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Ghazals
BRIDE OF THE MIRROR
Billie Dee
The saber-tooth cat purls to her cubs from the other side of the mirror.
Tar pits roil beneath calm waters – another side of the mirror.
Thistles and briars prick bare flesh, too many wounds to count.
The masochist’s grin is upside down – squint-eyed before the mirror.
It's simple, the system for escape: knot the bedding, vault chain link.
Night guards are busy chopping their coke – white bride of the mirror.
Elephant ear, banana flower, the undergrowth crawls and shudders.
Mandibles, legs, compound eyes – fire ants fried with a mirror.
One minute the heat is Fahrenheit, the next it's Centigrade.
Our faces grow weary by degrees – we can’t abide the mirror.
Dracula glides across the floor, into the dying night.
We glare at the
moon with blood-flecked eyes – petrified of mirrors.
Liposuction, augmentation, tattoos removed by laser. Wigs look good
while the cancer grows – Billie, don’t hide from the mirror.
A SUMMER AFTER CAVAFY
Billie Dee
The Aegean Sea dazzled – a shimmer in the eye,
But didn’t compare with the deep azure of her eyes.
That summer I wore just a bathing suit and flip-flops.
The water seemed tame at first, assuring to the eyes.
A fleet of small fishing boats crisscrossed the afternoon.
God, there she is again – reflecting sky, her pure eyes.
Tried to hide my goofy smile – she seemed not to notice.
I watched from a corner of the tavern (unsure eyes).
I hardly recall that hot summer in the islands, but…
What? are these tears? or just a blurring of the eyes?
PAPER
Steffen Horstmann
Words are exiled from a country of paper,
Are burned in books, in the debris of paper.
A piano's sounds blossom in the ear...
Notes of music floating free from paper.
Men left behind mountains full of stumps.
Forests fell for a bounty of paper.
Dark waters form a pool of ink –
The harbor for a city of paper.
Sparks from the fire like uttered syllable –
In them one hears the plea of paper.
Saws are buzzing like steel insects,
Turning – in seconds – a tree to paper.
Stars glitter, the night's broken jewelry.
The moon's light turns briefly to paper.
This poem was crumpled & discarded, taken
By the wind to swirl in a sea of paper.
First published in The Meridian Anthology (2005)
WATER
Steffen Horstmann
A starlit bay where ghost ships sink in water.
Tonight the moon pours silver ink on water.
The gulf breezes caressed our sails,
Coursing where sunsets are pink on water.
An indigo sky above arid lands...
Whose denizens are burdened to think of water.
A dead river is scorched in sand,
Where vanished tribes knelt to drink its water.
The sea is reflected in Helen's eyes —
Blazing ships whose fires shrink in water.
Rainbows painted onto the sky's canvas...
Brushes drain colors into a sink of water.
The night listens to a cadence of seas.
Shooting stars cast white ink on water.
First published in Candelabrum (2005)
DO NOT LOOK FOR THE DEAD
Steffen Horstmann
Do not look for the dead, you will find them.
You are part of all that once confined them.
Do not make them recall their former world,
How their lives fell away behind them.
Why trouble the dead with your queries?
It's of their folly you will remind them.
They live in the silence, a music without notes.
You will not conceive how darkness has refined them.
You can make of them an audience, if you must.
Speak softly, the tremor of your voice will find them.
Is there in their eyes a garden of stars?
In what manner has their world designed them?
What is it you wish to obtain from their stillness?
Some aspect of the task now assigned them?
Please understand – you bring with you your world –
& the thought of how it once maligned them.
You are part of all that once confined them –
Do not look for the dead, you will find them.
First published in Pegasus (2007)
Haiga by Jerry Dressen
Symbiotic Poetry – Haibun And Friends
LAST DAY OF SUMMER
Marjorie Buettner
There is a peace which emanates from the trees today down by the lake, giving off a palpable sense of serenity just as we, while breathing, give off to plants that carbon dioxide which saves. We breathe in this peace, this serenity; it is a gift given at the end of the day when the work is done and the birds are still and the lake – a placid presence – shudders off and on with the bubbles of fish breaking the surface. It is here when the when of now becomes an open field full of sunflowers facing the summer sun. And it is here where the open wound heals, the breaking heart closes and the distance which separates unites . . .
as if I could
touch you once again . . .
last day of summer
THE POEM AS ANIMAL
Marjorie Buettner
I see it rolling on the floor in a spot of sunlight. It stretches and luxuriates, slowly closing its eyes. Sometimes when I reach for it, it curls underneath my fingers and arches its back, sparks flying into the air – those times it is all mine. Other times it ignores me totally, pisses on my clothes and tries to escape into the wild. I remember, then, that this animal is by nature wild and untamable and I am hostage to its needs.
shortest day . . .
a zigzag of tracks
in the snow
WOODSMOKE
Marjorie Buettner
The baby we could have had lies in the folds of the earth and breathes a new air. It has a body that glides through the water like a whale at sea, singing to us in our sleep. It flies through the air like an eagle soaring on circles of wind, calling out to us nightly. The baby we could have had belongs to no one and is lost to the ancestors who reclaim the fire that burns during the coldest night of December then dissipates in woodsmoke rising to stars.
a young fox
pouncing for his catch
winter solstice
BLOODY FACEBOOK!
Terry O’ Connor
I got an email from a friend with some photos. To look at the photos I had to give my name and email " This is a bit strange" says I, but low and behold when I gave my name and email it says "Congratulations on your new facebook acc", I'm all, WTF ?
Then it starts finding people from my email address book, I'm like WTF x 2 ?
But then I start to see all these people who I have not seen in ages and I'm like, ok, maybe???
A few months go by, me and my ex break up, I change my status to single and facebook only goes and sends out a status update to the whole world "Terry O’ Connor is now single" I'm like WTF x 3 ?
Anyway, it's not so bad now. Me and facebook have been married for nearly a year now we have a family, a nice little place. It's ok.
Terry O’ Connor
is eating a cheese sandwich
might go for a pint :)
WHEN THE SUNLIGHT
(excerpt)
Gerard J. Conforti
When the sunlight lights the sky, the birds sing with joy. When the sunlight breaks open the skies, the bare trees in winter reach for the warm. When the sunlight streams through the tree boughs, the flowers come out of the buds. When the sunlight is covered by a cloud, the rays of the sunlight spread out. When the sunlight brings the flowers to life the raindrops rest in their buds.
The rain ripples a pool of water in the sun
REMINDER
James Fowler
A gust of wind charges through the yard. The chimes shudder their response. In dream's dark kingdom, the tolling grows into a siren's scream: incoming, incoming, incoming. I stand beside the bed before I know I am awake. Outside the kitchen window, a moon-glazed cloud scoots past the naked oak. A trucker's beams adorn a distant ridge. Then they're gone. The moon pokes over the roof above me and sparks the snowy lawn. I feel like a dog offered a bone and give in to my body's shuddered response.
cold pillow
my wife rolls over
pats my shoulder
EVENING WALK
James Fowler
A pickup shrouds the drizzle's song. I shiver as it passes. The truck's wind riffs the feathers of a dead crow's left wing, splayed toward town. The gust lifts and whips a plastic bag around a sumac stalk, up and over, up and over, until it sheaths the stem. Beyond, shriveled leaves rush back into the trees. A squall whisks rain down my neck as I bend and unwind the bag. I slide the body into it with my shoe and step into the woods. In town, I slip the empty bag into the trash can outside the inn.
bare oak
a blue jay mimics
a crow
HARRISON PLACE, IRVINGTON
Ruth Holzer
When I was ten, we rented the first floor of a two-family house on a quiet, leafy street. We stayed there for years, enjoying the space after our cramped apartment. The landlady gave me part of the yard for a garden where I planted cucumbers and carrots next to her beets and potatoes. The dining room had a stained glass window that caught the evening sun and splashed the wooden floors red and gold. When the owners sold the house, we had to leave. I was already on my own, somewhere else. I came in one door and went out another.
young willow—
growing up
together
MELTON
Ruth Holzer
I had planned to stay in this cottage for a while, in the picturesque village on the River Deben. But the place was all topsy-turvy: the windows were set at crazy angles and had to be hammered open and shut. Wall-to-wall shag carpeting displayed a whorled design of purple cabbages. Each small chartreuse room was slightly tilted. The radiators clanged and remained cold, the chimney was cracked and useless. The water ran rusty. Night and day a peculiar smell permeated the air. When I looked over the fence, a fleshy sow stood up on the other side and stared right back.
roar of Phantoms—
Suffolk piggeries
safe from the Russians
LEAVING CAMPUS
Roger Jones
Load up the stereo, footlocker, duffel bag of shoes, pasteboard boxes full of odds and ends. Worry about summer work when you get home. Right now, sort out all the semester textbooks. A couple of keepers, but sell the rest back. You can probably get forty or fifty bucks for them – enough for gas and a couple of decent meals on the way home. Finish sweeping the floor. Pause a moment to nod to any lingering ghosts. On the way out, don't forget to lock the door.
burn of chlorine
in my nose
first dive
WAR GAMES
Shirley A. Serviss
My husband and I saw each other mostly at meetings or news conferences. Worked for competing media. Didn’t share our sources. Rarely shared dinner. If I wanted to see him, I turned on the TV news. Instead of love letters, I found notes that read: Gone to train wreck. Don’t know when I’ll be home.
We spent holidays hiking: he far ahead on the trail; me limping behind on blistered feet, terrified of bears. At night, we played war games—moved armies and battleships around the board re-enacting famous fights.
No surprise our marriage didn’t last. We were never on the same team.
check/mate
marriage
ends
LANDING ON DEATH
Shirley A. Serviss
We played Monopoly that summer—coffined in the close heat of my cousin’s bedroom—rolling the dice, buying up real estate. She was on a losing streak in more ways than we knew, handing over pastel play money at the dictates of Community Chest, oblivious to the cancer limiting her mother’s chances.
I was still older than she was that summer, tried to hide my budding breasts when we bathed together in the tub, couldn’t hide my growing disinterest in Barbies. When I saw her dry-eyed in a navy suit at her mother’s funeral the following year, I realized she had passed me, landed on a spot beyond my reach.
pushed from nest finding wings
SYNESTHESIA
Shirley A. Serviss
The problem with turning 50 is the numeral itself, not the baggy knees, wrinkled neck, the extra rolls around my waist.
I knew 50 better back in elementary arithmetic when I told myself the stories to make simple calculations more interesting. All I remember now is that it wasn’t one of my favourites, not one I lingered over. It’s a number I don’t quite trust, like some member of the community I once knew something bad about.
Perhaps it robbed a bank. Fifty would be capable of such a crime, balaclava over the zero, the five holding a gun. Fifty-one could easily have driven the getaway car. Fifty-two is guilty of something too, although nothing quite so heinous. Perhaps it only harvested on
Sundays, nothing that made the weekly paper.
It was a long time ago and I no longer recall. I only know there’s nothing good about breaking into the fifties.
middle age
skin no longer
fits
HOOK, LINE, AND SINKER
Richard Straw
My wife's dented white Dodge Caravan with retreads, its back seats removed, has its rear-end filled with things my sister and her husband salvaged for me before our parents' estate sale:
– two desks for my kids (my small glass-topped bedroom desk and my sister's matching desk);
– two carefully done paint-by-number paintings my mom or I did of a cowboy crossing a canyon stream and another of a different cowboy (or the same?) serenading his sweetheart with a guitar by a Conestoga wagon in the moonlight;
– mom's hand-stitched 1949 "Home Sweet Home" sampler that had hung in the dining room near the swinging kitchen door;
– two green plastic Adirondack chairs into which dad had carved his and mom's names and phone numbers on the arms;
– another large green plastic front porch chair on which he'd carved "For Big Heads Only" after his cancer was diagnosed the previous fall;
– an empty greenish-blue craft-tackle box with mom's name on the front in black stick-on Italic letters;
– dad’s weld-spattered lunch box and thermos with the faded company decals;
– our tackle box partially filled with soft lead weights, red-and-white plastic ball bobbers and pencil bobbers, hooks and lures of all sorts, a red hook extractor, small pliers, a wooden-handled kitchen knife, and a whetstone with a chewing tobacco advertisement on its front;
– our cork-and-metal bait box and rusted minnow bucket; and
– three Zebco rods and reels with hooks and leaders rigged and ready for the water.
On an earlier weekend trip to Ohio to help clean out the house, my sister set aside a vanload of boxes and picture frames containing our parents' old cameras, movie projectors, black-and-white photos, color photos, spliced reels of 8-mm and Super 8 film, and framed family photos, many of unknown relatives. That cache came from behind a living room couch, under beds, and from upstairs closets and dressers. Before this last trip, I spent warm evenings alone in my North Carolina dining room, sorting through plastic grocery sacks of film packets and negatives from the 1950s to the 1990s.
his grin
as he holds up the prize
a tiny catfish
Haiga by Warren Gossett
Sequences
WINTER TANKA
Don Ammons
no snow
mild grey day
furrowed fields
muddy black
long rain puddles
the fjord frozen
covered with powered snow
men with wide shovels
clear a rink for skaters
in the blue sky white gulls circle
scattered across
a blackboard sky
stars and stars and stars
the north one centered
the big dipper tilted
split log lengths
stacked neat against barn walls
evening silence
yellow light in rural windows
blue smoke rises from chimneys
cold room
iced window panes
on a writer's desk
closed covered computer
coffee dregs frozen in a cup
sluggish surf iced
beach and dunes frost
the sand hollow
where summer lovers laughed
layered with snow and silence
VEGAN'S PIE
Francis Attard
White Christmas
blanched almonds
vegan's pie
scarecrow in tatters
hat worn askew
Alpine heights
Icarus butterfly
at 10, 000 feet
on stilts about town
distributes pamphlets
****
bony fingers agile
ties reef knots
under the moon
“My Fair Lady”
restored digitally
on its first leg
leopard snake on doorstep
not turned away
glitters after rainfall
swamps a spider web
****
lies to sweep
under the carpet
along with the dust
memory recalls memory
in the analyst's couch
cuckoo flowers
sacred to the fairies
not to bring indoors
TV baseball
tranquility
STOWAWAY
Ed Baranosky
Lunar shadows,
At the still chained wheel,
The mooring snaps…
An off-shore breeze carries the scent
Of pine and tar and spindrift.
A curious deck cat
Haunts scurrying rats
Both evading the dog
Barking at sleepless gulls
Settling in the rigging.
A solo dory
From ship to anchored ship,
With muffled oars
Semaphores it’s wares
Making silent rounds.
Between outcast,
Sea-hobo, and stowaway
There is but a thin line,
Within the world of corroded
Amulets and contraband
Harbor sounds drift
In with the slow rising tide
Easing into dreams,
The Southern Cross
Above swaying masts.
OPUS POSTHUMOUS
Carl Brennan
Rush-hour headlights
taillights skidding on black ice...
bright ornaments once
in a boy's dream of heaven
where Christmas trees never died
My final winter –
wondering how my stillborn
verses will greet me,
hoping their tiny souls
have acquired forgiveness
I see a frozen
wasteland where tears stop flowing.
Curious, hungry
creatures there can claim me...
I've wounded Love many times
With an oak bokken
I battle a sword-wielding
vampire at night
Sunrise will deliver me
hypothermia's mercy
SNOW SEQUENCE
Garry Eaton
along this street
only one porch lit
evening snow
snowy evening
the paperboy's tracks
half-buried
an old man
shovels the sidewalk
falling snow
hidden beds
the sheets on clotheslines sag
moist with snow
snowflakes glow
in passing headlights
exhaust pipe swirl
faint flurries
melt water flashes
in dark gutters
a streetcar pauses
for a lame dog to cross
snow snowing
BIRD AND WING TOGETHER GO DOWN,
ONE FEATHER
Chen-ou Liu
rippled clouds
blanketing Taipei below
winged migration
rainbow arch
hanging over the CN Tower
my mouth on hers
taking S from the chest
replacing another s
poet-husband doing chores
diving into my mind
carving out a full moon
as sunlight warms Taipei
IN THE NAME OF LOVE
Victor P. Gendrano
1)
She shot his head while he's sleeping
as she can't bear to share him.
With crumbling hopes of love and life
she gunned him again and again.
Then by his side, she killed herself,
murder suicide, it's reported.
2)
His mysterious disappearance
in the wilderness is over.
He finally admitted
to his loving wife and children,
he was with his other love
his soul mate in Argentina
3)
Their vow of love had remained
unbroken 'til the very end.
With a hint of Romeo
and loved Juliet's tragic play,
they committed double suicide -
euthanasia, medical term.
ON RAIN-DARK ROADS
Penny Harter
a cold front storms
into my dream tonight
and yellow leaves rain down
so far away the echo
of your voice
remembering your touch
I close my eyes
and let rain bless my face
how long until you take
my hand again
this autumn evening
passing cars splash by
on rain-dark roads
out my bedroom window
our translucent reflections
the full moon casts a
bronze halo on moving clouds
when I was a child I knew
the secret names
of everything
(untitled)
Elizabeth Howard
no road signs
hills, hollers, ess curves
third time past the church
like my life with you
winding roads going nowhere
kindergarten science
to feed baby birds
the towhead says
you have to chew worms
and spit them in the open mouths
flight late, luggage lost
we collapse
on a damp hotel bed
outside, a beach party
samba and bossa nova
Haiga by Romona Linke
ZUM ERSTEN MAL
Ramona Linke
Tag des Mauerfalls – Mutter spricht stundenlang kein Wort
zum Festhalten, ab sofort
die Freiheit
und fragende Blicke
über den Küchentisch
… ein leises Lied am Bett
unseres kleinen Sohnes,
sein Lächeln wischt
meine Tränen fort
zwei Wochen später: ich sehe meinen Vater, zum allerersten Mal
THE VERY FIRST TIME
Ramona Linke
the Fall of the Berlin Wall – for hours mother speaks no word
to holding on, from now
the freedom
and quizzical looks
across the kitchen table
… a quiet song at the bedside
of our little son,
his smile wipes
my tears away
two weeks later: I see my father for the very first time
AUTUMN NIGHT
Chen-ou Liu
one by one
drops from this middle-aged face
soak the page
I have nothing to offer
but sweat, tears, toil, and blood
I feel something
inside me fraying
something I've draped
my dreams in –
the chill of autumn dusk
as night deepens
dark secrets emerge
and gnaw at my heart
I cut it open
with the scalpel of words
nothing
in the inner chambers
of my heart
except scattered memories
and Lego blocks of words
gazing up
at the full moon
I offer a full cup
to entice her –
this autumn has come to me alone
BUS STOP
Francis Masat
a peeling Christmas ad
reveals a beach scene
two pirates duel
with rolled-up magazines
a girl stops traffic
for a motorized wheelchair
during a red light
the click of laptop
a woman twists and untwists
the same curl
an acolyte reaches out
to catch his cell-phone
a passing runner connects
a row of puddles
PUMPKIN SEEDS
Catherine Mair
a joker always
Selwyn takes the pronged fork
& chases the little boy
down the garden path.
'He doesn't want us,' the boy says
they married on the 31st
now she rings and says,
'It's not trick or treat,
my family's hair
is alive with nits.'
once we threw
pumpkin seeds
on a compost heap
the pumpkins were bountiful
& haven't been surpassed yet
HALLOWEEN SCARE
Patricia Prime
after a week of storms
the last day of October
Halloween
children walk the neighbourhood
with their baskets and bags
they clunk clunk
down the garden path
churn up the grass
their sing-song voices
calling out 'Happy Halloween'
covered with face paint
they poke out their tongues
and make faces
forgetting that grandmas
used to do the same thing
a group of children
with scary masks
and garish costumes
present me with their bags
to fill with lollies and gifts
they don't seem impatient,
so I say, "Nice costumes,"
to which they reply,
"We got them from the Warehouse
and our fairy wands and masks."
in another house
a pumpkin's carved grin
beckons them –
I've spent too long on the doorstep
listening to their prattle
RESTING WIND
Werner Reichhold
resting wind
in the oval of an egg already wings
barefoot
sleeping under a tree bare roots
eyelids sink
an earth shadow passing moon clouds
hay-tide
June waving on the farmer's head
a raked breeze
she calls leaves have started to change
so little
in absence of a friend's wax-brown eyes
lighting a candle
flying further a pheasant's feather left
the color of its voice
lady pale on your ears a keyhole limpet
the dark
one word unspoken in a sea of lips
coming closer
with the night train of my dream a whistle
still on a journey
my name is Stradivari tree-born
slightest touch shaking all over the gong
OSCAR’S EMERGENCY SURGERY
Richard Stevenson
Action Dachshund’s down.
Blood tests reveal nothing more
than his baleful eyes.
Pills don’t work:
he yaks himself inside out
but won’t pass a stool.
He can’t keep even
a teaspoon of water down,
eats only with his eyes.
Yet he’s presented
beaded jewel work before,
passed socks, underwear.
This time a shoelace,
bits of plastic and towel block
militant bowels.
Horrendous vet bills
or a dollar fifty bullet?
a friend avers.
A week later
the dog’s sporting his new
Buddha belly grin.
He’s in stitches,
our wallets have been
disemboweled.
Not quite the progress
of a king through the guts
of a beggar, but ...
He’s still only half
way down the dark chute himself;
we’re down a few bones.
Three hundred a year –
That’s one way to look at his
shaved belly smile.
The canine’s supine,
catches a few rays between
itches and stitches.
Conehead Madonna:
he looks so angelic in
his post-op bonnet.
One week and he’s back
barking at the mail man,
humping our male cats.
Trans-species perv –
but what’s a dachshund to do
without a footstool?
His cone scrapes the path –
We should put him to work
shoveling snow.
Mongoose at bedside.
Would you take this damn thing off –
pretty please, he begs.
He looks ruefully
at my aromatic socks,
gives his head a shake.
TANKA X 3
Barbara A Taylor
in rubbish piles
outside the restaurant
overripe fruit, healthy greens
and poverty
in my face
a flashing santa
splashing gumtrees
ho! ho! ho!
mad electronic tidings
in summer’s midday sun
blue irises bloom
on this, his final day…
all that remains
an iron double bed-head
on smoldering hot ashes
Haiga by Melinda Hipple
A PLAY WITH DEATH
Barbara A Taylor
staying alive
the grim reaper speaks
to young deaf ears
his conscience pricked
at the needle exchange
overflowing
an orphanage for babies
without a home
on every continent
lost count of hearts
in the quilts
cover up
not using a condom
a play with death
immune system’s shattered
his struggle for life
COMING IN AGAIN
A. Thiagarajan
sunrise
even the deserted house
fills with shine
sunbath –
lying abandoned
the day's newspapers.
coming in again –
by the window breeze
few strands of her hair
strong winds –
sticking to a trembling leaf
a worm
sudden rain –
few deserted sand castles
lose shape
dawn
pushing up the incense smoke
the coffee aroma
open air concert –
mosquitoes hum ceaselessly
in serpentine weaves
vacation over –
the dog on the couch
chased by none
Single Poems
footprints frozen
in the ice a lonely trail
a path of hopes and dreams
the wind blows the shifting snow
pathways covered uncovered
CW Hawes
new silk sheets
pink and red flowers
I spread
setting the scene
for sleeplessness
Ruth Holzer
not having lived alone
before, I stare into gray sky
and falling leaves—so many
lives I've left behind
this chilly morning
Penny Harter
why do you preach
speech is silver
silence is gold
when you speak
dawn to dusk
radhey shiam
words speak to the head
and silence speaks to the heart
two kinds of knowing
you take my hand without words
yet questions run through my mind
CW Hawes
Jacques Derrida, French philosopher, mentioned in his book, The Post Card, that his first phone number in Algeria (ca. 1920) was 7 4+3 7
one foot closer to the sun
amaryllis sleepless young
pink pictured in his faith book
Werner Reichhold
mayflies
swarming in the last
rays of sunlight
Bhalachandra Sahaj
I watch leaping silvers
for a moment I think of
fishermen with
heap of dead fish
I feel so bad
radhey shiam
uncle's last moments
between a sip of beer
and a piece of pie
ayaz daryl nielsen
Dog is misspelled
the child discovered
the Great.
P K Padhy
I don’t know
who is stranger
in this world?
I am surprised
to hear such things
radhey shiam
factory machines:
they stamp and press, mold and cut
identical parts;
weeping willow in the wind
never changes how it sways
CW Hawes
A lonely path
through impossibly bright forests
this dream called Autumn
The sylph struggling playfully
carried in my breast pocket
Carl Brennan
Haiga by an'ya
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