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GHAZALS
CRICKETS
Yu Chang
Fading light between fallen stones, the call of crickets;
Scattering leaves on the towpath, the sound of crickets.
Harvest moon in the apple orchard, wish I took the dare;
Fresh snow on the weeping willow, no sound of crickets.
Milky Way in the mountain lake, she squeezes my hand;
Sharing secrets under a starlit sky: our fondness of crickets.
Sunny morning on the way to market, we hum together;
Antique store – a bronze lizard with a mound of crickets.
Christmas eve, a candle flame suddenly brighter:
Listen, Changy, you always have, the song of crickets.
FAUSTIAN
Gene Doty
he thought he was being Faustian
when he was only clothed in fustian
unread books piled in stacks on shelves
and floor—a deal less than Faustian
"oh" he muttered too many times
just past midnight, wrapped in fustian
waking before the sun rises
he sees the sky in colors Faustian
no single pair of words can bracket
the cosmos, a truth that smells of fustian
hostas and gladiolas keep
the back door angels freely Faustian
which will it be, Gino, a deal
like Faust's or a cloak of fustian?
AS IT HAPPENS
James Fowler
I breathe in slowly, breathe out slowly, by tens,
release the desire for control of what happens.
My hair lay between lightning and the pull cord.
I hope I laugh again the next time that happens.
Every morning I rise and my mind remembers,
but every time I change rooms, forget happens.
Come, my sweets, let us take off our clothes,
douse the lights, see what kind of fit happens.
In the cellar a scorpion shell sits on the shelf.
Upstairs a door slams, vocal combat happens.
Bigotry resided and multiplied behind his teeth;
now everytime he opens his mouth hate happens.
When The Lady's arrow strikes and Squirrel dies,
she'll gather his energy and a new state happens.
CALLS TO ME
c w hawes
The soft notes of the flute call to me;
the chanter of the adhan calls to me.
From out of the desert I hear the wind,
the voices of the saints call to me.
The lips of the shaykh drip with honey;
the siren voice of the mosque calls to me.
My glass is empty and I'm parched with thirst;
the pretty one with the wine jug calls to me.
The Beloved has kissed my lips, touched my cheek;
the voice deep within very softly calls to me.
SAY
c w hawes
What is it you say when the sun is rising?
Indeed, is there anything you need to say?
The sidewalk is full of people rushing by
And once in a great while one will say, "Hello".
Words, so many, many words filling the ears,
Yet with a touch of your finger you say more.
Walking in the woods on a brisk autumn day,
The crisp leaves say many things in their rustling.
Everywhere I look there are the fingerprints
Of God, yet I heard someone say He was dead.
The tales of the past are such intriguing stuff,
Yet isn't all of it simply someone's hearsay?
Enough! Akikaze's ears are full of sound –
Let the silence of a winter day have its say.
THE TASTE
c w hawes
Oh! The taste of the samosa from your hand –
it's the taste of morning straight from the Friend's lips.
I lick your fingertips, as though honey dipped;
the taste of this sweetness is all in the mind.
The mountain's river wildly dashing through me;
the taste of delight in its icy freshness.
Lying upon the brown earth of your body,
touch of mouth to skin, the taste of creation.
The One is one and so the One is not two;
and from one leaf the taste of many teas.
FRIENDSHIP
Ruth Holzer
There’s a chance in every friendship
that it will go south to romance, not friendship.
A minor arc on someone’s wheel of need –
one revolution stamps out friendship.
You’ll try your best to fix your face,
assume a mask to enhance the friendship.
You pay in thin coins of disappointment:
the price for joining the dance of friendship.
Ruth’s acquaintances change into strangers;
waste and distance supplant all friendship.
haiga by Frank Williams
PROSE AND POETRY
WINTER HIBERNATION
Cindy Bell
The cold creeps back in. It makes me want nothing more than to flee this place, to blaze out of this latitude like the last ray of summer's light. I'm not ready for the winter hibernation. Not ready for the solitude made lonely by the absence of sunshine. Or for the firing up of the wood stove, the huddling by it in my down jacket, chills through my body, while I wait for my one room cabin to warm to above freezing. I'd prefer another sun cradled afternoon reading on my porch, a light breeze swaying through the Devil's Club and Cow's Parsnip in my front yard.
reading a
mountaineering memoir –
silence
So now I'm left wanting to cry out, in an all out, on my knees kind of desperation. Couldn't there be room for just a minute more of summer? That single spark of hope to see me through all those midnight outhouse runs...
icicles hang –
a spider
crosses crystal-
ine snow
Perhaps I'll defy winter all together. I'll crank up that stove and delight in the roar. I'll wear my swimming trunks, the ones with the red and yellow stripes down the sides, and dream of break up, the time when Winter's depths will once again fade into the lightness of summer.
waiting again –
double tap of rain
on the roof
ROTTING
c w hawes
Reset. They keep saying the program must be reset. Yet they won't do it and I do not know how. Nothing will get them to move. I am impotent. Ignorance and lack of security clearance make me a pawn in the bureaucratic chess game. Expendable. The odds against promotion: many to one.
humid, wet weather
the blossoms on the rose bush
balled and rotting
CHANGING TIMES
c w hawes
I think of Basho grinding his ink bar with a little water upon the stone, then dipping his brush into the ink and writing his poems. A laborious process when compared to writing with a disposable ballpoint pen.
For myself, I have never liked ballpoints. The ink frequently comes off in stringy blobs on the paper. They frequently skip. The selection of ink colors is quite limited. The pressure needed to make the pen write fatigues my hand and arm. I much prefer a fountain pen.
But on occasion, to get closer to the Master, I write with a steel dip pen.
November sun sets
all day they cleaned the old man's house
and throw away junk
SOLITUDE
c w hawes
Basho, in one of his haibun, noted when someone stopped by, there was useless chatter. He went on to write, when visiting others he was afraid he was disturbing then and declared having no friends at all would be his true friend. But being a recluse did not suit the old poet and eventually he unlocked his gate.
I find myself sympathetic to the Master's plight. My quest for solitude is never ending. The cacophony of modern life is, at times, overwhelming. Frequently misunderstood, how does one explain the joy of self-companionship?
Most do not understand the value of silence. Indeed, I think most are afraid of silence and fill the sound-empty spaces with vacuous and inane chatter. Lives chattering away, strangers to the bliss of being one with silence.
the sun crests the hill
bright flaming the clouds scarlet
only the snow's crunch
Haiga by Mary Davila
REINCARNATION
c w hawes
Early winter is now upon us. Snow has fallen twice, but did not stay. Each morning, however, the frost turns all things white. Soon, the snow will too.
I sit in my chair, drinking tea, and gaze out the window of my apartment. Below are the ponds, trees, and houses of my new suburban home. I gave up a life in the country to seek a new path. I found a new path and love.
What a joyous feeling is love! All things have once again become new. The demons and ghosts of my former life are gone. I have experienced reincarnation and life is alive!
frosty cold morning
way up in the sky the hawk
serenely gliding
ANY COLOR SO LONG AS IT'S . . .
Linda Papancolou
I.
car bingo –
in the back seat
I’m wedged
between the dog
and picnic basket
It’s 1956, and in the summer twilight we’re on a narrow road that winds past farmhouses, dairy barns, and one after another AAA motor court with its neon No Vacancy sign on. Daddy's angry and he’s over-steering. Mother had been telling me about vacations in her
father’s Model-T, but now she’s silent, clutching the thermos. “Do we have enough gas?” she asks.
I don’t know it yet, but President Eisenhower has just signed the Federal-Aid Highway Act. Someday this will be an interstate.
II.
high beams –
the late night dj’s
smoky drawl
We enter the next construction zone, our little VW bouncing over an asphalt patch as four lanes narrow to two, then some miles later, back to four. I crack the window to a blast of heat still radiating from the sand although it's well past midnight. How did the settlers cope before cheap energy or air conditioning?
Ahead, low humps of mountains underscore a garish red blaze in the sky. "Las Vegas," says my husband. He turns on the radio. Now it’s too late baby, now, it’s too late, wails Carole King. Like this desert, her languor seems interminable. I glance at the fuel gauge, assuring myself we have enough to skip the next rest area and push on to California.
trailing
behind a big rig
mile after mile –
Love it or Leave it
and How's my driving?
III.
“Pit stop,” I nudge my son. “Ready to take the wheel?”
We lean against the SUV and share a bag of snack mix as the gallons ding one by one into our tank. The price has almost doubled in recent months—more at stations on the freeway. Gouging, they say, but what can you do? I tell him another of my 'fifties anecdotes about a garage charging nineteen cents a gallon –I can still hear Mother’s outrage and I imitate her at the punch line.
He listens, thoughtfully chewing on a pretzel.
“Ever heard of L. King Hubbert—Peak Oil?”
Vaguely I nod—I've seen it in a magazine, though didn't stop to read.
“Petroleum supply is a bell curve,” he explains. “Initially, demand drives exploration. Supply increases till the easy fields are drilled. After that, production declines, while cost and demand still rise. In 1956, Hubbert predicted US production to peak in the early ‘seventies. Globally, it’ll within the next two decades. From here on out—rising
prices, scarcity and resource wars . . . ”
One hundred twenty five years to use the first trillion barrels, next trillion in just thirty—I knew that, but it seemed so abstract, so far off. Surely they’ll have fixed things by then, found alternatives. . .
What do I say? That I’m sorry?
Have I prepared him for the world he will inherit?
canyon wind
across the slope cut –
sandbars
of an ancient riverbed
laid open in the cliff
pumping gas –
the guy with the woofers
car dancing
APPLICATION
Tom Cunliffe
Street-cleaning looked complex so I applied for the post of dishwasher, doubling up as kitchen porter. She offered me a job as an ant. Overcome, I swiftly accepted, admiring ants for their bitter selflessness– a quality sure to look good on my CV. That night I scoured pans but success followed as soon as I discovered candle wax. Promoted, I had privileges; I became sexless, I fed her, kept away the riffraff, tidied up. Later, I fulfilled her stronger desires, I massaged her scalp, ripped up the photographs, sharpened the scissors, blew out her candles.
in every box
an egg–
such a quiet room
FATHER FROM REST
Tom Cunliffe
Kiss her all night, all day long, take no rest. People will pass, burdened with suitcases, throw them some rope so they can bind their packages. Listen for the cold freezing their breath– infant splits and cracks– it will be icicles forming on the words of the women. Hold your tongue to the sun of her breast, blue veins, downy white skin. Nuzzle in, journey between her thighs, holiday in the inlets of her toes; taste the cherry of her neck, the cinnamon of her vulva, the mango of mouths open. Close her eyes with tiles, her nostrils with mortar, only stop when feathers sprout from her shoulders and your own
lips turn golden.
Outside they pass, their suitcases dragging them down. And yes, they will pause, perhaps peer in, but you will never hear their smiles. They do that later, when alone– very alone.
they pass weightless as sleep– flying over regret
THE NEWS
Roger Jones
Dad's friend Patrick, dead of a sudden heart attack at age 55. The phone ringing in the middle of the night forty years ago. We were a thousand miles away, another time zone. Mother took the call from Pat's wife Mary, then handed the phone over. Dad trembled as he took the news. Even now, a phone call in the middle of the night sends through me a jolt of ice-cold fear.
autumn morning
first chill air
grazing wind chimes
SNOWSHOES
Patrick M. Pilarski
A trail through darkening woods. Branches hang: sharp black fingers on heavy clouds, pink with slivers from the setting sun. The path narrows to a thin slit between ink-spot trees; white fades to thick blue—the frosty ocean of early twilight. Then night-dark forest, our soft footfalls kicking up plumes of snow.
white birch,
their frail arms
lifting the sky
Mounting a rise, the trees part. Marshland spreads out‚ at and dry, lingers, gets lost in the night; grasses and low brush. We make our way out onto the flats, snowshoes slipping through the drifts. A backbone of snowmobile tracks carve their way past ice-drenched
cattails—ley lines for slow silence. The creek is a frozen highway at the edge of the reeds.
Waiting.
spring thaw—
a duck's footsteps
on still water
TIDE LINES
Patrick M. Pilarski
There is a place on the shore where a line becomes a question, a mirror for the sky. The tide walk—a place for ghosts, lost in the spray, steps measured by slick shells and the flitting shapes of shore birds.
one feather
carried though the haze
a gull's cry
Pinned between the forest's gnarled edge and the crashing surf; a middle-land of drying froth—parallel, liminal, smooth as feathers from a raven's wing. A highway for us to walk, tired and without footsteps, the thinning edge of the world.
ICHIBAN ON NICOLETTE
Patrick M. Pilarski
Nothing in this place is real. Imitation kimonos; Christmas lights on plastic trees;
fabriform Shinto shrines. Even the waiter speaks with a southern drawl. Water trickles,
knives flash, grills flare; a lemon refuses to impale itself on waiting tongs. Is the wooden
Buddha howling or grinning? Small spark on the charred cooking grill. Small wooden bridge leading nowhere and made of painted plastic. But wait. Wait. Hidden behind the cheers and the clatter of cutlery... something here is real.
soft curses—
the sushi chef
drops his knife
EVENING SHADOWS
Trish Shaw
My daughter sits in her wheelchair by the window. It's been a bad day. It was upsetting to see the x-rays and hear the latest prognosis. After the tears there is anger, always fresh and hot.
She's frustrated and depressed; she can't go back to work yet and has lost touch with friends. Always the optimist, I try to cheer her up - things will look better in a year.
Looking at the healing scar on her leg, I take a deep breath and leave the room. A few minutes later I set a bowl of warm water, a rag, and a small box by her feet. The chair squeaks as I pull it into position.
dark circles
mar the beauty of her face
bent in twilight
using brush and palette
I paint her toes Mauve-lous*
*OPI Anniversary Nail Polish Collection
TAKING THE PLUNGE
Barbara A. Taylor
In 1989, in search of sun and solitude, I moved interstate, north to a weathered turn-of-
the century farmhouse. It came with five volcanic acres and a toothless jersey cow, (a
supreme champion), called "Dairy Maid". My old dog and five broody bantams completed the ménage. Before I ventured on this new episode, a dear friend gave me a present: “Plant Dreaming Deep” by May Sarton. Her words encouraged me to embrace change, rediscover and challenge, create; to write whilst I still could lift my green wheelbarrow. From a job at the hub of politics, where you’re sure the world won’t turn without you, oh, what bliss, what freedom, what splendid joy to stop, live here and talk with the birds and the earth. Contentment at its best
unraveling jasmine
I hear the mandarin tree
breathe with me...
the birdsongs and blossoms
a blue tongue on the rocks
TRUST
Patricia Prime
My mother trusted my sister and me (6 and 10) to take our baby cousin to the park while the grown-ups talked and drank tea. Father and two uncles had returned safely from the war in Germany, but the only time they talked about their experiences was when they visited each other.
We were pleased to be outdoors, unsupervised. The pram was a wicker carriage with sprung wheels that bounced over broken pavements and shattered roads. The handle came up to my chin.
through cemetery gates
along wide avenues
the pretty flowers
and cute angels
shown to the baby
We wandered into the allotments where people without gardens grew fruit, flowers and vegetables. Sixpence bought a large bunch of sweet peas for our mother and one of the owners gave each of us a ripe tomato.
The park was our last adventure. It was green, with swings, slides, and a roundabout. There was plenty of room to run and play. We parked the baby's pram under a tree while we played "chase he" and skip rope. Then we crossed to the drinking fountain for water and played bulrush with our friends.
Late afternoon. Halfway home we were overcome with horror. "The baby. We've left him behind!" screamed my sister. "He's probably been stolen. Mum will kill us!” We raced back to the park, found the baby where we'd left him. Hugged him and kissed his hands and face.
burrowing
into my sister's
pink woolly jumper
my tear-stained face
covered with tomato juice
with no dignity
to worry about
I untangle myself
"Are you alright,
are you alright, baby?"
filling ourselves
with butterfly cakes
and milk
we tell no-one about
our adventure.
CONSTITUTIONAL
James Fowler
Light creeps between the flakes that click on my old USS Midway flight jacket. The honking geese on the beaver pond paddle to keep from freezing in. Behind me, beyond Route 12, the factory whistle calls the morning shift. The ruffed grouse, hidden beneath the hemlock, mutters as I walk by. Gusts of wind lift swirls of snow and fill my tracks. I
tilt my head to tongue the flakes and watch the storm clouds march across the skies.
falling ashes
the bitter flavor
of gunpowder
ANOTHER ROOM
James Fowler
I close the door behind me and toss my suitcase on the left bed. The tiny refrigerator beneath the TV is empty, the machine in the lobby too far to go this late. As I unpack in the window lit shadows, the mirror over the bureau catches my eye. An enchanting face peers out, but the full moon is not what I want. I open the window a crack and pull the shade. I stare at the green light of my recharging laptop until I fall asleep.
blinking neon
traffic on the highway
whispers my name
SEQUENCES
SUMMER TANKA
Don Ammons
summer night the kids
have left home “We are too old,”
she laughs “No! No! No!”
outside on a spread blanket
under white stars we make love
insects hum I sit
on flattened grass watching my wife
wade into the stream
she pauses nude pose looks back over
her shoulder smiles I stand
television
re-runs could flicker the length
of white summer nights
but no! pale hours spent with her!
no time for black and white myths
August not autumn
not summer packing leaving
the cabin “Goodbye
cabin” my wife quips a salty
tear on her sun-burnt cheek
northern summers
too short too cold not of my
past a Florida
childhood long hot hours recalled
on cold Nordic summer nights
THE BREAKERS
Ed Baranosky
A common gull poses
Snowflake obsidian eyes
Reflected in a shallow pool
And pauses beneath arcing breakers,
Crying out before unfolding flight.
Beach glass returns
Exposed in the off-shore gales
Home worn by sand and snow,
Dunes drifting over
Moon-burned contraband.
A beached dory,
Bleached by drying days’
Searing suns,
Floats among blue asters
Into wooden memory.
The scent of the surf’s
Constant pulsed onslaught
Is the same at dry dock,
Peeling mansion, or gilded
Cottage corroded with salt.
Some call the grass spartina
That ripples in the marsh
Torn roughly along its edges
Swelling with sand and dulse
In the turning of the tide.
MAROONED
Ed Baranosky
Red sails sink
Below the horizon
Racing time for gold,
God for sterling stories
In the relics of strangers.
Memory’s mariners
Unfurl their canvas wings,
The vessels of millions
Of years, onyx carved
Near the windblown tides.
Who, with rusted harpoon,
Unravels the knot tied
Onto a mystery anchorage,
The lost meaning of scars
Removed from vain wounds?
Do you know
What secret contraband
Lies buried beneath the surf,
Sacred maps held for ransom
And peddled as prophesy?
They may have expected
Pearls the sea shapes
To remain marooned
Beneath muffled oars
And muted beach music.
HAUNTING HER BEDSIDE
(To the Memory of my Mother)
Carl Brennan
Dazzle of August
on mom's hospital window;
shadows move within
Haunting her bedside...
a health aide finds the TV's
remote control
An oxygen mask
distorting mom's classic face...
a nightmare perhaps
I misplace my car
in a vast parking lot...
loneliness wakes me
One lung has collapsed!
doctors leave us together
in hopeless twilight
I wipe some sputum
from mom's lips–suspending
the priest's last prayer
Still in my wallet –
my glamorous young mom's
movie-star looks
James Bond on TV...
holding mom's little fingers
I breathe when she breathes
A nurse offers me coffee...
also mentioning
Mother's heart has stopped
Dawn breaking over
the hospital's skyline–a
dawn without verses
All the fairy tales
mom read me–unhappy
endings have converged
I lose our house keys
in cemetery grass...
no home anymore
UNTITLED
Dawn Bruce
warship
on the horizon. . .
winter solstice
twilight
grays the river. . .
a heron waits
early evening
through a frosted window
the red-gold moon
forest grove
the old cottage alight
with laughter
light rain
a kookaburra watches
the pond ripples
flu recovery
the flutter of petals
and butterfly wings
clearing the attic
grandmother’s glory box
empty
FOR LYNX
Gerard John Conforti
Tears flow
like they’ve never done before
when ill they stop
I don’t know but the pain
seems never to cease
If I could give you
the world I would and it would be
a gift from my heart
like my poems have been
and always will be
tonight
I will rest calmly
like the night before
beautiful dreams will come
as they come every night
I view the stars
from the terrace at night
there is silence
in the silence of the stars
not to disturb anyone
I said I would give up
writing for a little while
but I have come to it
in full force
as it is supposed to be
How can I not love you?
Jane you have been so good to me
and showed me love
I will never forget
even in dying
WINTER REEDS
Ruth Holzer
spattering gravel
you drive away
still angry
in thin slippers
I feel the chill
fall garden–
everything toppled
over
only yesterday I was
planning and planting
leaves
of oak and hickory
crunch–
the doe and her twins
somewhere nearby
dry reeds
at the edge of the pond
rustling
with the joy
of being here
UNTITLED
Elizabeth Howard
fearing the chance
of premature childbirth
I’m drawn to the sketch
your tiny head cradled
in your mother’s hand
okra makes me homesick
garden fresh
chopped, rolled in meal
browned golden
in mother’s skillet
toxic clouds
above the steam plant
each spring lads
trace the riverbank
with stringers of fish
digging a well
great-uncle tossed dynamite
to blast rock
wore pebbles in his face
for sixty years
after the blowout wedding
unity
rests on one hand
the hand he placed
on another woman’s hip
ILUKO HAIKU
Alegria Imperial
batbato inta
kapanagan
sabsabong ti sardam
stones
on the riverbank
dawn flowers
daluyon iti
tengga’t aldaw
ararasaas mo
billows
at high tide
your whispers
bulan nga
agpadaya
magpakada kadi?
setting moon
in the east
did you say goodbye?
inururot
nga Pagay
tedted ti lulua
pulled strands
of rice grain
tear drops
dagiti bulbulong
nga agtataray
lenned diay laud
rustle
of leaves
sun set
PRISON SEQUENCE
Antonio Laravie
fullmoon
luminous in the black sky
reflecting in my cup
floating in black tea
bitter-sweet, I swallow every drop
facing the vastness
tears streaming down my face
they are for you child
when you can, find your way home
an old woman waits broken-hearted
winds blow endlessly
even dreams tumble away
I’m waiting for snow
the cold, hard wind
the struggle that comes with forgetting
autumn snow fall
as suddenly as
snow disappears
sparrows flock to the empty field
no hope – thoughts of her returning
autumn wind blows
gray clouds blanket the sky
sparrows dart here and there
paying the cold no mind
a sliver of golden sunlight
shadows long and dark
on the yard below the guard-tower
red and orange sky
a solitary buzzard
flying home before twilight
Singing Eagle Boy –
beaded moccasins on your feet
Hobo Creek flows
where a leaf has fallen
we will meet again in the vastness
Halloween night
little ghosts, goblins walk the streets
one small witch with them
youngest of my fair brood
a crescent moon watches over us both
under the moon-lit sky
I am nowhere to be found
only the vastness between stars
and the forgotten winds
not even headstones remain
flying flocks of white gulls
coming over the hill
above the power-lines
spiraling upward to heaven
a blessing to this moment
blue cloudless sky
crows in the empty field cawing
hopping and flexing their wings
like children laughing and joking
cup of black tea warms my hands
SKELETON RENGA
Dick Pettit
Before
the game begins
Will you take white?
Let's set things up.
Would you like black?
As you wish.
Are you giving me
advantage?
If you think so -
depends on how we go.
Make a cup of tea
for two  Whoa! that's enough
for both of us.
Does the Moonshine
come in here?
. . . . . . . . . . . .
You could draw
the curtains if the light
is too disturbing.
Hardly enough to see by,
the day is fading.
It's no real help:
take a sip of something
more substantial.
Fine! I'm going strong.
How about yourself?
The night is young.
Are you sure you won't
have a cigar?
Thank you. But
you haven't any left.
Let us say,
the box is never empty -
Your move, I think.
I was about to, but now
I'm not quite sure.
No.
And the Moon
is shining on the curtain.
That reminds me -
May I pass behind you?
Another cup of tea.
Use the flowered mugs
this time.
Sure you'll be all right?
It only takes a minute.
. . . . . . . . . .
If you don't mind,
I need to think a while
about our proposition.
Hmm....that could
alter ones perspective.
Look! A spider
crawling on the glass.
Here's luck!
There's a dead fly
in the casement
How ughsome!
And Winter
will soon be with us.
I think of Summer
without a shirt and tie.
Mm... pass the cup.
It's bitter! You've
brought coffee.
Yes. I know you always
take two spoons.
What's that tickering?
Two lumps of sugar, yes -
Do use the tongs.
They make a set. I see
symmetry in the position.
double mirrors
my friend, to catch
the Moon
That's it! I'll go first
and you precede me.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Mind the cup!
Don't spill things
on the floor.
Careful- the board is at
a delicate position.
They'll let me in.
I only want to make
a slight adjustment.
unnecessary refinement
is cause of nations fall.
It's down.
Remember the moves and
no bouquets this time.
I'll do the scores -
Have you any change?
ON EXTENDED LEAVE
Rich Magahiz
L3 the purser calls umbilicals unsnapped
three hours out Diamond Jack ignores the lifepod drill
New Pondicherry slip a stop to refuel
cheaper by the gross empty cannisters click-clack
armored groundcar driver black against the arc lamps
Thanatos-class twinhull waves flash to vapor abaft
Sol dipping towards the west no need to shade one's gaze
BABY BOOK
Jane Reichhold
At an estate auction in a small town, a battered box of books was sold for one dollar. Shoved down the side of a stack of cook books was a small leather-covered book.
You were born on a Monday, January 18, 1937 at 2:25 a.m. at Memorial Hospital in Lima, Ohio.
Dr. Charles Leech attended with nurses Cleone Monday and Arlene Smith.
Your first and favorite toy was a bunny rabbit on a rattle.
Aunt Ruth gave it to you along with a bassinette.
An imitation dog was another favorite toy.
But a live dog was your real favorite.
First words were “Mama, Daddy, kitty, dog, see, look.
First sentence was, “See at little bird?” at 17 months.
You were fond of birds, animals, and flowers or anything that had life in it.
One of your chief delights was to get into Grandma Styer’s chicken yard.
lost in a forest of flowers
sun-warmed blossoms press
against bare legs begging
to be touched
first a cupping of fingers
to support a rose as one
lifts the rounded breast
oh, yes the size and shape
of the aureole soft and open
reversing nature's flow a bud
inside the back window of the rear car a parenthesis
of a monster with a tail of a python and deep valleys
clumsiness is hard to understand if not the first time
there is nothing to falling down naked when you come
the culture in suburbs of feathers old enough to escape
the cycle of addiction is continued but finally one says
"I saw them feel" (one might have to wonder what
the poem's title meant; surely a pun on a sense of
verbal sensuality and withdrawing into an arch
of trees filled with tiny worms – caterpillars perhaps
knotted with ridges firm
yet still and always a flower
the fountain of my pleasure
twinned so each hand plucks
as on the taut string
the song of honey in the heart
a bell tolls deep within
the sacred chapel held up
by legs quivering to the tone
the roaring of a wild wind
as when the bright sun blinds
unseen a letting down of wetness
2 years old: your first question:
Every time any part of your body itched you would come to me and say,
”Momma, I got a bite.” I’d say, “Scratch it.” This time after you had
scratched it you surprised me by saying.
 “Where did the bite go?”
Played a wishing game at school on December 1, 1943.
You wanted to have all your gold in your heart.
When people would ask you what you wanted to be when you grew up you said:
“I want to be a rainbow to show the world my colors.”
Years later, when I went back home for my mother’s funeral, the lady wearing an apron in the grocery store recognized me and told me she had something she thought belonged to me.
FULL MOON
R.K.Singh
A crescent
in the western horizon –
missing the moon
The full moon
behind the bare tree–
branches curve
Squeaking
under the full moon
dry sky
Wet bodies
of bathing women:
full moon night
Splendid with the moon
night in silver peace dreams
through folds of light
Two long hours
under the chinar:
lost full moon
Aggravating pain
in the legs and sleeplessness:
blue moon
Winter allergies–
staying inside to escape
the wind in full moon
BETWEEN THE SHOWERS
Barbara A. Taylor
autumn mists lift-
the froth-fringed mountain
reappears
this sky promises more rain
to lash, flash, fall like comet particles
into earth’s atmosphere
prismatic lights in raindrops
pulsating pearls
silvery laced fronds
from web to web – clear marbles
white opals
dancing diamonds –
alternating messages flicker
from somewhere else beyond
stimulating simulated
frontiers of my mind.
WORLD TOUR
A. Thiagarajan
no language problem
for accompanying dog
another country–
my dog answers
the local bark
no one in the park
jumping from one bench to another
a grandpa
at the puddle
with a broken comb
a homeless kid
relocation–
the maid takes a carton
for what is left
holding my hand
talking of my affairs
the gypsy girl
sparse drizzle
getting wet
only the shoulders
late night–
he removes his tie
one hand ringing
graduation shots–
putting separated parents together
using photo editor
silent dawn–
the lid of the pan making noise
boiling water
waking up
not hearing the muttering
of neighbor's prayer
OFF SEASON
A. Thiagarajan
off season
all the pleasure boats
on the beach road
disturbed siesta–
neighbors kids
away on vacation
gathering momentum
the giant wheel
with kids' shrieks
so many ants
around empty bottles–
soiree over
windy evening-
the way she bends to hold her skirt
at each gust
bath tub overflowing–
the kid tip toes
in lizard's stillness
dawn–
incense floats into my bedroom
mom at Puja
EARLY DAWN
A. Thiagarajan
cutting a leaf
cutting a web
at the clinic
assuming knowing the illness
getting its name
she begs in English–
in this Asian city
in the expat district
kid asks dad to reverse the car
to see the world
forward fast
allowance at the drop box–
the kid prays for
an easy exam
caught in the branches
the kid's name swings
on the kite
FOGGY SUNRISE
A. Thiagarajan
he wipes again
his spectacles
incense stick almost done
the kid not batting his eyelids
for the tiny glow's disappearance
among dad's things
strands of hair
on mom's comb
cold night
putting his legs over me
my three year old son
plucking flowers
she covers the dawn
in the bowl
morning bhajan–
the quiet moment
of her child in the lap
closed factory–
cooking of the homeless
through the chimney
another coin
the beggar counts
all over again
still puddle–
the farm labor washes her face
with the sky
SINGLE POEMS
A woman with a perfect body?
I don’t want one.
The last one left me
deeply depressed
for three whole days.
James Tipton
RONDEL
Gene Doty
I never thought it would happen to me.
Furious storms boil out of the southwest.
My mind was dark when they opened my chest.
Blue winds shake limbs from the maple tree.
The sirens shriek "tornado" repeatedly;
Awake again, I can't remember the jest:
I never believed it would happen to me.
Furious storms boil out of the southwest.
I forget myself and feel awareness flee.
Sometimes the wailing sirens are a test;
Sometimes they hail storms from the burning west.
The nurse watches the screen: what does she see?
I never thought it could happen to me.
for some reason
right now, right in the middle
of all these reports
I have an urgent desire
to hold your face and kiss you
c w hawes
snow falling softly
we drink tea and eat doughnuts
on Sunday morning
we dream together of where
our retirement will take us
c w hawes
sitting together
we're silent on the bus commute
we just hold hands
what need is there for words
little sounds to misunderstand
c w hawes
the young woman sleeps
next to me on the airplane
elbow in my side
the old apple tree still fruits
under the heat of the sun
c w hawes
the bare branches holding
white Luna in their bony grasp
seemingly ever
yet moons rise and moons set
and trees become the phoenix
c w hawes
the howling wind
constantly sounding in the ears
trekking lonely sands
in this Nubian desert
crumbling pyramids forgotten
c w hawes
a long time now
snow footprints
perfectly empty
john martone
sun thru
snowclouds
sometimes
2 suns
john martone
wind--ice
each hones
the
other
you
john martone
backyard trash snowed-over for now
john martone
frozen
as garden is
there are turnips
john martone
subzero--not locking the door now
john martone
a buddha at the headboard looking down
john martone
books in his bed a neanderthal grave
john martone
CONNECTVITY
sedoka
Barbara A. Taylor
from an ex
an email message
out of the blue
recharged
into the valley of life
by the click of a mouse
I am a guy with a severe physical disability from Bristol in the UK . Can't get out much but am inspired by your lovely website. I hope this finds you; it is my 1st attempt at haiku.
earthenware teapot
spout fractured from a soft fall
no longer useful
John Winfield
backyard ice-rink
swept of snow
letters to write
Joanna M. Weston
coffee and beer
baseball scores
dented cushion
Joanna M. Weston
protest-rally
of seniors
church choir
Joanna M. Weston
ale, wine, juice
coffee, tea
five poets
Joanna M. Weston
maple leaf
quivers
- echo after echo
Joanna M. Weston
Haiga by Dawn Bruce
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