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COLLABORATIVE
POETRY
BREAKING DAWN
Julie Warther
Angela Terry
Cara Holman
breaking dawn
the empty school bus
makes a practice run Julie Warther
that silence just before
the first bird sings Angela Terry
lazy afternoon
sun-ripe tomatoes
linger on the vine Cara Holman
a deflated beach ball
in the pool skimmer Julie
late summer moon –
so much we still
wanted to do Angela
leaf shimmer
the whiteness of birch bark Cara
IN UNISON
Julie Warther
Angela Terry
Cara Holman
heat index rising
a record turnout
at race for the Cure Julie Warther
dorsal fins in unison
our footprints on the sand Angela Terry
pruning back –
the mingles scent
of lemon balm and sage Cara Holman
two part harmony
the katydids and crickets Julie
early migration –
three new birds
for her life list Angela
from the playground
voices on the breeze Cara
ANOTHER FULL MOON
Julie Warther
Angela Terry
Cara Holman
August nights
whether we see them or not
showers of stars Julie Warther
wedding plans
another full moon passes Angela Terry
Indian summer
an oak leaf lands
at my feet Cara Holman
the blank where we forgot
to mark the growth chart Julie
sunflowers
fading with the light
the red stain on planet Mars Angela
clouds chase clouds
across the sky Cara
MIRRORED IN STILLNESS
Patricia Prime
Rodney Williams
wilderness trek
the milkweed pod bursts
silencing bellbirds
sheer cliffs
mirrored in stillness
down the gorge
through raging white-water
a jet-boat roars
on the sandy shore
the lovers’ silhouettes
embracing
she repeats
still in a whisper
yes, I love you
CAPTIVE AUDIENCE
Patricia Prime
Rodney Williams
captive audience ~
hauling on board an octopus
deep sea fisherman
mother
phoning her daughter
by the bridge
across to the island
a dolphin with her calf
bouncing
across dry grassland
a mob of kangaroos
black wallabies
on this road through burnt trees
sprouting green
THE OGHAM TREES
Autumn Noelle Hall
Claire Everett
cross-cut star
each point bearing the pip of
immortality—
apples from the Tree of Light,
Lugh’s otherworldly gift
wind in her hair
she draws down the moon...
how sweetly she weeps
for they who have passed,
sing all a green willow!
dowsing
a dip of the hazel stick
from its fork,
the severed branch still
thirsting for water
tap- tap -tap
acorns take the silence
deeper into gold...
heart of oak, the faith of ships,
the Druid's Door
hard hub of cart wheel,
boundary mark of Kings,
keel of wooden barque
and wizard’s wand, all wych elm—
steadfast, unyielding
crannoch and lock gates
these carrs of alder
with roots of stone...
catkins of faery pigment,
shade for the Merry Men
their longbows cut
from sap-and-heartwood joins
of the Old Tree
yew sprigs sewn into a shroud
to shepherd them on death’s way
Birchen Maiden
inking a paper moon,
yours the bard's spring cup,
yours the silver Ribbon Tree
and yours the besom broom
Odin’s Horse—
World Tree from which he hung
and won the runes,
now ash maypole festooned...
be-ribboned by star-path dance
weave the maypole's crown
from blackthorn's starry blossom...
yet, here is Strife,
Dark Mother of the Woods
fixing fate with pins of sleep
blossoming heather
your ring-around-the-fruit-tree
brings bounteous luck...
‘fraoch’-for fierceness
and battle bravery
fires of holly
forging the warrior's blade,
testing his mettle...
here, where snow begins to bleed,
another life laid down
the song thrush
piping his sad elegy
from yon rowan tree
even the Shaman’s staff
unable to bring him back...
as the Milky Way
sprang from the strewn May petals
of Olwen's path
a wish beneath the hawthorn
might reach the faery lands
droplets of blood
drooping in clusters from
blackberry vine...
a cup of its wine best quaffed
with consent from the Fay
yellow gorse
lantern of the moors
whose flame is nectar...
hope springs from fires of deadwood
and blooms to bar the Sidhe
trembling leaves,
lift your silver bellies
to her light...
the white poplar’s incense
whispers of Mother Moon
wind-whittled
hollow heart of the shallows
flute
for a wandering poet...
Taliesin's raft of reeds
a sacrifice,
Elder Woman—for your wood,
my own...
lay me down beneath your boughs
to wake in the Otherworld
Bran knows the magic
lies in ivy's spiralling...
sing ye then
the Cutty Wren,
once more into the green!
FIRST WAVES
Patricia Prime
Owen Bullock
Let us indulge in summer in some seaside venue say Waihi, Cooper’s Beach, Piha or the Coromandel where wind sifts among shells that balance sea and shore, separates them between land and water. A snag of seaweed binds them together.
summer sun
the first waves
touch my feet
I surround microscopic organisms and ingest them. I sluice the current, subside with the night. I surrender to the fish that draws me in like a man with no voice, who cannot write, sing, protest, or love.
sign of life
the gasses
combust
chosen at random
letters in
the scrabble victory
I’ve got my stories too. I bet you know them. This floral sarong? The op-shop. This striped beach bag – a gift. Or from the Salvation Army. You decide. I too am something other than what I seem.
late afternoon
the blackbird shifts
to a minor key
pale shadow
through the open window
the cat returns
SOUND OF THE AUTUMN WIND
Jane Reichhold
Giselle Maya
white stones
the sound of the autumn moon
in the wind
not a thing added
not a leaf taken away
back home
the jobless son
wanders
tenure coming up
nerves strung high
whistling swans
bring to the river valley
Canada-cold air
only a light frost
on white roses
gathering kindling
for the fire the scent
of chrysanthemum
both with white hair
still the attraction
almost Thanksgiving
a fox crosses the night road
light on his tail
lovers in the backseat
gasp in surprise when
the voice of an owl
spirits away romance
from a swift embrace
even in the darkness
the way home is clear
orange-tinted
the moon gathers
the day’s heat
the adults skinny dipping
on the abandoned beach
late summer sun
among grazing clouds
pools of sky
taking a long drink
the fountain of youth
columbines
their gossamer intricacy
as great as the mind
fairy garments hung out to dry
the little caps and poppy cloaks
sun-warm clean
shirts from the dryer
never know spring
in an old chapel
the song of hand-cut limestone
ringing again
around the small town
a bronze bell
Rothko sky
a raptor on the high wire
frozen in its tracks
a hunted rabbit blends
with the frost
unfathomable
this life of wild parsley
the dream
of the bearded man
changes things
his kiss of greeting
scratches my cheek
patchouli
I remember the scent
of the sixties
now a drop of bergamot
essential oil on the wrist
a rising star
in the dark pines
a slender moon
sweet potato pie
I can’t resist a second slice
ripe plums
I roll down the window
to free a wasp
drawn to her sweetness
the letter read once again
sharing ginger tea
cooled by rippling wavelets
of conversation
ignoring all the hottest news
the explosion in the garden
the missing link
flowers without bees
pollination
borne by the wind
the way of the will
Started – November 14, 2012
Finished – December 2, 2012
Haiga by Maya Lyubenova, Plovdiv, Bulgaria
CARVING THE TURKEY
Rodney Williams
Patricia Prime
never averse
to telling a story twice
our old sweetheart
would quote her brother as a lad –
what’s the puddin’s name, Mum?
blackberry bushes
beyond a barbed-wire fence
entice us
with views of a dessert pie
to find a way across those spikes
in rubber boots
with buckets in hand
I walk again
with my dear old Mother
memories popping up like mushrooms
between each visit,
never makes a fuss
while baking a cake,
always a smile for any job
she knows I don’t like doing
our aunt
an artist with marzipan
bitter-sweet
decorating wedding cakes . . .
give me her gamey rabbit stews
summer funfair
ice cream melting in our hands
thrill of the bumper cars
as we chase and turn to collide
with headlong screams
a magician
in her own kitchen
recipes
merely starting points
she conjures unique delights
carving the turkey
my thoughts go out
to a recluse friend
in New Mexico – he subsists
on words alone
SPRING HOLIDAYS
Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime
westerly gale – already the cherry blossom gone
swimming between the water-filters, a duck
your company – and a kingfisher on a bent branch
made by the outgoing tide, patterns on the sandbank
slack tide – the whitebaiter packing his gear
scooting past us on the pathway, holiday children
around the haiku boulder a week ago a blast of colour
going around in circles – fitness fanatics
getting up speed, the toddler on the tiny bike
against a backdrop of kauri – pink toon trees
somewhere above the river the birds disagree
after the storm, the car-park fills with families
WIDENING CIRCLES
Ann Piet Anderson
Francis Fike
Marchiene Vroon Rienstra
dense gray morning fog.
sunrise melting mist away
bares a church steeple (ff)
thousands of bright falling leaves
silently cover the ground (apa)
waves crash through icebergs
glittering fountains of spray
freezing as they fall (mvr)
piercing through newfallen snow
green spear of the daffodil (ff)
swiftly moving clouds;
only a few moonbeams shine
through to slice the dark (apa)
dancing on the lake's surface
countless sunfired diamonds (mvr)
sweet fresh strawberries
he brings to the candlelight
for her, with white wine (ff)
empty bottles, bowls and cups
arms, hearts full of each other (apa)
a bright whir of wings
two hummingbirds hovering
at the red feeder (mvr)
six weaned pink piglets crowding
head to head at the filled trough (ff)
paws pressed to its chest
a black squirrel looks lakeward
still as a statue (mvr)
swooping eagle captures it
not a fish dinner tonight (apa)
no sushi . . . but look –
the golden full moon rising
through the bare branches (ff)
with creaking claw-like limbs
a leafless tree scrapes the sky (mvr)
reaching for the sun
budding forsythia twigs
cast shadows on snow (apa)
fresh green tufts the hillside trees
under a shower's rainbow (ff)
a mountain meadow
wildflowers, colors past count
some of them with wings (mvr)
eroding sand slips down dune
white surf rolls along the shore (apa)
combers coming in
hemming the brown skirt of land
leave shoreline shining (ff)
honking of geese high above
riding cool currents southward (mvr)
flocks rest at Todd Farm.
nearby, lovers pick apples
at the Crane Orchards (apa)
a lone goose, circling, calls for
its mate; close shotguns blasting (ff)
piles of dead branches
crackling as they burn away.
tears in the darkness (mvr)
bright Winterberries emerge
from melting crystal ice tombs (apa)
on the frozen pond
at the public park, skaters
glide over bluegills (ff)
snowmelt swells the flowing creek
free at last from winter's grasp (mvr)
grey pelts breaking out
now on streamside willow buds –
soft flowering fur (ff)
turning soon to green, hiding
a nest, will the eggs survive? (apa)
oval globe glowing
through the skylight at midnight
way too much sunshine (mvr)
firefly on dark path flashing?
the abbot's flickering lantern (ff)
motors' steady hum:
parade of boats homeward bound
fireworks now finished (apa)
beneath stars, a beach bonfire
lighting up children's faces (mvr)
on the grey water
under a homing heron
fish make widening rings (ff)
inside a tangle of weeds –
safe for the present moment (apa)
covering the bank
feathery goldenrod blooms
shelter green acorns (mvr)
freed from cracked grey milkweed pods
down-winged brown seeds rise on wind (ff)
THIN SKIN
Bambi Steiner
Jane Reichhold
thin skin tears apart
as clouds pass cliff edges
an old sickle moon
cutting through the darkness
the call of a lonely owl
blood red talons
wrapped around his arm
barfly leads him home
discouraged with online dating
she spins a web of hair and scent
Venus appears
now more seductive than ever
through bare-limbed trees
holy chastity covers the earth
first big snow storm of the year
neighbors compete
which old guy gets to dig
out my driveway
delivering a dozen red roses
and chapped lips to her door
exhibit opening
so many compliments
and the most sales
everything converges at that one point
on the horizon she never reaches
hobbling
that dratted knee ligament
has gone out again
slowly reclining back to earth
dry grass covered in frost
moon-timed
the night turns white
without stars
wrapped tightly in black silk
her diamonds lost in cleavage
the opera star
stares into the footlights
forgotten line
a sea of old memories tosses
the names of young lovers
spelled out
in cherry blossoms
a summons
his budding young porn star
younger than he thought
exposing herself
leaves nothing to imagination
orange tiger lilies
leaning in to sniff
pollen on the blouse
coming to rest
sunlight on a pile of leaves
the dozing cat
how can I help her?
friend with a pacemaker
background noise
all those cicadas chirping
leaves growing
next year’s babies
made of sunshine
yoga instructor's
delta of splayed legs
letting out his breath
her attention caught
by her own desire
southern exposure
looking across the dunes
at bikini beach
everyone’s feet disappear
in the mist from the surf
sliding through clouds
the balsamic moon pales
amid morning shades
bright crimson smears
sailors take warning
in her socks
a strange surprise from
St. Nicolas
reseeding heir lines
old king takes a new wife
such pressure
to reproduce or perish
reprinting the book
spring two thousand thirteen
all the new leaves are virtual
petals flutter
on a wind-still afternoon
his snoring
root cellar warms up again
dreaming apple farts are first love
Started – October 22, 2012
Finished: - December 14, 2012
WILDFLOWER CHAINS
an'ya
shirley sachiko kishiyama
in celebration
of an artistic weekend
a picnic for two
celadon sage tenders green
nourishment is light but sound
South Dakota –
a Sioux child born during
the calves grow hair moon
a river cuts the earth
salmon swim to their birthplace
carving her pumpkin
she releases the demon
hidden within
seeds drop to the ground and wait
for the next incarnation
period of peace
the kingfisher goddess nests
for its second week
because the pipes have frozen
stream water must be gathered
dearly beloved
the white limousine pulls
slowly away
a chariot is built
by connecting the stars
7-year itch
fallen from grace
both of them
the father of her daughters
has shattered her world
visitation –
matching palm prints
on prison glass
an octopus captures prey
the seahorse battles for its mate
hippie chicks+IBQ-
wildflower chains
around their necks
humpty dumpty sits upright
on the vernal equinox
stone quarry
a giggling gelatinous
mass of eggs
opalisque gibbous moonrise
waxing through the film of fog
harvest festival
beneath a stiff moustache
grape stained lips
walnut skins stain the paper
swirls of cream in coffee
initials scribbled
on a ferris wheel seat –
departing carnival
traces of breath in the air
crystalline icy stasis
emergency room –
this recession much worse
than the wound
low tide in the afternoon
sucks energy from the soul
party crowd –
butterscotch brownies make
everyone high
adhd today
a warrior in the past
still thriving
albeit harsh conditions
little lichen
a facsimile of change
the creek begins melting
during courtship
a turtle dove stretches
tall and bows
ribbons on gay packages
hold a secret under wraps
blind date
straightening the cushions
on his sofa
he loved the doomed chanteuse
but he could not keep her safe
piece by piece
we discard a wood
jigsaw puzzle
visiting the continents
as if they were Pangaea
airplane cargo –
harvested bones and oil
from the catacombs
in the glow of tsukimi
poets write into the night
Japanese squid
protecting its hatch
releases its ink
black strands across the pillow
and dreams of waking with him
fifties couple
moony over Kay Starr
on the phonograph
she fell spraining her right wrist
and cannot throw the frisbee
loud keening –
the Irish peasants
wear arm bands
our lady of Paris pets
her a pack of thirsty gargoyles
tallest building
a window washer waves
at the crowd
surf scrambling across tide pools
refreshes anemones
coca-cola
a familiar pause
between sips
french fries with mayonnaise
cheese burger with everything
crossing the tracks –
a herd of hungry cattle
head for the barn
unseasonable flooding
train travelers are delayed
coping with drought
for nearly fifty years –
a farmer and his wife
tissues dry after chemo
only loving kindness left
welcome back
slobbering kisses
from a st. bernard
walk her down the aisle
a parting hug ends the psalm
race track
an announcer's blessing
starts the cars
plump gourd round as the moon
quietly waits to be pie
autumn evening
loud-colored squares
in her quilt
the town plaza promenade
deserted in november
city to city
a traveling salesman
knocks on doors
today they are side by side
stepping over the threshold
ain't got no money
to speak of and yet
we harmonize
a barrel cut in half
blooming lavender
waking of insects
a chillable red box
in the recycle
he believes death is final
yet the bare branch is budding
spilling over
into the afterworld
her gray locks
at long last the void
suffer those who resist
giving in
to fate or coincidence
hunter's moon
indigo to midnight blue
a curtain drops on the fields
corn shucking
Mennonite hands
in motion
I stared into your darkness
johnny I hardly knew you
strangers mourning
for a beached whale
washed ashore
it's a tradition to break
in the seventh inning stretch
gopher mound
a crocus coming pushes
through the dirt
digging in the garden
she doesn't hear the phone ring
southern spring
an iced tea glass scars
the mahogany
another hemisphere
the whirlpools are backwards
frequent flyer
my circadian rhythm
out of balance
still asleep hardly awake
a newborn starts the journey
mother's holiday
another fuschia basket
for her porch
hard to be happy in may
after last fall's falling out
fond memories
the soft breasts I used
to rest my head on
land once under the ocean
emerges like painted hills
solar eclipse
through welding glasses
third season moon
the arctic tern surpasses
those of us who seek warm climes
sudden aloneness
not a single goose
graces the pond
the pavilion is golden
whole ryoanji is plain
the suiseki
cannot find any
as perfect as you
please meet for tea before
it snows on the lake tai rocks
late supper
christmas carolers
for dessert
coming back to the people
opera night in the taverns
the class clown
makes a fool of himself
college reunion
not too much sadder than
when there’s no one around
departing birds
it seems so early
to say farewell
the first day of painting class
I bring scones she brings mooncakes
octoberfest
flies and guys hang out
in the beer garden
a revival tent went up
so the sinning might go down
skunk cabbage
we lift our noses
in the air
coyote pups need feeding
lost cat posters near the parks
easter service
a large brim hat looms
in front of me
no more human sacrifice
let us put a stop to war
marathon
a long distance from start
to finish
in the end the beginning
promised all that was to be
june 2011- june 2012
Haiga by Maya Lyubenova, Plovdiv, Bulgaria
ON STILL STRINGS
David Terelinck
Beverley George
Shona Bridge
hippie markets
the scent of incense
and streaky bacon
an uncollared dog
circles the tables
racks
of unsold clothing
packed away at nightfall
puppets hang
on still strings
soapstone sculptures
frozen
in exotic curves
distracted by the hips
of the fortune teller
trying to guess
what it is you bought
for my birthday
you bring me jasmine tea
in your favourite cup
a clink of spoons
as she tries out
for the school band
her uniform hem
already too short
collecting fares
his thoughts ride
the incoming swell
that first summer surf
and glimpse of bare flesh
September 15, 2012
THOSE TINY WET NOSES
Mike Keville
Jane Reichhold
Ken Wanamaker
puppies chasing
tails in the garden patch...
summer afternoon kw
those tiny wet noses
blossoms in the water dish kw
warming up
on the pitcher's mound
field of dreams kw
free-falling from the sky
and then waking up kw
reaching toward zenith –
the full moon in no hurry
this cold night kw
a sock with a hole in it
all ten toes are numb jr
frostbitten
but happily dancing
among the pines kw
they tango slowly
across the ballroom floor kw
a rendezvous
in the cloak room muffled
by mink stoles kw
she wants to marry him
only because he is not rich jr
holes in his pants
and pockets full of nothing
Freddie, the Freeloader kw
leading the 4th of July parade
the lost dog with the kinky tail jr
fireworks
or the moon exploding
on this warm night? kw
young girls wearing less and less
today how much more they know jr
strapless gown
spiked heels and a pearly strand
her first red carpet kw
a queen not yet six years old
Honey Boo Boo as a sex kitten jr
in bloom
our first lady opens
the games mm
robins playing 'pick-up-stix'
in the front yard kw
such a crime
under blue skies
magnolia burn mm
while the town slept
the dish ran away with the spoon kw
naked
in the back seat of the junk car
young lovers jr
though old and rusty
the engine still purrs kw
deep in the river
a sunken paddle boat covered
with barnacles jr
frozen in the icy marsh
an old decoy on its side kw
duck bottoms
old guys make jokes
primed with whiskey jr
in red back-lighting ruffles
on her bloomers draw his eye kw
still wet
Degas places his painting
on a chair jr
toweling off and thinking
The Beautiful One Comes kw
online order
will it get here before
the relatives? jr
sisters, cousins and aunts
taste her spiced pumpkin soup kw
ohs and ahs
a dollop of whipped cream
honors the full moon jr
red and golden leaves
swirling down the garden path kw
art show over
a quietness descends
on all the efforts jr
only one ray of sunlight
on the front row pews kw
the bride
her radiance outshines
any flower jr
all smiles in the afterglow
of an spring shower kw
Written on the AHA Forum
June through December, 2012
PURPLE SWAMPHEN
PUKEKO
Patricia Prime
Owen Bullock
The light in the art gallery is intense, the colours white and pearl grey, and suspended from the high glass ceiling is a mobile of gigantic inflatable flowers, opening and closing in sequence.
flower chandelier
red, yellow, bee-less
and scentless
We’ve come to see the Degas to Dali exhibition. It’s a fascinating show: on one wall is a landscape by Van Gogh called “Olive Trees” and I’m shocked at a modest-sized work by surrealist René Magritte – “The Black Flag” – his response to the Nazi bombing of Guernica.
Indian summer ~
Dappled light in Bonnard’s
“Lane at Vermonnet”
After two hours in the gallery, we step outside into autumn sunshine. Near the entrance, we wait for friends to join us. They apologise for being late and we walk to the café to sit down and talk and eat.
pukeko tracks
beside the squashed
pukeko chick
snail-trail
across the porch
mid-morning light
POWDERPUFF
Claire Chatelet aka Sprite
Dick Pettit aka Ricardo
Ken Wanamaker
Mary White
Pris Campbell
heat lightning
illumines the old meadow...
lowing calves ken
hesitant steps
returning from the festival ricardo
mud caked
floral wellies in odd sizes
can tell so many tales mary
only a dormouse heard
the safecracker notch numbers ken
he writes about
love, Proust, orchids
and her flaming hair pris
the moon like a comma
that icy night we eloped sprite
getting old,
it groweth cold, and fades away
like morning dew... ricardo
The Grateful Dead blare
from purloined school speakers pris
as time stills
the bard on his couch strains
to hear under-voices ricardo
beneath the eagle, a swift
swoops to catch a feather mary
this powderpuff
seems pinker in the haze
of a dawn fog pris
from under a log
a toad watches the rain ken
at Hogwarts
Harry dances widdershins
around the Maypole ken
where else to lose one's clothes
but in the fleshpots of Vegas? ricardo
let's fast forward
forty years of just deserts
to the Faustian deadline sprite/mary/ricardo
electroplating all leaves
an alchemist wind sprite
be thou this night
a light to my errant path
oh wandering moon ken
a rising tide sweeps
more treasures ashore pris
Composed online at The Renku Group
between 24.8.12 and 16.9.12
SPRING HOLIDAYS
Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime
westerly gale – already the cherry blossom gone
swimming between the water-filters, a duck
your company – and a kingfisher on a bent branch
made by the outgoing tide, patterns on the sandbank
slack tide – the whitebaiter packing his gear
scooting past us on the pathway, holiday children
around the haiku boulder a week ago a blast of colour
going around in circles – fitness fanatics
getting up speed, the toddler on the tiny bike
against a backdrop of kauri – pink toon trees
somewhere above the river the birds disagree
after the storm, the car-park fills with families
THE BLUE HANDPRINT
Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime
sailing paper boats down the river's swift flow
the steep path scattered with scarlet petals
above roof tiles smoke clings to the chimney
on the green park bench a blue handprint
bees racing from blossom to blossom
over the hedge the white birdhouse stands empty
absolutely still – sheep on the distant hillside
laden with ripe fruit – orange trees
from beyond the board fence a burst of laughter
beside the new path, ripples on the lake
his pocket-sized dog still full of running
a single purple magnolia among green leaves
WHITE STONE
Jane Reichhold
Bambi Steiner
a white stone
on our path to the beach
the moon
twenty-eight notches on bone
forty thousand years old
gathering
all kinds of information
another fire
sun solders the horizon
billowing radiant clouds
fallout
the gentle blessings
of snow
pasture of dry grass
barbed wire lets the wind in
soft voice
but it is the warmth
filling her ear
love stories of the gods
still alive on our breath
heaven and hell
barely concealed beneath
cheerleader's skirts
a wad of gum on her butt
he forgives her shortcomings
Eden apple
organic label stuck on top
of fang marks
banned from the garden
all sex becomes a sin
summer night
omniscient goddess winks
a lunar eclipse
heads of ripe wheat bend and sway
now you see them; now you don’t
deep in the "furrow"
burying the ancient name
of Virgo
daughter of the wine-maker
the last god to leave the earth
scientific names
the holy of holies
still dwell in flowers
Dylan Thomas’s “green fuse”
for these earthbound fireworks
birdsong
the wordless poems
of morning
Venus rises from the sea
leaving a train of dew
those thoughts
of short term memory loss
blink and they’re gone
grace to enter the unknown
as a reborn innocent
a dazzling paradise
my favorite beach under
a heavy snowfall
infinite stars fill the skies
the blackest even fuller
next stop on the galaxy
will only our hearts travel
to those realms
"forever' is a bitch"
last word after goodbye
still trying
to love myself
reincarnation
in the driveway sits the Ford
he left with a flat tire
evening breeze
the rising moon is
no longer full
remembering last summer's heat
with another hot flash
burst of sunlight
beneath storm clouds
cliffs turn redder
apologizing for the lost letter
my spam watchdog ate it
telling sweet lies
the bedfellow's voice
debate on TV
tired of politics I go outdoors
there is spring in the meadow
red, orange and pink
lips now open wide
from deep-throated bulbs
Happy Birth Day to you and Dorje
he’s a great addition to the family
Started: September 1, 2012
Finished: October 10. 2012
The London Arch
on the southern coastline of Australia
taken by Allan Foster
ELEMENTAL MOODS
Anne Benjamin
Amelia Fielden
Jan Foster
Marilyn Humbert
Keitha Keyes
flame
fighting dawn storm
ANZAC
ab
Cazneaux tree
The sun is peeping above the rim of the folded and faulted rock span that makes up the Flinders Ranges as I wake. South of our campsite is Wilpena Pound. We travel along back tracks, the landscape appears flat to the foot of the red rock wall. But it is undulating and rolling, sparsely covered with a film of green between bluebush and stunted black oaks after record rains some months earlier. In the middle of this lonely place is a solitary river red gum. Gnarled and scarred it emphasizes a difficult life in this country of weather contrasts. An ample girth betrays life through many seasons. Exposed silvery-white roots radiate out from the base and creep along the top soil like giant tentacles. I place my hand on it’s trunk as the autumn breeze tousles the blue-green leaves in whispers from long ago: echoes of thud-stamp and didgeridoo. This is the tree Cazneaux photographed in 1937.
the Cazneaux tree endures
many moods of the outback
mh
aye, there's the rub
This January afternoon is very hot and dry, but the climate in the club as we dance to a cheerful jazz band is air-conditioned chill. Suddenly there is a strident interruption: a broadcast message urges all those living in certain areas of the capital to leave now in order to defend their homes against an out-of-control bushfire. It couldn't be happening here...could it? The sky outside is doomsday purplish-black. A dense blanket of smoke smothers our suburb for many hours while leaves are cleared from roof gutters and plans are made to evacuate. By morning, we are still there and the peril has passed. The radio talks more and more of the devastation and tragedies one day has brought to Canberra.
those who've survived,
how do they sleep … to sleep
perchance to dream
af
Respite
On our farm in the Mallee, water is scarce. We get into big trouble if we waste it. Once a week, or on special occasions, we have a bath. Everyone uses the same two inches of water in the bottom of the bath. My youngest sister goes first and Dad is last. Then the water is scooped out of the bath and put on the geraniums.
Today’s special occasion is a trip to town, in the middle of the irrigation area. We love it there, where water and cousins are plentiful.
carefree children
run under the sprinklers
kk
Seclusion
I’ve come to Queenscliff on the western headland of Port Phillip Bay, to a wide expanse of shallow wetland called Swan Bay. Here the quiet is so profound I can hear the wind ruffle the wavelets on the shore. And there they are, the bay’s namesakes, a flock of black swans, preening, drifting, or simply standing in the shallow water. The safety and seclusion of this restful place could rival any expensive spa.
haven
from life’s busyness
— wetlands
jf
Wadi Qelt
With first light, the desert hills below me are smudged with morning haze. It is crisp, rather than cold, and at first all I hear is the crunch of limestone shale beneath the leather of my sandals. The grass here is sparse. Growing in stumpy clumps, it is as still as the rocks. Then, I hear something distant.
lifted by currents
the call of a bird
ab
In the autumn of my life
Strolling through drifts of dry leaves with the four-legged darlings, images of another park, and a border collie, float behind my eyes. In Seattle now, the grandchildren will be running with Gypsy around the spring lake. It is sadly symbolic: their blossoming so far away, and our light fading here. I try to keep up with them all in spirit, but...
reluctantly
closing off Skype,
blowing kisses
af
Night whisper
In the gloaming the moon hangs low, a large yellow-butter ball. Its smiling face fills me with peace even though my thoughts are crowded with fears and doubts. Clear tones of singing swirl around. Every word is pronounced clearly with joy and laughter. I whisper to the night.
across an ocean
a wish on a moonbeam
mh
A new start
Intensive English centres are attached to many high schools in Sydney. Teachers are expected to provide their students with enough English skills to join a mainstream class, in 510 hours or less. This is particularly challenging when students have no literacy in their own language.
Fadi is one such student, a fifteen year old refugee from Iraq. Never been to school before. Won’t behave properly in class. Always fighting. None of the usual arsenal of punishments work to tame him. An afternoon detention means nothing to a boy who has been on the run, through all sorts of detention camps, since he was a baby.
Today his mother is summoned to school for an interview. Just his mother. His father is dead. Through an interpreter teachers learn of her confusion and despair. For years her son has been her protector. Now that they are safe in Australia he must learn how to be a child. She has no solutions.
bent with shame
she weeps for the future
of this boy-man
kk
Head waters
High among limestone rocks we reach the looming cave where once people worshipped the god Pan. From deep springs, it is here that the Jordan River begins its journey through history. It is a hot day, early in spring, and we cool off under fig trees. The fruit is still unripe but the shade is heavy with sweetness.
Freed from the rocks, the stream rushes in a narrow torrent. We rest beside its noisy tumbling clarity.
in the beginning
the way forward is so clear
ab
Hazards
Selecting apples in the supermarket, there is a young woman beside me. A toddler perches in the trolley’s seat and it registers that he has Down Syndrome. By her side, another young boy of about 4 years runs his toy car over the trolley, to his brother’s amusement. In response to my smile, the toddler promptly offers a cheeky grin.
As she turns to put her bag of apples in the cart, this young mother’s face and its shuttered expression are revealed, her life ahead irretrievably complicated by her son’s disability. My heart aches for her.
life’s path
thorny with pain
… the price of love
jf
Yellow balloons
The first time I meet the poet, I am surprised to see how tiny she is. A huge creativity married to a sprite-like physicality.
In her tanka, and in our conversations over the next ten years, she talks to me of her favourite things: feathers and plum blossoms; babies and daffodils; blue autumn air; cosmos flowers and balloons … especially yellow ones.
Yuko loves everything light.
Eventually, cancer thins her to a little voice in a fragile husk.
greying, a sunset cloud
drifts beyond the horizon
af
Winter
They catch my attention because each is so attractive: a young dusky, dark-haired woman and a tall graying man. There is an age difference between them. So, from a distance, I watch for a while. The woman is all passion; her orange skirts twist as she speaks; her face tumbles from sullenness, sadness, beseeching and finally to anger. He stands, almost immobile, his face closed. He seems to say little, and then he turns and walks away, leaving the young woman alone on the park bench – sobbing.
along the path
a scud of leaves
winter blusters in
ab
Passing
Impossible to tell what time of the day it is in this cold, sterile hospital cubicle with no windows. I sit and hold my sister’s hand. Silence is punctuated by the beeps of the monitors and the comings and goings of nurses. They understand the mechanics of dying. I have yet to learn.
the colours of my life
disappearing before me
kk
Therapy
Morning brings a driving urge to write. Much has passed these last days and there is a need to make sense of things, to put events in order to better understand all that is happening.
Words tumble out, filling page after page, magical words burning with intensity. The control of my world returns as, with pen in hand, the shadows lengthening, I write until spent.
the fire
in my belly cools
to mere embers
mh
After the storm
Early morning sunlight limns bare branches down the fire trail beside the creek near my home. A bushfire, started by a lightning strike, has swept through the valley and left devastation in its wake. The fire trucks have gone now, wisps of smoke from the smouldering logs have faded out, leaving the ground covered in a carpet of scorched leaf litter and blackened tree trunks. There is no rustling of small animal life, no sound of birdsong, or wind sifting through leaves. Only the gurgle of water from the creek breaks the hush.
But some native plants are like the phoenix, rising from their own ashes. Soon there will be green shoots from these burnt stumps, and the soft white of flannel flowers which need the heat of a fire to germinate. The crunching underfoot will turn to the shushing of native grasses, and the resilience of life will declare itself anew.
from the ashes
new life
jf
Kaleidoscope
It is Boxing Day, the day of the annual Sydney to Hobart yacht race. A race of teamwork, technology, luck of the weather and survival. Not all the boats will make it to Hobart.
TV cameras capture the colourful chaos of every angle of the harbour. The people lining the foreshores. The spectator craft jostling for position. The competitors tacking to and fro waiting for the starting gun.
At one o’clock they are off. One by one the leaders break away from the pack.
spinnakers poised
yachts looking for clear air
and victory
kk
Locked-in
Early to bed.
Extremely early to rise.
Three training sessions a day, six days a week.
Hair greening from the chlorine.
Eyes perpetually red-rimmed.
Physio for a strained shoulder.
The dread of an infection before a meet.
Still she perseveres, locking her family, too, into this deadline: 2012, the Olympic Games in London
teenage life sacrificed
for the sake of a medal
af
Rescue
They’re calling it a 100 year flood. Brisbane and its surrounding valleys are inundated, people and their animals alike needing to be rescued. Images of cattle perched on farmland hillsides fill the news broadcasts, people wading waste-deep.
Weaving a steady path through these frames are the bright yellow vests of the State Emergency Services volunteers in their inflatable craft, gathering up their charges and ferrying them to safety.
heroes
in small boats
… a gallant armada
jf
Flight
Trees across the track. The truck swerves. Bogged, mud above the axles. Shaken and battered, must scramble on foot to the meeting place, the granite outcrop is the highest point for miles around. The forest is thick and unyielding. Have we taken the wrong turn? Lost and disorientated we look skyward.
in the east
a rainbow lights the path
mh
across the sand
a changing wind blows my tears
into the salty sea
ab
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