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Kimberly Cleversey – To Look For Love
Robert Dawson – Trail Clearing
Ryan Dodge – The Spice of Life
Samir Georges – Prayers to None
Scot Jamieson – Rainy Summer Night
Erica Lewis – Kings and Queens
Greg Scott – Downtown Pronking
Mary Ellen Sullivan – Seasonal Bites
Elzy Taramangalam – Winged Words
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Listen to the earth,
Build on the rock,
Grow in the loam and
Become the salt.
Listen to the water,
Plumb the depths,
Read the currents,
Ride the crests.
Listen to the fire,
Dance with its flames,
Let it leaven your soul
And warm your heart.
Listen to the air,
Its rustle and whisper.
Ride up with the wind
To reach your selfish view.
The music beckons all to dance,
But many miss their step;
And many ears are deaf to the song
Of the mysterious quartet.
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Chin to chest
hand in hand rests,
my prayers to none
muttered to myself,
lo the answers lay
here within my palms,
lo the answers wait
for this hope’s breath and life,
to unfold these hands in blooming faith
and reveal the scripture on my palms
these truths bestowed unto me
up from my heart’s beleaguered toil,
and so my faith is found
in nothing but myself
and these hands that hold themselves.
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Soft prayers at the lake
sweet notes of the hermit thrush
hot summer barrens
On this granite ridge
images of you return
blue heron in flight
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Seasonal Bites (Haiku for Farmers’ Markets)
Mary Ellen Sullivan
Moms in sundresses
Widows remember sweet babes
Life cycles gently.
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green eyes
but when she cries they turn blue
we are the same person
except
I have 2 years on her
so most days I am re living the same stupid
paranoid
immature mistakes I made
2 years ago
from a female perspective
lately I have been in a fog as well
like when we had indoor recess
then we had to tackle math for an hour and a half
and I’d stare at the page
or pretend I was breaking Mr. Willmore’s nose
I did the right thing
I left this mess
and went surfing for a month in Nova Scotia
my friends even said I looked different
I looked refreshed
back to my old self
carefree
I came back for her
at least now I know
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One of the greatest discoveries in my day
Is the explanation of our DNA;
Our fate is written in our genes,
And it matters not what we do, it seems.
So, there’s your excuse,
It’s never your fault,
Just remember this poem
If, and when, you’re caught;
And protest to the judge
(Just wink and say)
“I’m innocent, Judge,
My genes made me this way,
I certainly know better, or so it seems,
But, Judge, it all is in my genes;
I wouldn’t have done it”, is what I would say;
“It was pre-determined in my DNA
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red wine river, silent lover
felt the vision in the evening
that I had of him,
draped across the most familiar landscape,
the cliffs of nineteen ninety nine
of fear and my most intimate
relations. hope is the most
beautiful language and
I would speak it all to you
(mouth of coral, pronouncing lines
with an inquiring lilt, gently,
disturbed water in a still pond) for
you were not the bulb I planted
in the final hours of autumn
but the stone I tossed in anger
out into the ocean who returned to me
in the rhythm of a stream, thick with clay.
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Saoirse endear as Killarney’s red deer
Passing pelts, Irish elk and a wolf in the woodlands
Through the green and gold floras to Cork, Aherla
Persevere passed the pall back from Béal na Bláth.
Saoirse appear and repair what once seared
Without fear when the bullets there speared
Saoirse endear as a river runs clear in Kildare
Endear seas of despair.
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The light of dawn against a window pressed;
the blue-lit sky, it sings in fading breath,
to dance an orbit in a court of jest
as distant stars surrender to their death.
The constellations wink their games of love,
while progeny of kings and queens will play
amidst the stardust shimmering above,
with citrus in full bloom this endless day.
The peacock, feathered, will adorn the scene,
and bless the banquet and the feast of moon;
the galaxies above in lightful stream
as birds of paradise now sing their tune.
Upon a chessboard, kings hypothecate;
the falling of the night, their queens await.
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I pause in passing to see my wife
deep in sleep and gone from this universe,
her soft small shoulder folded over a
rising/falling, rising/falling frail frame,
clutching, as it were, the exhaustion of the day…
Her familiar quiescent face,
framed by locks of silvered tangle,
portrays (thankfully) an innocent oblivion
to the urgent realities which, waking,
will vigorously stir within her yearnings
for a world of blunted spears and
neighbour-care.
For now, hers is a guileless slumber
before the break: at peace with the past,
attuned to tomorrow, at one with now…
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What the heck!
You were mad 3 hours ago
Now you’re here
Not the Libra I envisioned many moons ago
You are very much my right hand man
As in tune as the star eons away
You guide me
Through and through
You are the rock to my hard place
I’d never trade you
Though tomorrow I may say that
Now I feel I have to say
You’ll be my bestie until my day’s end
I love you, friend
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Winged Words
Elzy Taramangalam
Honey bee, bumble bee, cuckoo bee
Mason bees and leaf-cutter bees
Without bees
There is no honey
To put on a toast
Or fruits and veggies to eat.
Sans their buzzing grace
To sanctify our meals
We are toast
Human race
Lend your ear, heart and mind
To protect bees; do penance
Get them humming on wings
So our dreams don’t end
And the world goes round
On a wing and a prayer.
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To Look for Love
Kimberly Cleversey
If i’m looking i’m also using –
excusing
what doesn’t make me smile
or lighten the loneliness i’ve felt for a while.
wanting a love that i can’t seem to find
while under the influence of a fully conscious mind.
i keep taking the hits without any care
and i’m trying to work with whatever is there.
i’m not even aware.
because how can i know something i’ve never met
while i’m filled up with heartaches i’ll never forget.
i’m scared to pursue when i’m scared to regret
another innocent lover who is lost and upset.
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Trail Clearing (Villanelle)
by Robert Dawson
After three hours in the pouring rain
with axes, saws, and clippers clearing trail,
we see our destination new again.
Though some deadfalls and details still remain
for later, it is time for us to bail,
after three hours in the pouring rain.
We triumph now, although we may complain;
through raindrops blowing sideways on the gale,
we see our destination new. Again
we straggle homeward. We need not explain
to any who have lived through such travail,
after three hours in the pouring rain,
how welcome and how pleasant to attain
the fireside will be. We’ll tell the tale,
and see our destination new again.
We have endured the weather and the pain.
We did not lose the way. We did not fail.
After three hours in the pouring rain,
we see our destination new again.
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Nothing is what I expected of you
And nothing is what I got from you
Knowing that nothing is what you would do
So why be surprised when I see nothing from you
The end is coming and means nothing to you
Nothing you can say
Nothing you can do
Nothing will change my mind
As I’m nothing to you
Its cool though…
Because I’m nothing to me too!
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In the context of late nights and sullen hearts,
The blind can see—their eyes shine brighter
Than mine could ever be.
And in the moonlight, in open courtyards—
Harbour lines—lovers shout,
Finding peace of a different kind.
Tidal waves crash at their feet,
To weaken faith—and personify
The hidden fear… The evil wraith
Which whispers to her at night—
The cause of her torment—doubt—
Which, in her heart, ferments.
In the context of late nights and sullen hearts,
The blind believe—their hearts are light;
They listen to the tales lovers weave.
Even I know their time is bound to pass,
I watch sweethearts part—a tender kiss—
Else misfortune breaks their hearts.
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fire feet dance
the Trappist home
tucked in heavy
fog blankets
He will walk the line tomorrow…
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Just want to let you know I’m here
Watching over your from far or near
Sometimes things make me mad and sad
Other times they make me glad
You don’t know where I am
Could I be I there or is it a sham
Look about and around
To see if I am on the ground
I’ll always be somewhere
No matter if it’s here or there
Come find me if you can
With your band
Of people who think they are powerful and
mighty
Instead they are only flighty
Now close your eyes and picture my face
That is filled with Grace
It is now the time to look for me
As I know you want to be free
Let me help you as I am near
Where here
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I could feel your breath on my skin
As you held me while I slept
Touched me through those cold dark nights
Can’t remember exactly what you were or why you left
You came from nowhere to bring me everything
Then took it all away
Quietly I wait
Patiently for your arrival
Secretly for your return
You have been here from the beginning
Each time I never realized the power that you possessed
Until you were finally gone
I have looked in your eyes a thousand times
Rejoiced in your life of happiness
Felt death in your times of sadness
Although I’m not sure I ever knew you
Still quietly I wait
Patiently for your arrival
Secretly for your return
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It’s sunrise
Most people are asleep
But I
Am awake
And up down by the sea
I hear the birds singing songs
I see the waves rippling in the water
Along the shore
I see starfish, shells and rocks
It’s sunrise
Most people are asleep
But I
Am awake
And up down by the sea
Meditating and spending time
Alone with nature
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Tarps (out of the elements)
Poem by Ryan Taylor
I feel it in my hands
I feel it just arrived
the shivers of the spine
it is all on way
and here pours the wine
wine onto the page
not having drunk a sip
not drunk nor …
not drunk nor nothing
but here I fell it coming
the shivers sent me back
sat back in my seat
and waited for the rain to cease
the wine left over,
should I try it?
or the new bottle?
I feel it my arms
it is the ache of bones
the clash of joints
the hang over.
I feel the knees sore,
and the knuckles shake,
the memory jogged by blues and
mad dog. ‘Mad dog.’ vanished
vanquished to the streets.
This is also where we sent his
daft cancer cells,
disappear you drunkards
take off and lay in your filth.
Let us be wild blues singers,
playing in the park,
playing on the benches;
and sleeping under tarps.
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Rainy Summer Night
Scot Jamieson
Cooler air balloons the curtains,
then a moister, sighing chill
ghosts across the sill, uncertain,
giving my exposed skin a thrill.
The leaves of backyard poplar trees
stir and raise their papery voice,
a passing car approaches, flees,
to somewhere set, or random-choice?
Continuous now, the rain descends
on chimneys, rooftops, balconies,
porches, sidewalks, fences, gardens,
flowers, mushrooms, vines and leaves.
Dry, inside’s my circumstance . . .
far off, a distant ambulance.
Open Heart Forgery 