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GHAZAL
DISTANCES
Edward Baranosky
Entre Morir y no morir
Me decidi por la guitarra.
- Pablo Naruda, Testamento de Ortono
circling seagulls cry over Christie Pits,
white wings stacked for landing.
the elegant scavengers settle
among startled squirrels
busy with fast moving leaves,
autumn acorns; rock, paper, scissors,
a basic theological dispute
disturbs the sleepy
baseball diamond, soaked
by the early morning rain.
scissors cut paper:
ten thousand kerigami
cranes migrate with paper kites,
strings sharpened by powdered glass.
rock breaks scissors:
this force is resistible, being slower
on land than skipping across water,
surfaces already still with skim ice.
paper wraps rock: lake effect snow
whispers of a starker landscape to come,
hugging stone walls with a layer
of white dust more dense than frost.
this season is full of unresolved desires,
unrequited memories, possible dreams.
The brilliant trees hoard multiple selves,
suddenly turned inside out.
good morning heartache,
a taxi radio searches for an audience.
a pentacle of crows sweeps by,
a welcome sight, indeed, five.
FIGHTING THE LOVE OF BATTLE
James Fowler
I did a two year tour on an aircraft carrier;
a presidential letter named me warrior.
A boy, lost at the circus, found the sideshow.
In his dreams he becomes the tattooed warrior.
The petal tips of the rose lose their color;
blood seeps from the wounds of the warrior.
The scent of jasmine interrupts my writing.
The maiden has come to greet the warrior.
The cemetery gates are locked from the outside.
What would happen if I freed the warrior?
In right-of-passage, a boy dyes his hand red;
he learns to hate the blue-handed warrior.
The brush on the can of paint, drips white.
The sticky-wall shadow dances the warrior.
Does any one know the names of the constellations?
Does any one still look up and see the warrior?
Your martial side loves you more than you love it,
Squirrel, you must yield and accept the warrior.
HAIBUN
WHEN WILL THIS WORLD . . .
Gerard John Conforti
When will this world stop rolling across the universe circling the heat of
the blazing sun. When will this world cease the tides of the ocean and flood
the earth with water. When will this world cease burning the ozone layer and
let life exist without destroying us. When will this world know that it’s
time for peace around the globe. When will this world cease destroying the
creatures surviving in small numbers. When will this world know love and
compassion it has lost only to create atomic warheads. When will this world
ever learn going too far will be the end of us. When will this world laugh joy
rather than with pain. When will this world know we are all human. When will
this world get along with its neighbors. When will this world know the end is
coming with fire and ice. When will this world know life is precious. When
will this world cease polluting the air. When will this world have pity for
the misfortunate.
Night and day
rolling around and around
the fiery sunlight
When will this world help the homeless on the city streets where miser
exists. When will this world know empires rise and fall. When will this world
learn hate brings only unhappiness to oneself. When will this world not abuse anyone
emotionally or bodily. When will this world fix the damage that’s been
caused from indifferent human beings. When will this world give knowledge to
the unfortunate. When will this world learn how to treat all people equally.
When will this world learn not to tamper with nature. When will this world
ever learn the history of the past.
Flowers flourishing:
they seem to ignore
its beauty
When will the world plant more trees than tearing them down out of greed.
When will the world know there is always an autumn. When will the world know
the pain of winter’s fury. When will the world not use up all its resources.
When will the world learn other ways of energy. When will the world cease
being so cruel to animals. When will the world know THAT time is coming. When
will the world know the same mistakes over and over again.
A shooting star:
a trail of light
rises over the sea
PASSINGS 2002
gillena cox
We pass each other at the elevator lobby; him going out and me coming in or
vice versa. He smiles; I smile. He is smartly dressed and very
polite. Then our paths cross in a more definite manner: at a three day
workshop; Finally I know his name and he knows mine. Shortly after; I see him
on the street; he waves; I wave: he waved, I waved his passing shocking news
Sitting at my desk; taking a break; I check my e-mail. One letter
informs me of the passing of a friend; dear to the haiku world,
and invites me to submit a haiku to the list of poems penned in his honour.
What should I write; I never knew him; his work -- remains a reflection
of him. I pick up my pencil; glancing at my pen lying on my desk; I muse I
must buy a pen sometime later today.
death of kyosei
my ball point pen dries out
Monday in March
Will the fighting never cease? The Holy Bible tells us about wars and
rumours of wars (Matt 24:6) ; but also of His coming that we may have
life to the fullest (Jn10:10.) He died that we may live. The fighting in
the Middle East and other areas in this troubled world continues to
trouble and sadden us (Exodus 12:23).
He' ll passover
the sign at the door post
His promise
HAIKU
orange peels
off the setting sun…
the other hues remain
Kevin Paul Miller
many birds fly south
those that stay all know
the winter songs
Kevin Paul Miller
haiku winter
an empty pen heads east
into the wind
Kevin Paul Miller
PLAYS
WWW.
Werner Reichhold
double you double u
double you
double it
double her
double us
double his double hers double ours
Part The First
The scenery looks a bit as if it was copied from a Greek vase where couples
used to rest on stone beds. But here, at an American home before the TV, we
are seeing a sofa where a couple and their pets gather for ball games, one
partly on top of the other, serving two purposes, a twofold victory or defeat.
Double-bind, double-blinded, double-breasted as you like it. Dope plays a
role, for sure a double-edged situation because the cop may drive by and call
it a double-park.
Wanda gets up, shuts the curtains.
Winfred
Look at that
my goodness, this discussion is going on and on, telling us how we can
double-quick increase the number of our offspring…
Wanda
Do you mean, after all we have
discussed about not having children - remember it was you who insisted we stay DINK (double income, no kids) do you
really want twins?
Winfred
Oh, give me a break, sweetie - by
gum, no! I have other things in mind.
Wanda
So what the hell are you referring
to?
Winfred
Well, look: There is the NET, hanging
around inside of the invisible, unknown spaces. Did you hear of the guys who
think the net is double-faced, and we are caught into it? They are not wrong -
we are occasionally feeling like someone’s catch, still jiggling. But check
closely - how about the fun joining the net as a double-digit way of radiating
messages out to neighbors, friends, even to enemies? Think of people who
respond to your 5-liners when you used the technique of phrase and fragment -
besides incorporating a double meaning. Or, well, in case you want to let your
self flow, into 5-liners…
Wanda
Aha! Poetry is what you are talking
about? It sounds cool, but you are making me hot. Gee, can I double, triple
myself, write a sequence, collaborate with all of my senses, with my
unenviable past, my bubbling presence, and oh my Lord, can I channel down
images of spiritual pathways, and go pivoting with them as far as my hands can
reach out?
Winfred
Yeah, and with the however so
curiously shaped views of others - connected to www., we may invite a third, a
fifth, a seventh party to join our efforts, and enlarge the concept of
symbiotic poetry. On the threshold to spirituality, collaboratively written
poetry takes on the role to evaluate the unknown, the so far unarticulated
stem
cells swim
upstream
night
visions
double-banked
the bodies
to the same oar
Wanda
May I add on twisting / shifting /
leaping? In fact what we are doing here is transmitting light particles of a
digital system to the surface of a screen and thereby electrifying the
neuronal system of the apparently lonely ones.
Winfred
You know the drill. It makes me think
even more about combining text and verse, written either by a single poet or even by a double-tongued one.
There, the tanka can be set up and functioning as a vertical plane, visually
constituting the power of a column at the core of horizontally arranged
prose-territories. Want to try it out?
Wanda
Let’s sniff on
it work out a concept. May I borrow your Montblanc? By the
way, here is Machi’s cell phone number. Please give her a buzz and ask
her if she’s in the mood to share our party line at 10 pm., theme: The very
nature of greeneries and affairs of the heart in times of war.
Winfred
goes to arrange comfortable chairs and sets up the I-pod for the scheduled
night session.
Winfred
Please remember our voices will be
broadcasted; we should have liquids available - what is your preference for tonight?
Wanda
Irish coffee.
SEQUENCES
BEYOND THE SKY, THE SKY
hortensia anderson
(Au milieu de l'hiver, j'ai découvert en moi un invincible
été. - Albert Camus)
deep freeze --
i drift into the snow
wrapped in fever
breathlessly breathing
through bands of ice
the strata of day --
persimmon, grape hyacinth
and nectarine
before washed away by light
gray and gray and gray
not quite
the summer in winter
Camus had in mind
although with enough drugs
i may be invincible
wind swirls through space --
a flock of birds takes flight
in random order;
time keeps on passing
for more of the same
then shines the frost moon:
flat round mirror of nothing;
as i awaken
hour after hour in pain
... night disappears
GOF
John M. Bennett
fog
efink
"leas"
"yes"
trenza
ekal
fool
E
knots
loud
eye
pan
)"duol"(
YLIAD
John M. Bennett
shot blunt
daily ,relbmuts ,flags ,onrop ,rash ,tongue ,rosserped ,hands ,rebmun
,flogging ,epiw ,gash ,knurt ,seeping ,buh ,boot ,yrecorg ,table ,etaruppus
,leans ,tah ,fog ,odraih ,tunes ,deelb ,corner ,sag ,focus ,repap ,lash ,fat ,kael
,arm, pmuts, mra, leak, taf, hsal, paper, sucof, gas, renroc, bleed, senut,
hairdo, gof, hat, snael, suppurate, elbat, grocery, toob, hub, gnipees, trunk,
hsag, wipe, gniggolf, number, sdnah, depressor, eugnot, hsar, porno, sgalf,
stumbler, yliad
corn cow
ELGNIS
John M. Bennett
tank tsol
single ,wodahs ,lock ,maerts ,bulb ,dum ,pane ,elop ,reflector ,nug ,key ,evac
,drop ,tsuahxe ,gravel ,gniklaw ,bullet ,stekcop ,brick ,smuh
,"book" ,redluohs ,reek ,niar ,stairs ,rood ,sriats, rain, keer,
shoulder, "koob", hums, kcirb, pockets, tellub, walking, levarg,
exhaust, pord, cave, yek, gun, rotcelfer, pole, enap, mud, blub, stream, kcol,
shadow, elgnis
hoof welf
COLOURED IMAGES
Elaine King
immerse myself in the silence
of distant hills and green
only one magpie in the pine silhouetted
dust drifts from the road
hedges and cars in front shades of shapes
in the water broken stars against the stones
rain remnants the single drips
flash on the ferns and litter
pausing on the way out curled leaf on the step
corrugated iron oozing rust
wind's sting and brassy song
dark patches sweep the bay and the white sails tilt
the wriggle of cars and people
in the window mottley
the stream's signature silver between the trees
WITH ALL THIS SPRING
Tom Clausen
I avoid it for awhile
having been told
I use the computer too much,
the construct and deconstruct
of dark thoughts on the bus
how can it be
with all this spring
going on and on
I feel very little of it
growing in me
no matter where
when you look warmly
you see the warmth-
this way sun filters
through colorful leaves
when she was hired
our department
all in love with her-
these new flowers she brings
to replace those from yesterday
cast as a man
yet no hunter or fighter
have I found in me
this dreary day walk
just to air out my thoughts
home with just the cat,
free of my human script
I look knowingly at him...
he stretches and runs
to the door to go out
FLIGHTS OF JOY
for Corinne Buckland
Ross Clark
leaning against a straight trunk bare as hope amidst the
granite and winter wattle
from below on a gyre of air one white butterfly rises towards a joy-flight’s
drone
raptor’s hovering eye seizes the
moment parabola
counterpoint of noonday cicadas and creek’s droughtsong melodious yet
now can look only through the lens of syllables their
falling water these marks
CITIES HIDDEN BY RAIN
Rob Cook
1.
(NYC, any Sunday at dawn)
Streets empty except
for stray bottles
the early light is crawling from.
Two years in the city,
I keep hearing crickets
in the deli flowers.
Sunday morning, dark,
now where have the revelers
hidden us?
Drinking coffee at dawn
so the sun
can come back.
The early city,
Stacks of lit windows
The crickets left
A woman sipping coffee—
her face lost
behind steam.
I rest the phone against my ear
and listen
to the cherry blossoms breathing.
Pruning the daisies’
yellow faces—
the sky smaller today.
Even with the approaching F train,
this one guitarist
plays like a sleeping pigeon.
Sick from too much rest—
how will I tell
my cactus blossoms to live?
2.
Parts of me from kindergarten
falling in tonight’s rain.
Father, was it from loneliness
you let those cockroaches live,
those years before winter?
Coffee with nothing in it—
now I see you, homeless men
asleep on the moon.
I have certain friends
I’ve shared coffee with
and not spoken a single word.
Only when I crush
a cockroach
is the world dying.
My mother, who keeps
the weather to herself,
mixing sleet with today’s laundry.
Night with a book
that ends early,
rain that I know.
3.
The autumn city—
holding bags filled
with $20 wind.
Tonight’s rain, cold
and with no clouds, beginning
in a scarecrow’s mouth.
The book closed, its words,
the insects I’ve abandoned,
gone on ahead to the evening shelf.
The autumn city—
walking my umbrella
past the rain shops.
Cockroaches, what have you learned
there, behind
my portrait?
Coffee without cream—
I can taste
where the sky has burned.
Waking up early,
who wove these crickets
into my sheets?
I followed a cricket
to Long Island City, both of us
visiting the same poet.
The day’s last umbrella
going inside—
the end of the rain.
4.
Pulling up potato roots,
tonight’s moon covered
with trails of earthworms.
Drinking coffee after the late news—
it’s not me
keeping the city awake.
Only when a building
filled with crickets burns
will you hear the songs they’ve made.
Prowling the woods
the night before my birth,
my shadow loses its face in the moss.
I leave a book in my field
where it’s maturing
with the frightened crows.
Ripening tomatoes—where
do you grow
during the moonlight ?
Surviving through a night
of coffee—six words
for the sky that’s gone.
Frightened by wind
that starts in my coat—
following home the possum tracks.
The autumn birch—
what do you cockroaches know
of it, so deep in my walls?
5.
August with enough rain
to keep one family—
the scarecrows thin this year.
Afternoon lull,
sneaking between books,
dry houses where the rain’s been through.
Midday boredom—
songs the scarecrows
bring back from the sun.
Book that lasts all night,
looking for the page
where the scarecrows begin.
Weeks hiding in bed
from the deer
carrying the cold on their backs.
Waiting to hear its stories,
I feed the cockroach
one drop of coffee.
My father looking
for his violet patch
in last night’s moon.
Bored noon heat—
songs the sun
brings back from the scarecrows.
6.
Night-time lull,
waiting for the grasses
to return.
Coffee at dinner
so the meatloaf won’t hurt me
with its loneliness.
I eat black coffee
under the morning’s
black sky.
Snow fall in the winter house—
deer licking powder
from the moon
What I thought was my cat returning
is only the snow
beginning to fall.
If I drop two cockroaches
into my steaming coffee,
will they still not talk?
7.
(On seeing a bare maple in December)
This maple needs to lose
one more leaf
before becoming a buddha.
In my garden—
rocks waiting
for the deer to move them?
In a forest where no people are,
a tree falls many times
before the moon comes out.
A bear carries its mother
into the lake
where she looks just like the moon.
The poet kept walking
until he came to where
I was digging a new river.
A mountain that wasn’t here
yesterday—
fawns forming out of the morning dew.
Following a night bird
to its hole in the trees—
moon no one is looking for.
The sun throughout childhood—
image on water
where a paper boat went down.
For months
my father growing a beard—
his own father is gone.
Kindergarten—
planting tomatoes in the moonlight
my grandfather made.
A man who listens
to no music—waiting to hear
his name in the grass?
Today at the house
where I grew up, listening
for its twenty years of rain.
We buried
our cousin today—
why didn’t the autumn begin?
The fall night too quiet—
scarecrows
gutted for crickets.
In the initials of lovers
carved on the oak tree—
a caterpillar hiding.
Looking for deer—
wind a birch makes
taking off its clothes in autumn.
The hawk repeating its name
through the trees,
a fawn grazing, hidden by rain.
THE FINE LINE. . .
Melissa Dixon
once I worked
as an art therapist
in a psychiatric ward -
I observed the staff’s fine line
between Us - and Them
the young immigrant
her art work suddenly soft
with images of love -
the ward doctor isolates her
from the sex offender
the woman addict
in-and-out of hospital
now discharged again -
asks me will I be her friend?
will I?
I greet him -
the schizophrenic, his face
a managed mask of pain -
and I can only
shake his hand
severe depression? me?
but I need you to know-
once I worked
as an art therapist
in a psychiatric ward...
RICH MOUNTAIN ROAD
Elizabeth Howard
Smoky Mountain overlook
a primitive white church
shines in the cove
a bobcat crosses the road -
from the tangle of bushes
its piercing eyes
icy spring
a doe raises her head
water dripping
drumming in the woods
a ruffed grouse hen's
perky steps
a steep curve
flaming orange azaleas
along the gully
tree canopy
a red-tailed hawk's
hostile eyes
chipmunks scurry
down the rutted hill -
rue anemones
a strutting turkey -
startled by the motor
he crashes down the bluff
rippling brook
a wispy crawfish scuttles
between mossy boulders
mountain evening
a raven sweeps down the spill
of daylilies
LOSING A PET
Origa (Olga Hooper)
last warm day -
coming from the vet
to the silent home
October night -
the cat's empty bed
with electric heater
long autumn night -
my cat knows nothing
about cancer
low clouds
accompany my stroll
thoughts of the sick cat
blustery day -
the way home avalanched
with leaves
rustling leaves -
and I hear the breath
of my sick cat
autumn garden -
under the apple tree
a small fresh mound
late autumn sun -
and no refuge
from the piercing chill
cold afternoon
a card from the vet:
"Your sadness is shared"
JUST ONE AUTUMN DAY . . .
Origa (Olga Hooper)
warm September
over the morning dew
a titmouse’ chirp
autumn sunrise
a limpid dew
painting leaves
a little dog
with collar around her waist -
fall equinox
primaries
fighting in the tree top
two squirrels
park stroll with grandson
the old fir's limb shelters
a young maple
Indian summer
bronzed muscles
in the sunshine
local market
laughing faces on kids
and pumpkins
sunset
windows here and there
winking
MEMORIES
kirsty karkow
In the background of my life
there's a tapestry of bird song.
Best of all were the gray doves' calls
woven into a desert childhood.
Now raucous gulls and throaty crows
awake me every dawn.
In the background of my life
oceans roll as a constant force;
long voyages, sail and freighter,
rocked in the cradle of the deep.
Now quiet waves lap at granite
along a fir-lined shore.
In the background of my life,
is belief in native goodness;
Knowledge that sadness fades away
as sunlight touches dawn-dark
hills.
Now constantly I hold in awe
the spark in every soul.
THIS LIFE WITHOUT SUB-TITLES
Larry Kimmel
fall
colors
eyeglasses
on an eyeless Styrofoam head
- all this behind glass,
and
something antique
about the
gilt leaves of the locust
rated R for 'brief nudity'
one lousy unclothed manikin
I kid you not
my first
inflatable girlfriend,
remembering
her seamy side
always on the outside
looking in
this life
without sub-titles
no better
than
a peeping
Tom's
a band of gold or handcuffs,
what difference?
'I've seen it all' says Tom
clearly
there's
more here than meets the eye
vacant store front
graven in dust
a two-word audacity
the
blurting finger having writ
rubs grit
on a denimed thigh
when two raindrop rivulets
mmeeeett
one drinks the other -
never
knowing which side you're on,
the trouble
with windows
the Waterford vase
on display
a spray of blue asters
after the
shock of eyes that cease to see
-
wildflowers in profusion
a calico curled
in the bookshop window
between two
snowflakes
a spill
of apples
the
surprise of seeing the book we made
ONE TREE ISLAND
Larry Kimmel
holding my eye
she undoes her blouse
my strict attention
an arch smile
then photons clothe her
wavelets lapping toes
the forest lake
there to receive her
wading out
till her breasts float
voices
diving under
a flash of bare bottom
she waves
from the one tree island
an exaltation of larks
DANCE OF LIFE
Angela Leuck
if I sit here much longer
I would be covered
with falling blossoms
were it not for the wind
and my own restlessness
off for the summer
to meditate in the hills
of India
he gives me a gift
of flowery perfume
a bee buzzing
from bloom to bloom
I sit in the garden
and gaze at the faces
of people passing by
dream of our wedding:
gathering wild flowers
for my hair
I wander too far
to find my way back
your flight delayed
I stare at a card with
giant white poppies
impatient for a glimpse
of your face in the crowd
after the sadness
of our parting
I walk in the garden
comforted by the glow
of marigolds at dusk
down by the river
beneath the big old willow
I gather
the scattered petals
of a rose never meant for me
ferns and
spider flowers waving
in the wind
I too have learned
this dance of life
HOT PINK ROSES
Thelma Mariano
from the shore
the constant ripple of waves
as they move inland
much like the feel of your back
beneath my fingertips
how close we grew
as winter’s chill gave way to spring
alone in my room
I still hear the echo
of our whispers in the dark
determined to enjoy
my solitary state
at the jazz fest
I wander from stage to stage
seeing lovers everywhere
no room for sadness
in this world of sight and sound
I draw comfort
from windshield wipers the way
they swish back and forth in the rain
a plastic bag
carried off by the wind
spirals higher
I cling to your memory
even as I let it go
what’s left
of the love I felt between us?
at summer’s end
a few hot pink roses
to take me through the cold
THE DIVA WIND
June Moreau
on hearing a spider
a tiny ray
of light
enters my ear -
a snowflake falls
it sounds
most profound
in the snow-laden
branches of pine -
the diva wind
my words are sailboats –
the wind takes them
across the page
leaving roses, white roses
in their wake
the wind
is the color
of voice inside a poem
in my solitude
I paint the wind
just visible
on the water’s edge
a blue sash
of wind
and a faint rainbow
WOODEN SEAT
Anna Rugis
Part 1
the switchback entrance
another turn to the left
old manuka stand
two streams meet at the culvert
can you see it yet?
an asphalt surface
behind the corokia
turns the other way
wild freesias on the headland
nobody’s looking
go back to the road
the signals don t reach down here
the trees deflect them
this is the way it founders
why you keep talking
a
land
so vast
no bird can fly across it
no bird lives that long
you can tell Gypsies to leave
but not where to go
magnolia flowers
bruising the gravel driveway
don t touch
don t touch
maybe in a week or two
look the tide s in
you are expected
you will be mown and raked up
like next week s long grass
dandelion heads emerge
well under the cut
was there any doubt
I would return to you?
the pull of the oaks
sidling into their shadow
my eyes on my sleeve
Ganesh gets it right
a free park in Newmarket
as a reminder
a snail can sleep for three years
imagine
that
ten degrees off course
how to tell which direction
I don t have to tell
lemons or camellias
sunrise or sunset
were you waiting for me?
well I
m here anyway
strange to think
another one in the hand
is worth more than this
she grips my shoulders
as if to save me from a
runaway trailer
I hold my ground with the strength
of buttercup roots
seen from the east ridge
that is a tree I could haunt
his back in the sun
he doesn’t hear me coming
an interruption
at last at last
the bucket
is full
in the meniscus
all straight lines curve and soften
I smile in my hand
a spring in the gorge
water rich in minerals
a glow-worm tavern
horses grazed here at one time
hard to believe it
my teacher s not here
he s gone to Rarotonga
and may not come back
my green jacket left somewhere
maybe in the hedge
a reclamation
with or without permission
a morepork watches
the blind shock of witnessing
I did not see this
safe from ugliness
you laugh at the idea
I am serious
I am deeply serious
you don t understand
my tongue stings my cheek
and it isn’t with salt
down hill all the way
too
full
to empty tears
too empty to cry
these charming voices
I must have loved them before
in a former life?
perhaps that would explain it
this affinity
a view of islands
is worth a lot of money
and that old tree
always so many lemons
there s no counting clouds
and now we wait
spreading our hours out thinly
as if to dry them
fix things too long neglected
wait and see and see
Part 2
the first look at you
my scales turn into feathers
fall into water
a coral fish sees its cave
ah there you are
ah there
you are
you were paying attention
I like that
everything as it should be
how about a song?
round about midnight
loud outdoor conversations
sound like naked looks
a language unknown to us
such as dogs might speak
hold
it
hold it
what
about the second verse?
I know you know it
alright here s a new one
but I m no singer
juvenile kauris
you follow in your white shoes
nowhere near the track
we find
them
amber and blue sky
the rope is too short
or the water is too low
or the well is dry
or the bucket is broken
I just made this up
swallow the half moon
and you’ll sleep like a flower
delicate shower
a shuffle down the tin roof
see what I
mean?
to make you question
to make you reach down deeper
you cannot break
what is already broken
or fix something whole
slowly over time
surrounded and cut off
louder and louder
but the perfume of roses
cannot be copied
you’ve
got a good nose
a
relationship with air
it’s called breathing
it does it all by itself
so what's on the news?
some rich businessmen
are building their own spacecraft
yet another race
they want to be mega-stars
to be
heroes
expose the body
or wrap it in coats and scarves
look for what I see
the invisible shining
last call gentlemen
in this empty hall
where my shoulders won’t reckon
I doubt my body
that I can make it travel
even to reach you
it’s just a story
it doesn’t have to be true
you know I m coming
it might simply be a record
something overheard
though my mood mistook
your gesture for a prompting
you keep me honest
I will try to live up to you
like a wedding day
sell off the excess
one challenge per Saturday
plums in the freezer
the time to set imbedded
in the recipe
just follow the scent
calla lilies onion weed
the temptation forgotten
to wallow in the
mystery of standing waves
it’s
a certainty
statistics and averages
funny really
the mind of absolute trust
yes a
certainty
mid morning laughter
this is quite appropriate
what’s home anyway
a title search on a tree
birds don’t think of it
willing to be worked
you always find gratitude
no mind to resist
count the times you have fallen
see what I
mean?
my teacher came back
but not from Rarotonga
he thinks I know the future
maybe so
(To be continued)
LOVE
R. K . Singh
His message to meet
at moonrise among flowers
sparkles a secret
on her smiling face passion
glows with charming fervour
She is no moon yet
she drifts like the moon, takes care
of him from the sky -
meets him for a short, waxing
leaves him for a long, waning
Before going to bed
she looks too sad to have
any sweet dream:
the lonely lamp glints no love
and no star peeks through the curtains
Yearning to meet him
she turns a silk-worm spinning
love-silk in cold night -
stands in a shade melting tears
like a candle, drop by drop
Stains of dried dewy
tears on the eyelids tell of
the load on her mind:
clothed in spring the willow twigs
reveal the changed relation
Locked in the shadows
of unrolled curtains her love
in the lone boudoir -
she plays tunes on the violin
flowers fade at the windows
She senses all things
changing as she passes through
the city again:
should I leave the old house or
lie in the grave before death
MOTHER
R.K. Singh
As a repose in
the wrinkles of her face
I feel her crimson
glow in my eyes her holy
scent inside a sea of peace
The room has her
presence every minute
I feel she speaks
in my deep
silently
Is it her quietus
that she roars in herself
like a sea
waves upon waves
leaps upon herself?
Love is the efflux
from her body spreading
parabolic hue -
enlightens the self I merge
in her glowing presence
Your vacant eyes
reveal this city:
dim, humid, absent-minded
orchestrating bronchial noises
'quakes in the face
HIBISCUS
R.K. Singh
Red oleander and
hibiscus calling morning
to Kali
The lone hibiscus
waits for the sun to bloom:
morning's first offering
Without washing hands
he touches the hibiscus for worship:
her frowning glance
Love tickles
with erect pistil:
hibiscus
Narrowly escape
the midair web of spider
perched on hibiscus
A tiny spider
on the hibiscus sucking
its golden hue
Suspended
on the spider's web -
a hibiscus
After little rain
lilies smile with hibiscus -
the sun in May
Hibiscus
over the mossy roof
deeply rooted
Oleander and
hibiscus blaze with passion -
making love in sun
COME BACK KEROUAC
Sue Stanford
still dark
the sound of a grooming cat
wakes me
only her tongue: the drought has not broken
one paw
two paws reach for
the door handle
colour returns to the trees: I miss the moment
afternoon sun
the cat comes between me
and my book
offended: the cat who can't laugh can't laugh last
evening deepens
the cat keeps trying to pronounce
the word 'meat'
using my haunch on the new fridge door: come back Kerouac
TSUNAMI
Geert Verbeke
the earthquake
displaces the water mass
forgotten shipwrecks
a great wave
in the harbor waters
orphan songs
on the beach
a naked fisherman
a shell in his eye
drowned
in front of a mirror
a drag queen
tsunami
a tourist crying
for her jewels
in the hotel pool
encircled by books
the librarian
the silence
in which the moon swims
he drowned
after the tsunami
between two bodies
a rose
on the dead body
a fresh tattoo
three flowers
old fences
breaking down
in slow motion
the water returns
to its original oneness
a dead silence
SIJO
AWAKENED AT MIDNIGHT
Gino Peregrini
Awakened at midnight by a vague thought, a budding poem.
Scrambling eggs--habanero sauce dots the yolk like fresh blood.
Gibbous moonlight slants through the window; a bright noise / in my eyes
HOSPITAL NIGHT
Gino Peregrini
A nurse to draw my blood,
another for an EKG.
A night in Intensive Care:
"Let's get those britches off you."
Awakened after midnight,
I look out at the golf course.
MONSTERS
Gino Peregrini
Tenderly, Leviathan sports in the deeps of chaos.
His cousins, ungainly beasts, frolic with glee in sea-spume.
Ponderously, this pod teases the divine angler.
TANKA
equinox
feeling somehow
unable to tell
fireflies from the sun
on the ocean
Ana Cagnoni
dinner's ready
this Christmas eve
one sparrow
across the purple terrace
my unborn child
Ana Cagnoni
new year
becoming
the scent of acorns
and pine needles
somewhere beyond
Ana Cagnoni
tsunami
turning the tide
below the sky
now for a change
fish feasting on men
john tiong chunghoo
how calm
the sea lies
after all the ravages
this tsunami in me
that will take years to tame
john tiong chunghoo
Read John's eye-witness
account of being in the tsunami on the island of Phucket..
her sixtieth birthday
my cousin and I
make a family
snowman, snowwoman
and snowchild
Philomene Kocher
the fake pearl has worn off
the glass beads
of my First Communion rosary
I hold their innocence
in my hands
Philomene Kocher
on the bus
the little boys
playing I Spy
one to the other
"let's both go first"
Philomene Kocher
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