A Journal for Linking Poets  

Solo Poems


C.W. Hawes

Ruth Holzer

Steffen Horstmann

Steffen Horstmann

10:30 A.M.
Elizabeth Snider

Richard Tice


c w hawes

Charles Hansmann

Charles Hansmann

Charles Hansmann

Charles Hansmann

Roger Jones

Tracy Koretsky

Ray Rasmussen

Ray Rasmussen

Jane Reichhold

Richard Straw

Jeffrey Woodward

Jeffrey Woodward

Jeffrey Woodward


 Edward Baranosky

 Edward Baranosky

Carl Brennan

Gerard John Conforti

Glenn R. Frantz

Glenn R. Frantz

Elizabeth Howard

M. Kei

Sanford Goldstein

by Terra Martin

Terra Martin

Terra Martin

by Terra Martin

WAVES OF GRASS by Terra Martin

Linda Papanicolaou

Linda Papanicolaou

by Jane Reichhold

Alan Reynolds

Alan Reynolds

Ashley Rodman


by CarrieAnn Thunell

CarrieAnn Thunell

Diana Webb

SINGLE POEMS by                               William Hart
Victor P. Gendrano
c w hawes
Carrie Ann Thunell
Alan Reynolds






C.W. Hawes

I've become a saint by being a sinner;
I've become a rogue by giving up religion.

My turban's the ground, my prayer mat the grass;
wandering about like Shams, I've become a begging bowl.

Prostrating at the mosque, my religion got lost in a dark corner somewhere.
Oh, yes, I became a rogue the moment I walked out the door.

Whirling makes me dizzy and the flute gives me a headache.
I've become a drunkard sitting in the gate of the tavern.

That dark-eyed one, with the curly tresses, plies me with cup after cup
and now I've become her favorite.

Only a rogue dares to love the Beloved;
I've become a lover and therefore a rogue.

In a world of ice-cold blue sky, I lost my way;
 but in the spring of my old age I became a seeker.

I composed a song and then another to woo my Beloved;
a wondering minstrel I've become:  lover questing Beloved.

The sun is setting and Suleiman sings a song, dons perfume;
he's become the wine glass eagerly awaiting the wine.



Ruth Holzer

A Sunday surprise, you invited me sailing.
I didn't know very much about sailing.

Elderly fishermen lined the wharf,
caught in a dream of their lost years of sailing.

Light chop, a breeze from the south;
we agreed ot was a fine day for sailing.

Your friend had already left with his boat,
eager to seize every moment for sailing.

On the dock of the bay we wasted our time.
Ruth thought it was far better than sailing.



Steffen Horstmann

It is the crevice a shadow crawls inside,
The cage of ribs the heart stalls inside.

It is the depths of an abyss
A stone endlessly falls inside.

An absence evolved from dimensionless Time,
The lost spaces all sound dissolves inside.

It is the maze of secret rooms
Masons built moving walls inside.

The emptiness of a pitch-black tunnel
The prisoner crawls inside.

It is the palpable void in abandoned cities,
Bombed houses the rain falls inside.

The dusty journal in an attic,
Notes the captive ghost scrawls inside.

It inhabits the abode of a sorceress,
Housing only the darkest shawls inside.


Steffen Horstmann

A figure in black robes steers a ferry across the bay,
Through shades of moonlight that vary across the bay.

Fish shine like knives in lucent shallows, a seagull's
Shriek answers an echo's query across the bay.

Stone madonnas pray in a garden, rising at night
To wander ruins of a monastery across the bay.

Blown leaves scurry in a ranting wind
Laced with voices that carry across the bay.

Below an indigo ridge, fringed pines shade
The hidden grave of a mercenary, across the bay.

The chanting echoes will cease only at dawn
In the ghost-infested cemetery across the bay.

A white dove was released from its cage & sent
Into the dark like an emissary, across the bay.

Pearls adorn the hair of a mermaid, emerging
At twilight in the estuary across the bay.

It saw a comet's trail dissolve in sparkling water,
The pelican whose flight is solitary across the bay.


10:30 A.M.
Elizabeth Snider

Dawn long past, a memory at mid-morning,
I sit on the dock in the chair I made.

Maiden alone amid cricket screech,
legs rub together, hot sound rings.

Rings around the roses, scent rises,
hummingbirds and bumblebees pause.

Paws on my knees, she stares at me,
her black muzzle peppered with gray.

Gray skies, clouds gather from the south,
hang above the dock to shed their tears.

Tears smear my sight as I look down
into eyes that dim and glaze with death.

Death creeps in the door at mid-morning,
I sit on the floor with the dog, unmade.



Richard Tice

sunset just ahead,
shadow on the clouds just behind

hiss of cabin air
no further than the curving glass

descending through haze
above a moving freeway of fire

beyond the wing tip
spikes of yellow from each street lamp

flight attendant’s red jacket
right down the middle of blue lights



c w hawes

The road is strewn with rocks. As though a giant was tossing pebbles no where in particular. The sky is ominously black. The clouds, roiling. I am sitting by the side of the road, my feet encased in
cement. My fingers are Parker Duofolds empty of ink. My tongue, swollen and sprained from too much talk. My throat burns with acid reflux. My mind pondering the word problem which is the past.


scent of roses
Sunday's crossword puzzle
set aside



Charles Hansmann

Time again, each morning when we wake -- and place too -- us, then me, you -- separate sides for swinging out our legs, a day taking place (we say, though meaning taking time) as approach succeeded by
withdrawal, as if the highlight were exactly that, our lives meridian-centric, a countdown to a moment -- the gunfight in the western street, the church bell or the firehouse whistle -- and then a count away from it.

in the clock-tower shade
eyeing their wrists



Charles Hansmann

You pose on the sidewalk, aiming from the belly.  Inside the dim diner, three Greeks by the TV (through your reflection you can just make them out) pose for the portrait they think you are taking.

arced in the gutter
in the street-sweeper's spray
a rainbow



Charles Hansmann

The chickens bock bock bocking in the early morning coop, the heat of the egg in my hand, I think hens sit on nests these cold dawn hours to keep their bottoms warm.

the rooster
frozen ground



Charles Hansmann

Be not overshadowed by God or gods; he, she, it, they are shadowless in adequate light.  Be not aroused by thoughts that you should not exist; there's sex enough in your body parts to resist otherworldly temptation.

the fossil


Roger Jones

Driving a hundred fifty miles north to my best friend Jay's father's funeral. Jay died years ago in an accident; his father was best man at my wedding.

It's early January. I go through many familiar small towns, but mostly the journey's farmland, quiet sunlit yellow grass, and soon, tall East Texas pines. I get absorbed in the landscape, reminiscing all the way.
I recall how Mr. L____ believed in physical labor, the old-time work ethic. He considered my college studies a waste of time – wouldn't even stay in the room when I talked about them – but he liked me

Arriving twenty minutes late, I straighten my tie as I walk through parked cars toward the chapel, hearing from inside the laughter of someone's shared anecdote.

open coffin
a face the color
of old coffee


Tracy Koretsky

Walking south, I meet a woman walking north, both of us simultaneously drawn to the thingamabob left on the curb for trash pick-up. Four-inch-wide metal pipe, powder-covered, and white, it's shaped like
the gums in a set of false teeth – both upper and lower. There is a bicycle seat of sorts, on the lower jaw, if you will, and two hand bars where ears would be if the frame were gums. The hand bars were covered in the kind of black foam they cover hand bars with in gym equipment.

The north walking woman shrugs. “It’s new,” she says. “Whatever it is.”

In my mind I contort myself into it, seating myself in the hinge of its maw, restraining my arms at right angles.

“Abs,” I say.

And she sees what I mean. She rubs her back like a woman who knows what back pain feels like.

I see what she means.

“You don’t need a thingamabob to work your abs,” I report, like a well-informed modern woman who may have occasionally from time-to-time engaged in self-loathing over the matter of her tummy.

And I see that she sees what I mean and we both laugh together at ourselves.

“That’s why it’s on the curb,” I say, and she says, overlapping, “That’s where’d it’d be at my house.”  And for a moment I imagine that we are both thinking of some stupid thing that we bought once.

Two blocks from home, I see a young man ambling west, his arms full of groceries, his head through the thingamabob.

students back –
I vow
to write more haibun


Ray Rasmussen

tea kettle whistling–
steam clouds
the windows

Thursday night. Another wife-daughter fight with raised voices, crying, doors slamming; I grab my jacket, call the border collie and bolt into the frigid night. The ravine trail is barely visible, the stream frozen...

the skin of ice–
dark waters

An owl calls. I pause, wait for the next call, and let the silence sink in. Branches sweep toward a star-filled sky. The dog presses close, warm fur, her tail wagging...

on the horizon–
a nudge toward home

[Note: Sirius is known as the dog star and is in the Canis Major constellation. Not including our sun, it's the brightest star in the sky.]


Ray Rasmussen

The sun's rays filter through a stand of black spruce where 20 horses, each loaded with 150 pounds of gear, are hitched. Dave, a lanky outfitter, and I are unpacking them. We chat about the grizzly sow and
cubs spotted earlier in the day, about how the horses are holding up, about the people on the trip.

men's talk
the smell of sweat
and manure

As I struggle with the ropes, Dave asks, "Ray, what are you up to these days?"

I think of telling him that since I've retired, I'm embarrassed to receive a monthly check without having to work. That I no longer wake up by an alarm clock, my mornings unfolding slowly. But I feel guilty
about those who have to set their alarms, rush breakfast, fight traffic. During the day I write and when the light is right, I grab my camera, wake the dog and go for a walk. I exchange e-mail with writers, meet pals for lunch, and visit my lover. I do a daily workout, experiment with cooking, and chair a committee to enhance my city's park system. But I view most of these activities as luxuries in a world stressed by war and poverty.

Finally I say: "Well, I write and do some photography."

Dave replies, "Oh, is that right. Do you sell your photographs?"

"Some, but not enough to pay for the film."

So, there it is. I can't simply sit on the back stoop and admire the lawn growing, the shadows lengthening.

"Well," Dave grunts as he hefts a 150-pound load off the horse, "must be nice to have time to pursue your interests."

Yes, how many times have I heard, "Now you have time to become the poet you always wanted to be?"

We slide back into easy chitchat. The horses don't like being corralled, and I don't either. In earlier times I was “a young man doing edge sports,” “a professional,” “a dad,” “a leader” and “a teacher.” Now I'm “a retiree” which carries undertones of “geezer,” hints of “useless.”

We release the horses and follow them as they race out the gate. They kick up their heels, roll in the black loam, shake it off and begin to graze. I wish that the rawness I feel could as easily be shaken off, that the wildflower meadow could be entered so easily.

monkshood bloom
the whine of mosquitoes
seems diminished



Jane Reichhold

            The whole weekend and my daughter’s visit had gone over the keyboard and into our several computers. After twelve years it had been the time to clear the cobwebs out of the website and she had the will and patience to get me started on the job. Every day after she left I spent all the available “good work” hours going over each of the 1,044 files. By Friday night, and with no calls for help, I was ready to upload my gift to the universe.
            I called Heidi to get the final set of instructions on the procedure to hook up to the server. While eight hours away, on the top of her mountain, she raked pine needles blown down from the first rain of autumn. I could hear the scratch, scratch of the rake as she talked on the phone, guiding me to fill out the menus. One field of light, called the remote host, was filled in by default and she admitted that she did not really know what else should be put into that option. I was so determined to get the job finished, well at least up on the web so I could see what additional fixes the pages needed, she agreed that I should try making the connection with the information I had.
            In the perfect style of computers, one small lack and nothing worked. I gave up for the weekend and fell into bed with the waning moon. As the morning sunshine nudged me awake I had one more dream.
            There was a poisonous rat loose in the house. Everyone in the family was afraid of it. The rat would magically appear in the room, run from corner to corner, only pausing to look at someone as if they were meat for dinner. After calmly observing the rat’s appearance several times with due regard for its danger, I noticed that each time it disappeared it leapt into an electrical outlet.
            The next time the rat was running around the room, I stepped over to the light switch and to my good luck it chose just that outlet for its exit. Without thinking of the consequences, I grabbed the rat by it its throat. Then I remembered that its bite was poisonous, so I grabbed its upper lip and pulled it down to its chest and with the power of my thumb, held it helpless.
            As if watching a slide show, the next scene showed a celebration of the riddance of the rat. Some guy from NPR was interviewing me as we bustled around setting up a table and chairs for a party. He asked me how I felt when I realized that the live rat I had caught in my bare hands was poisonous. I replied, “Phau! That is spelled p-h-a-u.” and I woke myself up.
            My first thought of the new day was the correction needed in the remote host address.

work of days
slides through the month’s mouth
ripening fruit



Richard Straw

 Rain or shine these summer days, I ride my coaster-brake bike, a red Schwinn. It has matching wire baskets over its rear tire and a combination speedometer/odometer on its handlebars. Wherever I go, I  use its rearview mirror to watch for any familiar cars that might trail me on my town's tree-lined streets.
 I discovered an abandoned limestone quarry on the north end of town earlier this summer. It isn't far from the Workingman's Friend gas  station that stands right where our old home once was, next to the Jesus Only Tabernacle.
 Other kids bike to this quarry, too. They ride fast over its grassy humps and along its weedy paths, then swim in its dangerously deep cold water. One kid on a rock screams warnings to the others about mining equipment below the surface and to watch out for snakes.
 I keep to myself though, not because I fear those kids or whatever else might hurt me here. I worry that, if I make friends with anyone, my parents might find  out that I've disobeyed them and left our safe residential  neighborhood on the other side of town. I never know whose  blue-collar parents might work with mine.


a tiny bass darts
into shadows



Jeffrey Woodward

As if the warmth of the sunlight never visited us before, as if this budding green were the first and leaf a name hitherto unknown or as if a sky devoid of clouds were a fictive world of clarity destined to remain the darling of the perfect-bound pages of a popular novel… Here in this public park and garden hideaway of some few acres, here with the midday urban traffic an audible hum never faraway, here with the man who fetches a stick from his golden retriever and here with the young mother whose toddler cries higher, higher above the rusty crick and creak of a swing… Now is the time for a deathless song, for a flute and voice, but no such song is forthcoming.  Now is the time for a taste of that forbidden fruit of our father’s father or of his father before him, but no such fruit offers itself in this, our manicured garden. Now is the time for all good typists to abandon their salaried cells and sterile assignments and here they are, even so, blinking their eyes to adjust to the novelty of a plain and unadorned light. As if, in the end, another hour than this present ever could or did exist, as if a minute were a stone or a cloud or anything you please other than an indecipherable whisper of a soothing breeze or as if, in the beginning, one were able to foresee anything other than what is, for now, this end….

for a time,
in the blossom shade



Jeffrey Woodward

Befriend the clouds. Study their movements throughout the four seasons and throughout the myriad changes of their day. Every cloud distinctively one and no other; every cloud constant only in change.
             Do not forget the child, an eager companion of the clouds.  Do not forget a fair  weather afternoon with a bed of grass – hands  folded behind the head, eyes fixed on the heavens – what did you see?

make of it
what you will …

             Clouds high, clouds low; clouds hurried, clouds slow. a massive cumulus cloud folding in on itself, folding out to greet you:  now a ridge and path to a peak’s summit exposed, now the scales
from neck to tail of a dragon. Or, for a time, lazily with a stem of grass for a straw, gazing into what little is there and what soon will not be:

leaving little
to the imagination –
a wisp of cloud

             Befriend the clouds. Penetrate the secret of their nature and thereby discover your own.  Let another balance the account and number what is lost and what is found.

… and if
the sky clears –


Jeffrey Woodward

What became of that young man in his proverbial garret? And why? I wake, sweating profusely, and sit up in bed. The chilly gray first light of early spring and a mourning dove’s deep cooing only are there
to greet me, still disturbed by the vivid color and action of a dream, of a memory really, of 20 or more years ago.
Staying up all night, devoting evenings to drinking coffee and excitedly discussing our most recent finds –
 now a sinuous lyric neither of us had read before, now a painting previously overlooked in
some master’s ouevre, now an Elizabethan ayre or an etude for piano perhaps – driven by shared ambitions and reciprocal rivalries, desirous of creating an art to equal that of our shifting enthusiasms.
20 or more years ago relived vividly with eyes closed – another all night session, our excited talk ending only with utter exhaustion, the two of us sitting on his tiny balcony on an early May morning as quiet
and still as Eden’s very first morning, a quiet gradually deepening with our realization that nothing more might be said, nothing more need be said:

a magnolia
through the calm

             20 or more years ago until, soon after, we slowly drifted our separate ways, my own increasingly irregular efforts to renew the friendship forestalled by his gentle evasions:  20 or more years later – the nightmare’s segue from that brilliant May morning of boundless promise and peace to a dire winter
 solstice some two or three years later, a winter solstice of discovery of such deep betrayal, when I received a tearful telephone call from the brother who found him, the segue now from the trance of sleep to  this gray, abiding light:

my friend only in a dream
forgets his suicide to bring
tidings of blossoms



(from a Vermeer painting)
 Edward Baranosky

You feel unseen eyes
Boring into your back,
Your shoulder
Turning toward the mirror,
A silent word on your lips.
A sudden gesture,
The naked teardrop earring,
The contrapposto
An unforeseen classic pose
Stopped in mid-question.
The hazy light
Muting old Amsterdam,
Lights your eyes.
But there is only one pearl;
A Malay pirate wears the twin.
The artist’s hand
Caresses the canvas.
Lost in paint,
The imprimatura of dreams
Becomes invisible.
Your almost smile stops,
A blush rises quickly
And fades slowly,
The sight of your self
Reflected in his eyes.

Edward Baranosky

Black lines of liquid light,
Flailing arms grasp for resistance
Into the night wind,
No Pieta in this scene, no
Immaculate Easter anguish.

Children will always be
Children, no secret here to reveal,
Or comforting liturgy.
But my weakness is still in my faith,
Kneel with me, Mother.

Am I not food,
Clenched in this infant’s fist?
Time passes seaward.
The crayon traces the anger
Between chattering teeth.

Who do you think gasps
For unforgiving air
So far from birth?
Am I not the toxic source
For my dying son?

What do they say I am?
Don’t human impressions
Linger past music?
These embers of burned bread
Are too late for small hands.


Carl Brennan

Lighter than dreams
the ornate sarcophagus lid
I brush aside.
My family ranged around me
stops their indistinct whispers

To me they've bequeathed
this tomb's unspeakable calm.
Here the silence wakes
a memory of dead glory:
Yes, I marshaled armies once,

routed pagan hordes –
my mind and sword unresting,
the cause pronounced just;
my name bruited, a byword
for matchless strength of purpose--

"Dracul"- much revered
wherever Christ's ensigns shone...
Something intervened
between myself and the sun,
withering all my glory

in its quick cold
embrace: as roses touched by frost
or this transformed hand...
So the honor of my name
suffers eclipse.  Still I live

as a peasant lives –
fulfilling appetite,
obedient to thirst–
an iron chain of urges
constraining my thoughts, my will;

as a townsman too,
with the wolf and bat Remorse
penned in discreetly;
but most as an old soldier
whose only pastime remains

the difficult hunt...
Let my deer secrete herself
in deepest vault
or mountain fastness, with armed
sentries posted round the clock–

I will find her.
Born to bleed, my quarry shall bleed.
Call her Lucy,
her cries taste delicious.  Pity
any who disturb our sport


Gerard John Conforti

Like day and night
coming and going
the days are the same
and the nights too
so alone with myself

the bowing winds
I feel the cold winds
freezing my face
into icy eyebrows
and melting by the fire side

if I could change
my life around I wouldn't
it was meant to be
and people do get me wrong
when some will understand


Glenn R. Frantz

by abandoned roads
         among the hills
white-wing butterfly

we stand still to hear
stone-piled fence
silent speaking
to our right and left

someone is walking...
nothing but flat
field...  i lie
down on burning rocks

now having taken
fleeing into
slowly he walks back

silent the garden
among the pale
white mountains
of stranded boulders

a voiceless flower
         singing faintly
a white butterfly

when i raised my head...
suddenly the hand
         of leaves
inquisitive breeze

over and over
garden and mountain
in a frozen
awakening time


Glenn R. Frantz

out over the lake
rain for you today
nearer and nearer
uneven shadows

after the shower...
quick, quick, out
and seek
a single droplet

After bells had rung
         also hidden
         as rain drops
in the cool evening

nightlong in the cold
         water lapping
the fallen
branches of the pine


Elizabeth Howard

vacation over
we drive winding roads
toward home
ours the only vehicle
the only headlights

lights sweep across a sign
Royal Blue
once mined and clear-cut
now reclaimed
a wildlife area

we cruise ess curves
on a foggy road
thinking of home
family and pets
mail and mower

all at once
a bull elk looms
in a hairpin turn
the wheels spin
our mouths metal


M. Kei

asking passage
of the briars,
I step deep into
the hollow forest

trash tells me
that other feet have
trod this trail,
but today
I am the first

windchimes ­
tall saplings
bare of leaves
sway and rattle
their branches

a moss carpet,
greening before
the trees
acquire new leaves
and close the forest roof

two dark birds
hopping through
the underbrush,
slated-colored, like storms
without names

last year’s
brown weeds
slowly sink beneath
a rising  tide
of new green

“nothing in haste”
the brambles remind me,
gently, slowly,
ease through
the difficult parts

the blackness of
their heads
the mating season

yellow blooms
of woodland strawberries
darkened for just a moment
by the flicker of
a bird’s passing shadow

woodland hiking ­
the youngest shades
of green being born

shining like a mirror:
the end of a discarded
beer can
before the weeds
cover it

try as I might,
these boots
trammel green things;
the crack of sticks
rebukes my heavy ways

stones at the root
of tall trees
covered in moss;
the bones, sinew, and skin
of earth himself

something large
and not human
laid down in these weeds,
made a nest,
and rested a while

looking back,
the trail I have left
is ragged
and wandering,
a stranger to this land

a sunny thicket ­
I cannot find my way
in shadows
unless I too am shadow

that trail
through a tunnel
of greenery
wasn’t made for
human beings

an orange stake
labeled “control point”
flagged with
blue and white ribbons
in the middle of the woods

discarded soda cans,
“Moon Mist” flavor
next to the stake
that calls itself
“control point”

again that
barking birdsong
I know so well,
but never have I seen
the one who sings it

walking through
tall weeds beside
the highway,
the white bones of
a deer skeleton

surprisingly human
these vertebrae,
leg bones scattered
in all directions

hollow ribs,
empty of marrow,
hollow vertebrae,
empty of will,
all things come to this

no skull nor pelvis,
but an empty soda bottle
where a heart should be,
the bones disturbed
before I ever found them

I take a path
never taken
that can never be
taken again

tall brown weeds,
their toppled stalks
point the path of
the prevailing winds

the remains
of another dead deer ­
the stench drives me back
to view gnawed leg bones
and a torn pelt

a nest of dead grass
where the doe first lay,
her leg bones torn away
and licked clean by
something hungry

those first bones
were so very small ­
without the dead doe
I would have never
known the fawn

a bramble rose
snags my sleeve ­
a reminder of
this living world
about to bloom

a faint perfume
from a tree with
pale flowers,
this too is a thing for which
I have no name

clumps of
yellow blooming weeds
in this field
it is I am who am
useless and unwanted

I want to go home now ­
this forest no longer
gives me passage,
brambles and deadfalls
block my way

thorns grab
my clothes and
hold me back,
but this rock
offers me a place to rest

this cool breeze,
this bed of wild
strawberries in bloom,
bird calls all around . . .
perhaps I shouldn’t leave

in these
freshly toppled weeds,
I recognize my own trail
and follow myself back
to whence I came

after the woods,
the bleeding hearts
planted by
a previous tenant
are pleasantly domestic

pungent green air ­
the smell of the woods
clings to my shirt

my black boots
still in the shower,
drying off
after hiking
through the woods


Sanford Goldstein
(these unpublished poems
were taken from my tanka diary of l968;
in the sixties and seventies,
hardly anyone knew tanka,
though some of mine got through –
now I am 81)

seeing my dad
alone in the kitchen
drinking beer,
I realize something of
what being seventy may be

I avert my eyes
in the college corridors
these days,
not wanting to play the phony
ready to agree, ready to make a point

my mind
so full of thought these days –
even at breakfast,
don't want to see my kids
beside me playing with their food

like my dog under this chair,
I want to sit,
to rest, at the feet
of a master

what's happened to
not to think, not to think?
these days
my skull's riddled
with thought and doubt

can't sit still
this summer day,
walk for coffee,
scribble some poems,
take notes and toss my book aside

that face
caught in my car's lights,
was it lonely
or did I make it so
this summer night?

my kid
squirting his gun
at bugs
at red and white flowers
this summer afternoon


In this first sequence I have linked the 5 tanka with two things.  One with the repeating "I dream" in every fifth line. And the second link is with the various shapes and textures that are considered dreamlike.
Terra Martin

these feathers
lazily afloat now
drifting down
in wispy curls
I dream


field poppies
the crossroad aflame
the rising phoenix
in love's ashes
I dream


Queen Anne's lace
intricate, delicate
a survivor
I dream


the dandelion seed
as if a crystal ball
borne on the wind
carried by a wish
I dream


late summer light
on a granite stone
ears of wheat
in a golden harvest
I dream



In this second sequence I have linked all the verses that involve light changed a few of the lines around so that light/dark themes interplay touching on metaphors of light and dark with the bible and devil suggested.
Terra Martin

a sliver of light
shows the way
branches parting
to a leather bound

late summer light
on a granite stone
ears of wheat
the gold of harvest
stored in a seed

the dandelion seed
as if a crystal ball
borne on the wind
to the land
of the midnight sun

northern lights
in a dance of veils
like a roused genie
you quicken
my desire

rising phoenix
at the crossroad aflame
devil's sunset
forgiveness scattered
in love's ashes



I have linked all the textures of
nature threading them throughout to create an emotional translation of a situation by suggesting a beginning, middle and end.
Terra Martin

rough hewn bark
the cracked pigment
of a canvas
between furrows
a tilled smile

Queen Anne's lace
intricate, delicate
a survivor
I sew the seams
torn by thorny words

white heather
across the moor
a bridal dress
waits by an open

a tangle of roots
and alligators
in murky waters
our veiled secrets

an hour glass
on a granite stone
trickling time
the gold of harvest
stored in a grain



In this 4th sequence I have taken the original single tanka (which is the first one in this sequence. Then I have built a whole new theme around it. Using feathers as the introduction and moving the second tanka into drum beats, third into Dallin's bronze, fourth to an elder and fifth finishing with a wooden flute. It took on a native Indian element from tanka 2-5.
Terra Martin


these feathers
lazily afloat now
drifting down
in wispy curls
I dream


the beat of a drum
as the spirit moves
I let the rain
wash over me


the open arms
of Dallin's bronze
Appeal To the Great Spirit
I plant next year's


an elder
dances in a circle
awakening the past
I tell the stories
of how we met


a soothing tone
from a wooden flute
I come of age
and am nurtured
by sweet memories



This fifth sequence is a variation on the 4th sequence "Dancing Spirits"  I start off with the same tanka and move in yet another direction.
Terra Martin

these feathers
lazily afloat now
drifting down
in wispy curls
I dream


the pink crystals
of the fragrant grass
a rosy sparkle
when friends mention
your name


quaking grass
it's lantern-shaped tail
silver and white
so tender the love
I hide


upright and open
in a haze
I invent things to do
  to stop thoughts of you


  pampas grass
with it's slender strand
waving a flag
I try to come to terms
with this piercing love



Linda Papanicolaou

show barn –
the blue-ribbon heifer's
polished hooves

a gingham cover
on each pickle jar

two farmers in their
John Deere caps discussing

corn dogs
my fingers sticky pink
with cotton candy

grandmother almost
wins the raffle

midway lights
stretch out beneath
the ferris wheel



Linda Papanicolaou

zoo fence –
the lions' outdoor

a group of city children
in their camp T-shirts

this way to the seals
rhinos polar bears – that way
zebras tigers wolves

penguins chimps giraffes but
no more elephants – they died

how silently
the animals line up
at feeding time

the silverback gazing past
people making monkey faces


The German haiku poet and artist Georg Jappe died on March 15, 2007. He was an avid bird watcher as well as one of Germany’s best early haiku poets.
Jane Reichhold

vom Zaum
um neues grünes Gras
ein auffliegender Vogel

from a fence
around new green grass
a rising bird

gegen den Himmel
die Form seiner Flügel
sein Gedicht

against the sky
the shape of his wings
his poem

braun und ganz dünn
sein Buch

brown and very thin
his book

Worte als Zeichen
in die Zukunft weisend
wir fligen nicht allein

words as signs
pointing to the future
we fly not alone



Alan Reynolds

small Holland town
whose houses ride big farms
across broad polders diked against
cool sea.

Eyes tear
as bikes bite wind
and pedals churn
through fields that dream they're still beneath
that sea.

A hawk
we see, don't hear
preys meters to our south
and ten above us as she hangs
to stoop.

Green hangs
near Blue today.
And Grey, soft-edged as Spring,
takes wing and kisses wet flat land
to life.

'False light' -
sun shopped through clouds -
bathes ewes who show their new black lambs
old paths up dikes to freshest grass.
Crows wait.


Alan Reynolds

He walks
their balky dog
through rain to a phone cell
to check how she spends Christmas Day.

No crowd,
just her, her phone.
No spouse, no child's delight.
No prize. No party feast for four.

He talks,
half soaked, alert,
the phone cell light with love.
Wet rubber boots, dog left outside

At home
his wife puts kids
to bed, and says, ‘sleep tight’
and goes upstairs to take a call

Ashley Rodman
 autumn cold
 a dark fish skims
 my toes
 falling leaf
 the starling flock
 changes shape
 the crisscross
 of popcorn strings
 autumn begins
 the warmth
 of morning blankets
 having you back
 evening mist
 yellow leaves cover
 the red
 an open door
 autumn clouds
 the kettle
 dark house
 a wrinkled pumpkin
 in the window
 late autumn
 silence in the trees
 wakes me
 gold mums
 young cousins gather
 the centerpiece


Short nights and long days
sleep loss rustles a friction
echoing in bed
the cycle of cravings
over and over again


Rises with
the lingering shadow
of the dream:
the serpent of love
tickles between the thighs


The body that died
and the body that quivered
with menstruation
is me in dream fear and hope
shake love to light the flame


The cocktail of drink
drug and meditation –
nightly yelps
tease unshared guilt
the hell of silence


(a sequence in English and Spanish)

CarrieAnn Thunell

a heart

beat away from me

my mate conducts

the wind to his garden

of bamboo chimes


I with spade

and he with shovel

turn the turning Earth

Gaia is greening

beneath swallow song


in the


a greening community


together we plant

a western red cedar




we search row after row

             of perennials

for native plants

to build a habitat


the lawn replaced

with a sprinkling of flowers

native trees and shrubs—

rabbits and birds attend

the opening ceremony




beneath our cherry tree


the contentment

of bees



CarrieAnn Thunell


un golpe del corazón

lejos de mí mi compañero

realiza el viento

a su jardín

de carillones de bamboo


yo con pala

y con él con pala

palas la Tierra de la vuelta

Gaia llega a ser verde

traga abajo la canción


en el jardín

una comunidad vueltas a verde



un cedro rojo


tienda de jardín de la primavera—

buscamos las muchas filas

de las plantas perennes

para plantas natives

para construir un habitat


el césped reemplazó

con flores dispersadas

árboles y arbustos natives

los conejos y los pájaros asisten

la ceremonia de apertura


nos sentamos

abajo de nuestro cerezo


el contento

de las abejas



Diana Webb

of great white poppies,
a fountain plays

mute swans glide by,
their ebony marks

she knows
but does not speak,
showing the way

into the wood
leaf by mellowed leaf

at bedtime,
'Please can I do
a moon rubbing?'

that first date,
his highly polished shoes

just a a slip on the ice-
within days
two burials

here on this spot
their shared ancestry

a picture of girls
in Victorian dress
their hair in ringlets

today a different ribbon,
this one's for hearts

through diamond panes
of the church window
magnolia blooms

Gregorian Easter chant,
the peace of music





the power cut
blinds us with darkness
that was always there
like a cherished belief

                                William Hart


jammed in traffic
by the entourage
of a bigwig
we coin sarcasms
to speed his passing

                                                       William Hart


his poet's mind
formerly a kingdom
now stalks two rooms
bewildered by memories
of flying

William Hart

Please judge me not too harshly
for leaving my shanty place.

I longed for a land paved with gold
where no one ever sleeps hungry.

Have you heard of sex for food,
please judge me not too harshly.

Victor P. Gendrano

it is almost closing time
here at my favorite bar

I ask for yet another drink
this one for the road I said

I did not tell anybody
that today is my birthday

 Victor P. Gendrano


the visiting son laments
his loss of their backyard tree

where as a teen he carved a heart
to express his very first love

his widower dad explains
twice there I tried to hang myself
                                                     Victor P. Gendrano

as I brush mom's golden hair
she keeps talking to unseen friends

she accepts me now as a friend
in the hospice where she lives

sometimes I wonder if she knows
I am her least-liked daughter

 Victor P. Gendrano


He searches for his daughter
in the desert of broken dreams.

She joined others to try their luck
to cross the border north of them.

Above, he hears a vulture's shriek
somewhere close by a feeble cry.

                     Victor P. Gendrano


I could not help but help her
the old lady with a walker.

Guiding her slowly to the car
she rewarded me with a smile.

Right then and there from distant past
she is my late wife and mom.

 Victor P. Gendrano



this early spring night
with the waning half-moon shining
through the thin clouds
I wonder whether you will
try to hang on like the snow

c w hawes


my hand
caressing your cheek your breast
this afternoon
the hands of the clock
stroking the time to part
 c w hawes


and no breath
of wind
in the stillness
chanting of prayers
c w hawes



by Carrie Ann Thunell

Hiking down to the beach
on the wild wet Olympic Coast.

Sunlight shines on water
sparkling like diamonds on each wave.

Bright blue sky yields to dusk,
sun sinks past rising opal moon.


by CarrieAnn Thunell

Moonlit night, ocean waves
swirl in silver phosphorescence.

Kayak dips, bobs and glides
between jagged sea stacks in dusk.

The incoming -tide swells
engulfing wet cliffs and my heart.


 Alan Reynolds

All Will 
and no talent. 
All I share with Shakespeare
is thinking on bad nights we both 
are dead.




Copyright © by Designated Authors in 2007


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