'you', the tomato plant writes an 'I', a rock stays for ‘Hello,’ the grass for beds and birthplace, the bush for hiding, the red poker lights up for quieting a hummingbird's thirst, a stump in moonshine writes 'never mind'; the bad news is there are double meanings, too, like sand signals love-seat and 'love's labor lost'. Sign language is the art of becoming at home with one's born-in gestures.
BRING: Maybe rocks are simply words spoken with a stronger tongue?
EXPANSION: I guess there are dialects: Granite embodies an Indian accent; wood pressed for many years has an oil-related flow like the musical Arabian spoken behind a veil, where the deep open throat enriches a meaningful echo to believe in. After sunset, even goddesses shyly appear as disciples eager to be at hand when asked by a strong tongue's softness.
BRING: Is this why buildings are said to have a certain number of stories in them?
EXPANSION: Yes, madam, try to get one for rent.
BRING: What would happen to a house that faced an island no one went to?
EXPANSION: Two artists are going to stay there. Over night, the island visits them and brings the message ever since expanding. . .
ACT III
Scene: Spring. Waterfall. Two people, closer than ever before, obviously out to risk getting even closer.
EXPANSION:
It’s a waterfall, Lovey, swelling up. Bridal Veil they call it. Coming down in a rush, the fog above us waving a rainbow. Can you identify which of the colors contains the message most intimidating first you, and then possibly me, too?
BRING: Surely the purple – growing old. Will you want me when I bring you decaying fruit? Purple with bruises, soft and mushy? Filled with wild ideas that must find release once before I die even if they are no longer age-appropriate as our children would say. And you? I cannot answer for you. I have known you so long that I no longer really know anything about you.
new games slowly grew as wings form from atoms
smack into the window – do not follow my example
even the abstractions of old age form faces on the tablecloth
a dew drop quivers on a flower in a tremble of jello
EXPANSION:
Could this California morning glory we passed earlier stop you from worrying about a little spot when you tried on your white silken wedding dress?
BRING: What? You don’t expect me to be perfect? That’s a relief because my imperfections are the patterns of my character. They won’t wash out no matter how many courses in religion or meditation I take.
as the sun was setting I walked a crooked speech to enter
the stream that has been rusting since you were six
the precise juncture truth comes with stirring wings
floating in their warm skins of verses of sobbing
a god's mouth held shut as you watch my sleeping
displacing water for the boat's fast appearance
EXPANSION:
We are crying. A few tears fall into the lake from our 2-person kayak. Fish come snapping after those drops in the center of a ring expanding.
BRING: I bring you Basho and his haiku about tears in the eyes of fish. And here you are putting our tears into the tummies of fish.
I have learned to lean on pictures to remember activity
the camera has a tiny light leak and the film films
when dipping the camel-hair brush in the polish
in order to leave you I offer my smiling and gasping
to know the next day I would ride the wind as
EXPANSION:
Thunder, the lightning connects miles of clouds like calling their children home to earth: One is supposed to become a diva in astronomy, the other shaped like a centaur returning to Berkeley University, neurons on his mind and what they may will learn to change – hope on the dark horizon?
BRING: Recently I read a poem that was fairly ordinary until the last line which was: “leaning into the thunder.” I have learned to lean into pain until its knees bend and it crawls away, but I still need to learn to lean into all the things that frighten me – all the things I fence off with words and bales of brownies.
tucking in
the waist band of shorts
a book of love poems
we have come to the shores
of the River of Heaven
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