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SOLO POETRY
GHAZALS
MAGNIFICAT FOR THE NEW YEAR
Sheila E. Murphy
Scat-sung cadenzas festoon open staves
in feasts transcending four-four time.
A curvature of instinct rescues selves
from the erosive reflex of obedience.
We rise to the occasion of each other,
toward a more palpable compassion.
In a world of neighborly non sequiturs,
we celebrate new hinges of awareness.
Legato moments lift into syllabic flight,
resilient pathways to imperatives.
The body's best defense, unbroken skin,
a hush of snow light upon winter roses.
MOUNTAIN HOUSE OF STONE
Bernard Gieske
"You will, little man," said the giant, "build me a mountain house of stone."
"I cannot," replied the little man, "lift such a mountain of stone."
"You must," repeated the giant, "build me a mountain house of stone."
"But how?", the little man was heard to say taking leave with a moan.
Over and over the man pondered how to fulfill the command.
Louder and louder grew his moans sinking deeper into groans.
A simple poet am I and all I ever do is juggle words.
So off he drove in his plain Nissan; his mind never ceasing to churn.
With wheels turning he slowly began to formulate a great plan; How to
build the giant’s mountain house gradually taking outline.
A poet am I and I will build a house of stone in a poem.
I will collect some building blocks and commence to lay the first stone.
GHAZAL OF THE SACRED GROUND
Steffen Horstmann
The night's dark wrapped its cloak around me.
From every direction voices spoke around me.
I had sought to pass this place in silence
When an ocean of wind broke around me.
Here the turmoil of the past remains.
Dead fires emit their smoke around me.
Did I wake you, dark god? What intent
Compels the spirits you evoke around me?
They slept for centuries hidden in black Crypts,
but suddenly woke around me.
Lord, grant me means to repel specters
I unwittingly provoke around me.
I see a battle's aftermath, heads raised on lances –
Their voices swirl like smoke around me.
May this be but a dream that vanishes
& sleep wraps a silent cloak around me.
THE WORLD YOUR WORD KEPT BETWEEN US
Steffen Horstmann
Tell me of the world your word kept between us –
Of our strife, like sudden flames that leapt between us.
Tell me of what lay dormant, in our bed
A body of silence that slept between us.
A disturbance billowed drapes in the vacant chambers,
Revealed as a ragged shadow that crept between us.
You saw notes of music whirling in the air,
A symphony of leaves the wind swept between us.
Tell me of what lingered for years without being spoken of,
The phantom in our room that wept between us.
Tell me of the word that quivered in your breath,
That took shape as a presence & stepped between us.
We sleep, we wind ourselves in cool sheets.
Tell me of the world your word kept between us.
Haiga by Martina Heinisch
SYMBIOTIC POETRY
THE ENDLESS SNOW
Ruth Franke
translated by David Cobb
To: Rose Miller
Date: Monday, March 8, 2010
Subject: The Endless Snow
I carry my light
into darkness
sometimes it flickers
then I slow my pace
and avoid draughts
Dear Rose,
do you remember I put this poem at the end of my Christmas letter? Had no idea at the time what this winter had in store for us. The ‘cold spell’ has not been a spell at all, but has gone on and on, creating chaos for trains and traffic on the roads, grounding planes, bursting water pipes. Places out in the sticks need helicopters to supply them. All day it snows, everywhere there’s an icy silence.
long winter –
snowflakes falling
on the buzzard’s corpse *
No need to worry about me, though – I’m absolutely fine and well stocked up. Only sometimes I can’t stop my thoughts drifting enviously towards you in California, imagining you working in your garden, playing tennis, strolling along a beach, breathing in the balmy ocean breezes!
Time will arrive, I know, when the first crocus will pop its head up, then narcissus and primroses appear, opening their buds, and the first birdsong of the year will wake me up in the morning.
Looking out at the endless snow, there’s some comfort in a PC that doesn’t let me down.
Take care,
Ruth
wind from southwest
the bamboo shakes off
its snow *
*both haiku were first published in Blithe Spirit No. 20-1/2010
HAIBUN 26
Shirl Cahayom
Many years ago on one of the beaches in Safat, Kuwait, I wrote upon the sand:
SHIRL WAS HERE
WHERE ART THOU?
The waves came and washed my name away but the question remains: WHERE ART THOU? 20 years on, i am still asking the same question. i don't know where you are Kuya Romy. i don't know if you are in saudi arabia,in the philippines or here in america. all i know is that you are still in my heart, in that special corner where neither time nor space can shatter.
The past is over now.
but its
memories
linger on and on
like the scent of jasmine
that permeates in the night
SUMMER
Gerard John Conforti
The rain pours into my eyes as I gaze at the clouds above the wet meadows. The sunlight pours though between the clouds swaying upon the earth and receding into clouds again. I stand in wonderment at the beauty nature offers in all its glory like the morning glories opening and closing; opening and closing.
She comes to hold my hand again and we stroll in the woodland down many paths of life in and out of shade beneath the summer tree leaves. We stand firm and gaze into one another’s eyes. As we embrace we kiss until our lips are moist and wet.
From the clouds, the day brightens into a beautiful evening and she and I sit upon a hill of grass and watch as the sunlight fades away upon the sea.
shade of trees
and a cool warm breeze
tightens our clothing
EVEN HERE
James Fowler
An hour out on a hike, crossing through a large stand of hemlock, I enter a small clearing where British Soldiers stand at attention in three platoons on a Map-Lichened rock outcropping. One low-bush blueberry claims a pocket of soil between the ledge and trail. A wren bobs on the shrub and gives me hell for intruding on her island of sunshine. Then she flits to a hemlock branch on the other side of the trail, peers past me and falls silent. I look over my shoulder into the eyes of a cow moose, so close I could turn and pat her nose. She unfreezes first and ambles away. The wren swoops, lands and snatches a
caterpillar off the blueberry.
the last of twelve
faded beer cans
angry ants
HUSBAND
James Fowler
Two months after my wife flies to New Mexico, I decide to clean the house, so I strip the bed, wash the sheets and blankets separately; dust all the horizontal surfaces, file my papers, shelve the books; sweep the window sills and slider rails; wash the windows inside and out; vacuum the carpets, scrub and polish the hardwood floors in the living room and hallway; remake the bed (the way she taught me, not the way the Navy taught me). My wife flies home in four days.
the cat
dumps over the trash
thawed bee
LEAVING SAINT JOHN, NEW BRUNSWICK
Ruth Holzer
When the morning fog lifts, what should appear in the harbor, but a mammoth white cruise ship. Passengers are already disembarking, descending the ramp in various degrees of fatigue and bewilderment. They mill around the customs tent, taking pictures of one another with their cell phones.
a following wind—
two women
sail away
I pack quickly and drive north. At Belleisle Bay, the river widens, reflecting billowing pink clouds and the vibrant green of the peninsula.
bits of glass and shell
pressed into the local clay—
a tea bowl
Haiga by Martina Heinisch
MILESTONE
Jeanne Jorgensen
I don't think that my mother told me anything about menstruating because when I found blood on my panties (luckily at home) I remember running to her terrified. I guess I learned the hard way that from now on there would be 'rag days' since my mom could not afford things like kotex pads (if they existed) for many years. I sometimes wonder how we grew up without being completely emotionally traumatized.
When our daughter, Shelley Anne started, i went out and bought a dozen red roses and they were in a vase when we all sat down to eat supper (a school day) I stood up and quietly announced to the 'men' that, today, Shelley Anne became a young woman. Not another word was said during the meal but we all understood and the brothers and dad had a new respect for Shelley Anne from that day onward.
junior high recess
girls come to our daughter
'you're just growing up'
GROW, YELLOW AND DIE
Liam Wilkinson
We have restored the familiar painting of our home, breathed air into the mouth of our quiet living and shaken out the cloth that has covered contentment for a lengthy buffet. We call it Sunday. Late autumn sun projects cult films onto leaves and we watch, though our hands hold hourly ambitions ajar on our laps. Ah, to flirt with simplicity and, like a fence, stand in a moment devoid of our years
again and again
the leaves grow
yellow and die
whilst we shout for more
from the stalls
THE BLUE FLAME OF NIGHT
Liam Wilkinson
This nearly-new day wobbles like a plastic duck and falls into sunlight. How agreeable to leave you in your sleep and zip up a smile, to walk dogless into morning and hold myself by the pockets. Distant cousins may call out of nostalgia and the thought of a long-gone
chocolate wrapper will skitter across my mind. Even work with its many stone heads still to be carved looks like a monument and quacks like a monument. You know, it's almost as if I meant it
and now
the blue flame of night
goes out
with all
the old fashions
JOY
Liam Wilkinson
I have discovered, at last, a way of using lies to find the truth in things. It's the same with lamps, only they are very much a part of autumn. My beautiful round lies will keep floating all year and even in the snow will simply expire as one removes a hand from a glove or a statement from a scandal. This year I intend to show you who I truly am and, in doing so, sharpen my tongue on clattering falsehoods as they make their way to the light of my mouth.
joy
how you light
a joss stick
in my belly
only to blow it out
EVEN THIS YOUNG MAN
Liam Wilkinson
Somehow it seems necessary to react to myself as though I hadn't felt the spark of the thought or the rumble of the roll on its way to the doing. I toss the notion, quickly, into the gap – perhaps I should raise my eyebrows or let out a 'my!' as I tumble, again, toward sure uncertainty.
even this young man
spots the old codger
he'll become
as his body comes away
from his being
SEQUENCES
SEEPING IN
Michelle V. Alkerton
slow drips
from the faucet
echo light rain
hosing down the driveway
grass clippings back in the lawn
early evening
playing games
shoes wet with dew
full moon
our bodies glide
beneath a wave
muddy cattails
sway along flooded ditch
tanned legs
practice the long jump
over puddles
THE WOODS ROAD
Jenny Ward Angyal
for my mothers
Sunday morning
jack-in-the-pulpit
his silent nod
climbing the gate
into no-sound
thick under hemlocks
birch and boulder
around the hill or over it
the path
on the granite boulder
tongues of lichen
the scraped knee
stony hillside—
even the cow paths
drenched with light
mother and child
the cows
always at home
sweet fern
crushed between fingers
the scent of time
blackberry tunnel
round the oak’s bones
emptiness
empty acorn
under one white oak
a whole new forest
shades of green—
hairy-cap moss
five fingers deep
filling
her picnic basket—
seedling, shadow, leaf
scarlet
wintergreen berries
for winter’s glass house
red-headed
soldier moss marching—
the far end of a twig
pipsissewa—
holding its name
in her hands
bracket fungi
in earth-scented duff
concentric circles
the woods road
never going
to the end of it
WITCH HAZEL
Jenny Ward Angyal
autumn
a handful of berries
opening
a blue glass bubble
of remembered light
burnishing
the trunks of birches
sorrow
the old crone’s shadow
on the white moth’s wing
dust motes
in a circle of light
the bubble
shrinking to a stone
inside the chest
stone
to build a fire ring
kindling
flame from ashes
before dusk
the scent
of apples—
bubbles rising
each a different mirror
to a changing face
hearthstone ashes
the price of wisdom paid—
but
can witch hazel bloom
so deep in winter
firelight fades
the old crone follows
the glint
of drifting bubbles
through the dark wood
FIRST SNOW
Melissa Allen
one
empty barn
first snow
first snow
the footprints of the neighbors
we've never seen
first snow
and again
the owl
THE COLD
Melissa Allen
the cold
our shadows
shiver
a field
of wind and deer
the cold
the cold
moonlight
and snowlight
PLEIN AIR
Ed Baranosky
no tracks in the snow
only incense still mingles
with the valley mists
Wei Wangyu
far wild hills flatten
in the receding distance
a mutiny of winter
a cardinal's crimson splash
leaving optical burns
my inflexible brush
turns and returns frozen
to the snow crusted easel
the arching sky threatens
a last stroke of color
creating mound and hill
where light and shadow meet
pine and birch and oak
so like us I wonder where
our differences may lie
what far-off light falls
rebuilding and remaking
across your frozen face
the evening sun melting
a brief warm sigh
the way back forgotten
covered with new snow
a plow could not cut
as the night wind sweeps
mindless being dances
Haiga by Ramona Linke
VOYAGEURS
Ed Baranosky
a few chosen words
speak the lineage of dreams;
take the shamans' advice
to blaze a trail of stars
among the deep shadows.
a last portage
stalks the swelling waters
of spring-fed sap runs
through the unfathomable land
towards a Northwest Passage.
you will always return
to the loons' long-drawn lament
carried on the wind.
let no one tell your fate
when the voyageurs embark
CAPTIVA
Bill Cooper
coconut milk
the soft smile
of a daughter
sun glare
the palmist
reads a frond
beach dance
banana leaves
artfully shred
shrimp bait
a pelican squawks
at the toddler
raccoon tail
so near
the frond tip
after the gale
weaving
a basket
RECONNECTED
Luciano Costa
*** Setting Out:
lonely thoughts –
the same trains departing
to all destinations I missed
desert road–
an old fashion magazine
torn out by gusts
*** On the Road:
ruins at dusk–
the gold and blue
chartreuse
autumn wind–
along the pond surface
stars fire flight
ancient church–
the unique lamb grasses
in the roofless nave
*** Awareness:
silent night–
out of the angel's trumpet
scented moonshine
once in a lifetime
into the void of night
I understand infinity
Haiga by Emily Romano
I LIFT FROM STONE
Claire Everett
Poetry must be as new as foam, and as old as the rock. (Ralph Waldo Emerson)
this blue hour of dawn
when words are breath
reaching
for the candles
of the stars
ink pooling
in the nib of my pen
I wait
for a dragonfly
to rise from amber
was it yesterday
we passed through that insect wing
of a moment...
I remember
every cell and vein
a swan
graceless on dry land
pen to paper
ink flows
I glide on clear water
moments spiral
into thin air...
dust on the page
I breathe
the legacy of scent
sea breeze
morning twilight
mind-span
lighter than foam
I lift from stone
BELOW ZERO: NOCTURNAL
Eduardo N. del Valle
twilight in cloudland
moonlight glistens
in eyes too distant
silica-laced
dust soup
ripples ring my boots
H-beam moondials
marking nighttime
on glacial bedrock
half-gam long column
remains on mica heel
reminders unsung
off the slurry wall
one creviced sprouting
sapling stoops
moonbreeze rising
swells the vale
over the bulwark
gritty spindrift
strung bulbs quiver
smarts the jowl locked
drilling still
deeper past midnight
into eternal rock
glowing cloud
cuts a parabola in
torched shadow
beholding they
from sycamore boughs
our lunacy below
rising below zero
in nightlight
they watch
THE SCENT OF HERBS
Bernard Gieske
changing
the baby’s diaper
mint sprig in her hair
April birthday
vanilla sprig her bouquet
twinning her name
May dance
hand in hand
minting together
open window
spring breeze
peppermint sweet
poem book
her sprig of sage
"Spring Blossoms"
LIGHTED MIRRORS
Elizabeth Howard
chiseled from granite
the elderly schoolteacher—
in icy dawn, she shuffles
up the garden path,
teeth gritted against pain
she clips the item
with precision
he places it in the laden box
nodding as if to say
it’s a husband’s duty
in the lighted mirrors
the starched white shirt
blinds her
to his ashen face
and palsied hands
hearing the old lady’s words
it’s easier being his widow
than it ever was
to be his wife
I fill in the details
in her feverish dream
he placed in her hands
a shattered redbird
when she came to herself
she knew the bird bore his name
WINTER MOODS
Alegria Imperial
November sky
rains into stray runnels
into cesspools
drenched in the rain
city pavements let no step
leave a sign
on paved walls–
I trace the patchwork
by the moody rain
catching winter clouds
shielding for themselves alone
the marine blue sky
up frosty mountain peaks—
i wonder about the lily
in a summer pond
IF ON A WINTER'S MORNING, AN IMMIGRANT:
Chen-ou Liu
the bird
of my dreams was shot
dead
my shadow
wanders aimlessly
breathing
in unison with my shadow
I wait
for his time
slain by night
my life
has withered
verse by verse
in the rhythm
of short, long, short, long, long
if I die
without footprints left behind
I will be lost
among floating snowflakes
in a world of one color
TIME, CHANGER OF SEASONS
Chen-ou Liu
don't touch me
your hand looks dirty...
I feel
something inside me fraying
something I drape spring dreams in
the inner voice cries
jump as high as you can...
summer heat
makes my feet stick
in white asphalt
accidentally
stepping on my neighbor's shadow...
he yells
at me, illegal alien
I see southbound geese fly overhead
first snow
a black boy gazes up at the sky
until his face
is covered with snow...
time to dye my hair blond?
unemployed
due to no Canadian experience
my little brother
stands at full attention --
writing poems needs nothing but time
BEATS OF EROS AND DEATH:
For Yosano Akiko and Martin Heidegger
Chen-ou Liu
mesmerized
by Akiko's Tangled Hair
I encounter
eros as infatuation
blooms into love
dumbfounded
with Heidegger's Being and Time
I view
death, shadowy confessor
as a kindred spirit
eros'
tangled hair's breadth
separates
me from poetry
the mind wanders on the page
I am
in a stew over death's
bad breath
my poems suck up all
of its decay odor
roaming
the lanes of my mind
I can't find eros
back in the hut of my poem
I smell death
death sighs
there is no room for my misery
in this hut
you and eros have left no space!
I cry in silence
my mind
is empty while something dangles
between the legs
where is eros
my muse of poetry?
death lurks
about the room
taunting
how can I stop him
from reading my poems?
the moon spills
her light upon eros’ face
I see
the red shades of her longing
expressed in a poetic form
placing himself
beyond the pale of humanity
death casts
his frosty gaze at me
while I write poetry
eros sways
her body before my eye
I want to talk
men here watch or talk me
into something else... Poetry?
death sits
on my shoulders with feet crossed
pushing me
six feet under
I'm writing my jisei
eros winks at me
licking her lips
I can't wait
and lunge at her on paper
moaning poems in the making
death smiles
flashing big yellow teeth
and asks, how are you?
I ignore him
and keep writing poetry
moonrays
reveal our coupled body
eros and I
pulsate to the rhythms
of our gogyohka
Augustine claimed
there is a hole in the soul
I decide
to fill it with poetry
death gives me a cold look
into the depths
of the long dark night
eros and I
make love on the page
the birth of a poet
under
the burning gaze of death
I am nothing
for I’ve been living
through paper
moonstruck
eros snoops through my drawers
trying
to find poem-scented lingerie
worn by my "other women"
I can't believe
I still see you
death!
You've reached your expiration date
I dumped you one poem ago
at the end
of Are You Lonesome Tonight
I kneel
and propose to eros with poems
poor thing! she laughs
I stare
into somewhere for hours
death clears his throat
bringing me down to reality
I am just a silverfish
eros sighs
no use in figuring me out
everything
I say to you is poetry
I lament, what kind?
death answers
you can't hide from me
in poetry
for I am your reader
I cry, the only reader!
when kicking
at the embers of my life
I see
the sparks in eros' eyes
my poetry title
CANADA DREAMING ~
in memory of my sister Janet
Rodney Williams
wild ducks migrating –
dreams shared in a foreign land
named childhood
city skyline
across the bay
bursting
from the water’s edge
a pair of sandpipers
totem-pole shadow ...
beneath the wood-pecker’s beak
sawdust drifting
first-nation shore ~
a shard of beer-bottle glass
tumbled
smooth and sharp
as an arrowhead
spring water purling ~
a bull elk in velvet
rubs antlers
in the shallows
a great blue heron
alert
ready to snap
with this lens
from a pine
the red-tailed hawk alights ...
gondola drop
twin members
of a first tribe gazing
in sepia
beyond the far shore
canada geese head south
on gnarled trunks
ferns sprout from moss –
beaver dam
a raft of logs
forming up on the river
as lumberjacks skip ...
too late to see canada
together now sister
maple leaves falling ~
this rocky mountain stream
red with salmon
SINGLE POEMS
my mother and I
in fading summer light—
stand still, she says
adding a pin
to the jagged hem
Lisa Alexander Baron
A Cranking Up Of Flim-Flam
Christopher Barnes
Within light-squall
In each star-gazer's head
Flickers a whirl of suggestibilities
- Black's white, torpedoes are a buried hatchet,
The emperor is wearing colour-bubble clothes.
We float reality stores
But it's starkly a movie
Rehearsing a chub-faced menace,
Schooling us to fear.
qi gong—
house-finch on the power-line
and I inhale
exhale together
living spirals
Gene Doty
wands of gold
waving in the wind
the irises
as though Midas walked
trailing his fingers
C W Hawes
not a single sound
competes with my tinnitus
while gazing
at the moonlit pond
from the window
C W Hawes
village wedding
the donkey too cries
for the maiden
Vladislav Hristov
good friday
my cut finger brings together
all relatives
Vladislav Hristov
daybreak –
on the escalator before me
a peppermint sweet
Vladislav Hristov
at the table
with his glass of red medicine
and a heel
of black bread:
the silent father
Ruth Holzer
on the southern shore
of Lake Ontario
we find
green glass and shells:
our jade and pearls
Ruth Holzer
a flock of geese
flits north across the full moon—
too late for goodbyes
in the snow drift the last rose
turns copper and sheds its name
Alegria Imperial
first frost—
the last of the roses
have lost their names
Alegria Imperial
winter night
the moon lights...
our breath
Howard D. Moore
walking over the bridge
with a jar of honey
in a basket of apples
yes, I did find them
at the rainbow’s end
June Moreau
my solitude
what a good gift
it would make
if I could give
some of it away
June Moreau
MANUAL DEXTERITY
G.A. Scheinoha
These are the hands that
choose wood, shaped sanded, glued, then
wound strings and now, pluck
wire into a hot blooded
frenzy of flamenco beat.
Leaves fall
wearing more layers –
flu season
R.K.Singh
Time to talk
to the inner child –
baby sitting
R.K.Singh
it was obvious
this was her big, black, death book
she cracked it open
and asked me to spell my name
it wasn't too long a list
Spiros Zafiris
Muttering prayers
in the silence of exam hall
a new comer
with seized wit:
teachers delight
R.K.Singh
Labour Day
my neighbour
fixes his roof
Joanna M. Weston
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