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GHAZALS
HOME
James Fowler
Night-fishing beneath the Ascutney Bridge, I hear the drivers
in their metal cages crossing over. No light falls on the river.
When winter forces itself upon the water, warmth-seeking winds
rush down from the north and plagiarize the voice of the river.
In their wisdom, the ancient ones named the river Quonoktacut
Their blood flows in my veins, so I call her the never-ending river.
I, the pickerel weed and the cattails think the best day of the year
is when the red-wing blackbirds invoke spring back to the river.
After twenty-five years away, I again walk the banks and fields.
Last night, I dreamt I unloaded a ship. I woke beside the river.
The heron knows the frog. The northern pike believes in ducks.
Summer's slow surface hides the unrelenting truth of the river.
The walleye sheds its skin, wades out of the shallows a woman,
knocks on the door of the lonely man and becomes his river.
Each droplet of water in the rollicking thunderhead remembers
when autumn sun rowed the dark line of night across the river.
Standing on the cliffs, at midnight, I see stars above, stars below.
Squirrel, it has come time for you to swim the twofold river.
RAINING
CW Hawes
I look out my window and see today it is raining.
I've places to go, things to do; but what the hey? It's raining.
The soft drumming sings to me of something primeval;
I sip my mug of tea, all the while weighing it is raining.
I think of you and how you love the sound of falling rain;
Cuddled next to you is where I'd like to stay when it's raining.
Driving in the car, wipers beating time to sad love songs;
Mile after long, lonely mile I survey it is raining.
And when Akikaze at long last pulls into the drive,
You can wager he will be praying it is raining.
TO SMELL THE ROSES
CW Hawes
Working overtime every day, who takes time to smell the roses?
Sitting in the freeway parking lot, who takes time to smell the roses?
Once I knew a woman who had flower beds by the dozen,
But rarely did she take time to smell the roses.
Millions living crowded together in dirty cities;
Where are the flowers so one can take time to smell the roses?
Driving in the countryside, we spy a cottage covered in blooms;
But who is there taking time to smell the roses?
The question must be asked: what is so all-fired important
That no one takes time to smell the roses?
So let that musician over there finish this poem;
Akikaze takes time to smell the roses.
TENDERLY
CW Hawes
Let me kiss your lips every day tenderly;
let me love you in every way tenderly.
All of those vibrant, dancing green leaves of summer
flutter to the ground in autumn and decay tenderly.
On those nights when the moonlight hides the stars,
let me slip off your negligee tenderly.
In the morning, when prayers ascend to God,
your name will be on my lips as I pray tenderly.
The days and the months and the years pass quickly:
the new wine becomes old, lay it down tenderly.
An apple plucked from the tree and eaten;
the span of our years to say what we say tenderly.
For Akikaze, it matters little what should be;
on his guitar, love songs play tenderly.
IN THE WOODS
CW Hawes
After the soft spring rain, I went for some fresh air in the woods;
What a delight to see the deer and turkeys there in the woods.
A hellish week this was of working long hours for the man;
Came the weekend I beat feet, played solitaire in the woods.
To meet God in a Cathedral on Sundays is okay;
Yet I'd rather smell His scent and breathe my prayer in the woods.
At the ball I consent to being stuffed into a tux,
But in the back of my mind I see me bare in the woods.
How long ago was that luscious, sensual summer day
When we went off together as a pair to the woods?
The autumn leaves blow in the wind, yet where are the answers?
Akikaze spurns such things: there's no despair in the woods.
MY BELOVED
C W Hawes
I have tasted the wine of my beloved;
I am drunk from the lips of my beloved.
In the deepening darkness of the night
comes the ecstatic cry of my beloved.
In the waning darkness of the dawning,
I gently stroke the hair of my beloved.
Calculating budgets for a client,
suddenly there's the smile of my beloved.
In the depths of the night I hear murmurs:
prayers rising from the lips of my beloved.
Today the dhow set sail for distant lands;
I hear "khudha hafiz"* from my beloved.
Akikaze sings a wordless love song
and the wind carries it to his beloved.
*meaning "God be with you"
WILL
Ruth Holzer
That day arrives, against your will,
however tardy, you know it will.
Where are the powdery wings of the moth?
What remains of its self-destructive will?
You lie in your tent by the golden fire,
hear the horned owl and the whip-poor-will.
A dog barks one note throughout the night.
You point your pistol, but lack the will.
Under a stack of paperback thrillers –
the strongbox holding Ruth's last will.
NOTES FROM THE FUTURIST PROJECT
Tim Jones
You float like a cloud in trousers
I stand with my cow in the rain
Your poems electrified Russia
Your dams were a hymn to the rain
Your empire crumbled around us
As here and as gone as the rain
The birch tree lies by the roadside
Its branches are wept by the rain
The smoke of my village drifts upwards
Its ashes retreat from the rain
Your red square has entered the market
Its cobbles are slick with the rain
The future lies inside the present
As close as a cloud and its rain.
MILKWEED POD
Tree Riesener
Live in prayer: contemplative bee in amber,
fly fallen into the maple syrup jug,
Jesus’ downy head rounding Mary’s womb
soft and silky as the inside of a milkweed pod.
Wind tugs and finds a chink;
flying downy seeds gradually pull away into air
like baby birds or girls’ fragile grave-grown hair,
taking airy leave from a milkweed pod.
Twenty-five million bubbles in every bottle of champagne,
forty-four thousand people in the air
at any one time, but no one has counted
the seeds in a milkweed pod.
In lost places-- circles carved into corn or eerie silent sunlight
in the midst of fields standing
still at noon-- ghosts walk with backward feet,
free floaty flowers from a milkweed pod.
Comfort me with kisses, for I am sick with love;
stay me with apples; touch my secret places
soft as mouse’s fur or the excited slickness
of an open, shedding milkweed pod.
Filter sunlight with this stained glass:
silky seeds floating on a beam of brilliance
surrounding him, the prince of silk,
emerging pantocrator on a mandorla milkweed pod.
Honey-fertilized earth still visited by homeless bees;
cicadas, crickets and grasshoppers
have moved into the weedy circle where the tree grew;
left, the potential of milkweed pods.
TOGETHER
Tree Riesener
At certain times and places, slipping through,
sometimes lingering, malingering, remaining fluid,
the solid-packed
jigsaw in air;
human, jaguar, stone, demon, angel tangled together.
A nose from me, a pinky from you,
someone else’s curving bottom, a craft class
where lightning splits the air, things fall apart,
chimeras are devised, stitched, mangled, together.
Mary’s evening silver hammer shatters the peppermint pig,
no reassembly until the end;
vengeful voters and governors fond of death
schedule fallen angels to be strangled together.
A new kind of marriage, my young face on an aged body,
your gray and wrinkles atop sleek young muscles,
no place else to go;
we’re now a couple, newfangled, together.
Stitched together and lost, a little living;
the priests don’t care; they eat and drink richly doing others,
but it’s Friday, creep into the down, into my arms,
we can be jangled together.
God will do a Baucis and Philemon for us
instead of oak and linden, make us
a new constellation (the same heavenly bodies will do for each),
star-spangled, together.
Under the new-born morning tree, shiny steel puzzles,
to practice open sesame charms.
Later, a new take on Paul, a mutual submission game,
your arm and mine bangled together.
HAIBUN
RIVER WALK
Lynn Edge
Five-thirty a.m. Sleep eludes me. Unseasonable winds lower August temperatures
into low sixties. My older dog, Heidi, lies at the foot of my bed. Becca,
the younger one, presses against my knee. Maybe we will walk early
today.
Dogs in the lead, I hike a path beside the Guadalupe River which flows through
the Texas Hill Country. I wear shorts and a tee, but wish for a jacket.
Cool air exhilarates, and our steps quicken. Low mist hovers over warm
water. Condos and apartments block the horizon, but as I reach the end
of the trail and turn, I see the rising light of morning. From the west,
cries of sandhill cranes attract my attention, and I watch the moon fade as
the sun rises.
sunday morning
chapel bells peal
from downriver
THIS MORNING
C W Hawes
This morning I am standing in the dew-covered grass, my shoes soaking
wet. The air is still chill and I feel a bit of stiffness in my
fingers. But the sun is beginning to gain some height in the sky and
soon the dew will be gone, the stiffness eased, and my shoes dry.
the watch hands
counting out the numbers
"September Morn"
MEMORIES: LONG AND SHORT
C W Hawes
Memory seems to be long or short depending on one's
location. In the city, who remembers one's neighbors? Moving vans
and pick-up trucks bring and remove people and families with such regularity
one scarcely learns a name before a new one must be learned.
In the country, memories are long. When we moved to our small farm,
folks would ask where we lived. After a few moments of explaining, they
would come back with, "That's the Gjere place, isn't it?" And
we would say, "Yes". Then they knew where we lived. The
owners previous to us, who bought the place from old man Gjere and lived there
for twenty years, no one remembers their name. Twenty years from now
probably no one will remember ours either.
in the autumn wind
the leaf flutters and tumbles
out of sight
RESPITE
C W Hawes
Wanting respite from my noisy office, I went for a walk to the lake across
the road. Standing on the shore, I took in the sight of what had to be
acres of lily pads. Aside from the traffic, the lake was quiet. I
noticed there were no frogs.
an old lake
amongst the lilies
water's silence
SKIING
Larry Kimmel
When you were a boy in Niche Hollow
and woke in winter to a fresh snow, you ate
breakfast quickly
and took down your skis and hurried
to make the first track on Bittner's Hill,
And if you were not first something went out of
the morning and it didn't matter
anymore to hurry and you didn't care as
much as you might have, but still you
enjoyed the skiing along with the others,
And if you were a good skier you enjoyed it
more than many except for, perhaps, the
first to make the track because he
bragged and you could not take that brag away
from him, because you believed in that brag,
But you enjoyed the skiing just the same,
And as the snow packed it improved,
And when the day ended you compared this snow
with other snows you'd known
and you agreed and disagreed with
comrades according to how well you had skied
that day,
And in the mining town below Niche Hollow this
new snow was already turning sooty,
And you thought of newer snows to come,
And then you went to bed tired and happy and
telling yourself it was still good skiing
even if you hadn't made the first track
down Bittner's Hill and that maybe you'd
get the next snow first,
And then you slept.
some things
are never going to happen again
others
never again, that way,
and still others, never *
* the above tanka was published in Lynx: Feb. 2004
SPICES
Francis Masat
plumped sparrows
searching
in a train's snowy wake
I sigh with relief as the stinging cold of my trip yields to the heat and
smells of Mom's kitchen. The windows are frosted over: crusty
baked potatoes, macaroni and golden cheese, creamy rice pudding with raisins
and nutmeg, pie made with cinnamon and sour home-canned cherries. I
pitch in to set the table, stoke the fire. I pour steaming tea.
Though hunger is said to be an ancient spice, warmth and aroma complete the
recipes this night.
fireplace -
warming ourselves
with pieces of the old icebox
COOKIES
Francis Masat
New Year's Eve. The snow has stopped. I'm handing out cookies at
the homeless shelter. The cookies were a Christmas present to me.
I'm not allowed to eat them. On a whim, I brought them to the
shelter. I am so glad that I did.
City Park -
bare limbs quake
in the brisk wind
BUDDY
Zane Parks
Buddy is very playful. We buy him the usual toys. The way he chases and bats a
rubber ball or toy mouse back and forth across the room is a marvel. He
fetches. He drops a ball near me. I toss and he races for it. This repeats
until one of us tires. There's usually a collection of balls and mice under
the couch. Just out of reach. And feathers! Shake a stick with feathers on it
and he'll leap three feet.
But Buddy doesn't limit himself to bought toys. He's happy playing with a
discarded strip of plastic from the litter bucket. Pens are fascinating on the
counter. They must be knocked to the floor. On the floor, they're
uninteresting. He'll play with a round bit of cardboard just the same as a
ball or mouse. We keep the feather duster out of sight.
shoes slipped off ...
what prey make you of
these laces?
HAIKU
Spring festival -
the woman’s legs in
aristocratic whiteness
Frühlingsfest -
die Frauenbeine
in vornehmer Blässe
Marita Schrader
Cloudy sky -
a child beheads roses
no one says a word
Bewölkter Himmel -
ein Kind köpft Rosen
niemand sagt ein Wort
Marita Schrader
First date.
he talks about love
after the third glass
Erstes Treffen.
er spricht von Liebe
nach dem dritten Glas
Marita Schrader
Smelling lilac-
an old dog is looking
for its shadow
Duftender Flieder -
ein alter Hund
sucht seinen Schatten
Marita Schrader
Late summer -
old and new shoes
next to each other
Spätommer -
alte und neue Schuhe
nah beieinander
Marita Schrader
5th birthday
she wipes the kisses
off her mouth
5. Geburtstag
sie wischt die Küsse
von ihrem Mund
Marita Schrader
SEQUENCES
UNTITLED
an'ya
for each mountain
I've managed to conquer
this bird of prey . . .
how easily it follows
never having to climb
my computer asks
"are you sure you want
to permanently
delete these messages"—
lonely winter night
ever since you,
I've known all four sounds
of the seasons
spring song and summer panting
autumn moans and wintry sighs
the red-tail hawk
swooping across cloudless sky,
it touches me . . .
a flutter of eyelashes
on binocular lenses
an autumnal night
from some bygone era
in this dream
I'm a traveler stranded
out after the curfew
DOWN EAST
Edward Baranosky
Constance paces
near the darkened window
fingering a leash,
mackerel sky obscured
by an incoming fog.
A pea-souper.
I'll take the Lab
for a run down to the cove,
she'll see before I do
and hear what I can't.
A dying squall line
rumbles in the distance,
with a sharp flash of lightning
and a cold off-shore breeze.
Jamie rattles rusted keys.
You'll be meeting him again?
A dark moon rising –
the smugglers'll be in,
lamps dimmed, running silent
on muffled oars.
The prehistoric
warning of foghorns
echoes from hidden shoals,
punctuated by seabirds' cries
driven shoreward by the storm.
Why do you say "again,"
as if it's some easy habit
to wear like a novice?
Can you see him now,
as he stands in the shadows?
The bright beam
off the point beacon tower
casts a light tunnel
sweeping periodically
across a ragged cliff face.
He can't mask that voice.
There's something about an accused man.
There is. Kafka said that
in another paranoid time.
Got your doubloons?
The accidental splash
of an oar cuts through
the roar of breaking surf,
with the sound of boats
dragged onto a rocky beach.
I know our paltry pence
won't buy pirates' treasure;
maybe corroded contraband,
or perhaps just swag traded
under a smuggler's moon.
POSTCARDS HOME
Helen Buckingham
summer vacation...
paintwork
dripping paint
praying for sunshine...
salvaging bananas
for the banoffee pie
midsummer traffic...
stealing through a side street
jazz fusion
OLD FORT
Helen Buckingham
...the terrier puppy...
...flags his territory...
big wheel flickers...
a candy-flossed tooth
starts to throb
footnote: candy-floss [UK term] = cotton candy
FOR JR
Gerard J. Conforti
In my heart, yet there comes
the words I speak silently
when the pain is greatest
poems makes them go away
and bliss comes like stars
I face a wall
and there in my solitude
but they are only walls
and there between them
is a window to view the world
I could never forget, Jane
how much you've done for me
it's been a great love
I hold in my heart
a rose of memories
Thank you, Jane
for the card
it really brought joy
to this heart of mine
which is in a bliss of kindness
What has happened between us
I hold no grudges
you've been more than kind
you've made something of me
in the verses I've written over the years
Let the tides
come through upon the shores
I can hear there a sound
even now and when I was a child
gazing at the starlit horizon
BIRTHDAY COMBO
Andrew Cook-Jolicoeur
good morning...
the clock's pendulum swings
to billie holiday cd
something new 2 discover
even at 50
november noon
carefully turning over
the gift teapot
with royal windsor on it
nothing's 2 good 4 me
noticing
the thistle motif
as i pour
the clear genmaicha --
i can't escape my roots
at twilight
gazing out the window
a sip of tea
this year, sister
not even a card from you
JANUARY SECOND
gillena cox
New Year
the pop and crackle
of fireworks
sporadic bursts of light
enter the darkened room
unorchestrated
the chatter of voices
from the street
filtering through the silence
of private resolutions
a dog barks
in the distance
a vehicle zooms by
the trees remain
immobile in the nightscape
gentle pitter
a drizzle
at dawn
perusing the public holidays
in my pocket diary
UNTITLED TANKA PAIRS
Janet Lynn Davis
outside the Kim Son
– our bellies filled –
koi and catfish curl and swirl
then swarm for crumbs
the other humans drop
inside the ravaged city
– their bellies stunned –
homeless stagger, stutter
await the
crumbs
of a new day
* * *
he:
no problem hearing
the garbage truck groan and squeak
down the street. . .
but his ears forever closed
to her "noxious chatter"
she:
her eyes affixed
to the striking tie he says
she didn't give him. . .
one of many gifts she says
he fails to remember
WAITING
CW Hawes
you look
at the sticks we've planted
all afternoon
your face a question
I say, "There'll be apples."
spading soil
while adding compost
and guano
I think of the sweet corn
in the seed packet
checking his watch
standing at the bus stop
face a scowl
I turn the pages in my book
knowing the bus will come
standing in line
for my favorite ride
at the State Fair
I count those ahead of me
and decide it's worth the wait
swirling snow...
putting up the hummingbird
calendar
even the depths of winter
do not last forever
UMBRELLAS IN THE SNOW
Ruth Holzer
crook-backed umbrellas
crows of misfortune
crouch in the snow
so many alike –
umbrellas in the snow
which one hides you?
leaving
umbrellas in the snow –
our long embrace
Blind Willie Johnson
sliding worn fingers
over the strings:
the ground was cold
dark was the night
A BANNER IN THE BLUE SKY
Elizabeth Howard
daughter's e-mail
requests bird identity
describes the meadowlark–
just now my meadow rejoices
at its morning song
broad-winged hawks kettle
over the dam's spillway
nature's idyllic current
overshadowing
man's frothy uproar
a white pigeon spent
a fortnight with us
where did it come from?
why did it leave us
watching an empty sky?
a shadow cuts a broad swath
across the flowered meadow–
I look up, sunstruck
by the glow, the wingspan
of a golden eagle
at the celebration
white doves unscroll
a banner in the blue sky
hope of peace and freedom
in all the earth
HOW WILL IT BE?
Kirsty Karkow
strangely
grief unfolds years later
in a dream
my mother turns away
ignoring my entreaties
weighty thoughts
as I prepare to nap. . .
how will it be
to lie down knowing
it is the final time
the waste basket
spills its crumpled holdings
scraps of foolscap
scribbled thoughts, lies, admissions
all my fears of age and death
gales today
and a prediction tonight
for scattered frost. . .
I need to pick
the winter squash
my dog
who loves rainy walks
jumps
nervously at the sound
of thunder
UNCERTAINTY
Angela Leuck
a rough wind
blows the waves
against the current
all those times
I loved the wrong man
old garden
the neglected birdbath
filled with rain and leaves
I try to make sense
of the clouded past
walking through
the heady scent
of the lilac garden
do I really want
to be in love again?
a plastic bag
lifts and falls
in the breeze
perhaps I too
was never meant to soar
still not sure
what choices to make
I attend a workshop
on how to pick
the winning rose
wondering if there will be
a change in my fortunes –across the street
workmen raise a sign:
Lucky Star
even as
the train slips into
the next station
my destination
still unknown
CHRYSALIS
Giselle Maya
dew on the window
panes of sunlight
on narcissus paper
shadow strokes with
a new bamboo brush
winter mind
remembering now
a dream of words
amber beads unstrung
in a lacquered box
seeing feelings
arise in winter solitude
a shaft of light
pierces slate-gray clouds
across the snow mountain
hand moves brush
ochre and blue pigment
on sheet of cotton paper
a snail traversing slowly
a long-veined leaf
tea twigs
composted with earth
on a hill of violets
a painting is born
from empty space
tapestry
of color and paper
these petal mandala
artifice of meadows
and garden soil
SPIDER
R.K.Singh
In their webs
spiders racing to spin
on meatless prey
Too big for its web
between two roses
a yellow spider
Suspended
on the spider's web
a white flower
A tiny spider
on the marigold sucking
its golden hue
Narrowly escape
the midair web of spider
perched on hibiscus
ROSE
R.K.Singh
Greeting the first rains
after months of soaring heat
the lone rose flutters
little petals to the ground
echoing our first embrace
Shining on rose-leaves
silken layer of dew drops:
gloss of her mauve smile
she blushes when I tell her
beauty of the blooming rose
The fragrance of rose
seeps through the windows
coupled with full moon
adds to my delight though I'm
alone in my bed tonight
Roses await
sun and wind to clear
the baleful fog:
I fear she'll say no
to my love again
THERMAL ENERGIES
Barbara A Taylor
snow melts
emerald spikes
emerge
springtime blossoms
energy sexual
and hayfever
mating season's on
koalas roar and grunt
eucalyptus sways
hot sun slips west
snakes digest
summer's almost here
mystical stillness
smoky sunset haze
slips gently into night
summer sizzles
lavas of tars, a mirage
smoggy city
overheated earth erupts
waves surge
prompting global warmings
our world wobbled
great waves swamped
swallowed shores in paradise
SAND DREAM
Aya Yuhki
just before sleep
a scene of brown sand
endlessly streaming
appeared through
my closed eyes
trying to get
a sound sleep
for tomorrow
my lips are dry
with the essence of yellow sand
feeling
the tips of my toes
touch the sand
at the bottom of the water
I awakened from my dream
I was relieved
with the feeling of
the lowest depth
under pressure
of blue black water
pulled by the force
of gravity of far away stars
I walk
in darkness
as warm as body heat
undulations
formed by the wayward wind
over the sand
alluring
like the female body
SIJO
Morning mist covers the hills and haze hangs in the sky.
Looking soft, like the moon, is gauze-wrapped Sol stripped of ardor,
But with you standing beside me, I have little need of the sun.
C W Hawes
The dew lies heavy on the grass this early autumn morning.
It bejewels the bright green blades, giving them a noble air,
And silver soon will crown their heads as now it does my own.
CW Hawes
The person in the painting drinks his glass of wine alone;
Absent, I notice, the expected loaf of bread and piece of cheese.
Like the still life, I sit and listen to ice cubes clink.
CW Hawes
To the mountain I have come and once again this shack is home.
Every few years I make the trip, to listen to the silence.
High above I see the contrail, then hear the jet's dull roar.
CW Hawes
We slide downhill to the river
with paddles, line and bailer.
A sad canoe lies on the shore
abandoned to rocks, mud and weeds.
She doesn't leak! She skims the waves!
We guide her home to save her.
Kirsty Karkow
Arise! Arise! And we shall see
where we are and what to do.
A look-out shouts that land is near
it will protect us from these gales.
Those of you who are not dead,
take heart, the awful sea is crossed.
Kirsty Karkow
TANKA
a craggy mountain
looms out of perspective
in the mist
my problem grows
as night wears on
Dawn Bruce
a stray cat
mewls and curls
its thin body
sadness creeps around me
in the mist of twilight
Dawn Bruce
a ginger cat
crouches in tall yellow grass
green eyes unblinking
long drought-filled summer
brings a close to my marriage
Dawn Bruce
a sparrow
in a dried up paddock
half-hidden
in old age
I am diminished
Dawn Bruce
noon
I open the window
ahhh
a crow seems to cry
up at last
Dawn Bruce
Crazy moth barrels
round the paper shade, drops out
like a flake of soot -
I open the blinds and smile
thinking of you dressed in white
James
Roderick Burns
The end of the world -
on top of smouldering shame
a damp warehouse wall,
deus ex machina crows
croaking somewhere out of sight
James
Roderick Burns
shortest night
I can't sleep at all
turning from side to side
when you're not here
the moon is so bright
Gene Doty
early fall--
after a rainstorm
the air cools
your kisses remind me
of sunlight in leaves
Gene Doty
in my dream
Chinese stonework
defines wet mountains
our house becomes
a waterfall of light
Gene Doty
naked yogini
holding a pose
& my breath
her pulse dancing
in my eye -
Gene Doty
[From a New Year's card for the year of the dog]
my kid's ancient dog
lying in the warmth of the stove
with soft eyes that stare
such compassion I see in dogs
in their glances and devotion
Sanford Goldstein
from the dream
he awakes with a start
heart pounding
in the distance the song
of the siren again
C
W Hawes
the union
tells us no raise again
this year
I pick up a rock
and then let it drop
C W Hawes
I see the clothes
notice his face and hands
listen to words
if he were an apple halved
I wonder what I'd see
CW Hawes
fog on the hills
while frost whitens leaves and grass
parting in autumn
leaves the deepest sadness
and I cannot fly south
C W Hawes
all is emptiness
in this world full of pain
a small comfort
when I read your poems
I know someone loves me
C W Hawes
there's a comfort
sitting here all wrapped up
in this blanket
hopefully someday
a butterfly will emerge
C W Hawes
whatever the end
parting in separate ways
is very sad
the way I would want for us
is only togetherness
C W Hawes
their whiteness
on a low, wooden table
tea cups and a bowl
and a bud of warmth
from April sun
June Moreau
the table adorned
with forsythia
sunbeams fall
where they will
the taste of tea
June
Moreau
with fingers nimble
as the spring wind
in willow branches
the year’s first basket
is finely woven
June Moreau
ah, peach blossoms
candy for your eyes
and to think
the spring wind
will take them
June Moreau
At twelve, I wore
a green
uniform
and specks of chalkboard dust
I'd run at every recess
hoping to erase the lesson
Cindy Tebo
a woman sitting
by a window
one arm holds her chin
like a lamppost
holds the light
Cindy Tebo
windows
open
to a crow's dispute
the caws become
all I have to say
about winter
Cindy Tebo
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