View Issue vol. 6, no. 8
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Jasmine Chater – Cedrus Libani
Harry Garrison – Shakespearean Haiku
Cathy Hanrahan – The Harvester
Carol Jollymore – All Hallows Eve
Mike McFetridge – Something To Be
Deepthi Rajashekar – First Flight
Bethana Sullivan – The Night the Forest Fell
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We were lovers once
(and in love)
we held hands as we sang and waltzed
past the shops near the pier
we sipped café au lait and warmed up
in that cozy place on the boardwalk
we laughed, brushed cheeks
we were lovers once.
now we navigate alone
on cold and bitter seas
toward our own dusky shores
and if not for – if not for that…
and how the future
vanished with sighs, wrapped in whys
we were lovers once (and in love)
now this gulf, our divide
converts to our peacemaker.
in still and quiet separation
we row each toward our own beach
(we were lovers once, and in love)
hear hollow wooden echoes
where oars rub in the oarlocks
and clunk against creaking hulls
like the lonely knocks
within our dull hearts.
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i read the end
before i read the
middle
i did it during Silent Reading
in Socks
and with The Mouse and the Motorcycle
and i do it
still
with those articles
the ones that are abstruse;
the ones that use words like “abstruse”
and i do it in Us
i do it in “We”
i see the end before i see the middle: “we were.”
“we aren’t.”
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All Hallows Eve
Carol Jollymore
As pumpkins ripen in the patch
Gusting fingers pry the latch
They poke and shinny down the flue
And fan the burning embers hue.
Puff and blow the shutters shake
Broken louvres rattle make
Pumpkins, squash their leaves aflutter…
Window pane repeat the stutter.
The children heed this strange tattoo,
Our pulses race, we hail it too!
All mortals join the wild reprieve
And celebrate All Hallows Eve.
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He won’t go, He won’t go away
He won’t go, He won’t go away
“Boom clack boom clack boom clack” he say
“Take that take that take that” he say
He won’t go, he won’t go to school
He won’t go, he won’t go to school
He’s spinning like thread on a spool
He’s spinning like thread on a spool
Genius in a mason jar,
roll away you won’t get far
Spinning head and shimmering eyes
Jack in the box- Surprise! Surprise!
He comes from away where valleys meet
Like heated touch before retreat
To be here is to be a kite-flying,
grounded – stayed by might
Might he go or might he stay
His hands are here his heart is away
His heart is there his hands want to stay
But heart is where your home is
and home is in your soul
He is a soul divided;
division will take its toll
Will take its toll, will take its toll.
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Shakespearean Haiku
Kudavi by Harry Garrison
There’s many pretty
pink and purple private-part
blossoms in the Spring.
The whole of Summer
is greater that the sum of
its summery parts.
The green leaves the leaves.
They become many-coloured
poetry, and Fall.
Now is the Winter
of our blow-out sales
event! Hurry in!
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The Night The Forest Fell
Bethana Sullivan
Forever the sound of the night was shrieks,
hellions thundering down upon the forest
scythe the limbs from the trees
dropping trunks like pickup sticks
among topsy-turvy root balls.
A shock wave of destruction splits the air
another tree topples.
Chasing safety propels us to the firehall
gives helter to fears like a mother’s hug
while CBC talks us through the night, Moses like
I ought to be afraid
but excitation exuberates the air
lights flicker off, on…
an exultation of power unseen,
a moment unknown
in the lexicon of my life
I ride the magic carpet night
until the slivered light streaks the dawn
falling Humpety-Dumpety-like
into the broken forest.
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where is the purpose
where is the plan
autumnal proclivities
the purview of Pan
the woods are on fire
so too the fields
the sun is incendiary
well, that’s how it feels
oranges are flaming the pumpkins and trees
reds char the apples intense and unreal
riotous colours unquenchable now
the question I ponder
quite simply is how
gold lights the corn stalks, the wheat
and the grain
silver the rivers with fleeting disdain
yellow is fired where once it was not
and now bisque is blazing
pray tell will it stop
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I will break you
as waves upon the rocks.
I will wear you down
as the ocean makes smooth,
pebbles upon the beach.
I will be your holy water,
your crucifix,
your silver bullet,
the mirror
that refuses your reflection.
I will hunt you
in the light of full moon.
Monochromatic beam
settles into the cracks
of your façade,
exposing the beast within.
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The cruise ship knows its way
The passenger cruise their way
Relaxing, eating and drinking
To hearts content all the way
Only limited to weeks or days
Enjoy the sunshine and the pool
Don’t eat and drink like a fool
For you’ll regret it very soon
When your pounds add up
Cool moderation is the name of the game
Leave your chores and worries
Things you did daily in a hurry
A new pace of life and leisure
Unbounded joy and pleasure
Your dream cruise to treasure.
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His rake tugs gently, tearing the silky strands
while he is perched most precariously
upon my namesake, the dory
Muscles of steel and backbone of ire
slowly bend with the rhythm of the rake
Sturdy harvester of the rubbery seaweed
that he is so careful to take
without lasting harm.
The spray from the waves washes moist
as he fastens the hoist
that weighs today’s bounty
And it’s a good day’s harvest.
My lover’s toil is not the soil
but the sea
and the dory holds his catch
and wears my name, Marie
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Pulling and hauling,
lust is all tension.
Eyes seek, gaze draws
searching attention.
When eyes engage
they snag intention.
Words false or true
give intent extension.
Lips offer bliss
in baited distention.
It could be love
or its pretension.
Tension released,
what can portend?
By-catch cast back or
Prize catch, retention.
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Jack rides his dog like a horse.
Gallantly. Simply.
Jack’s dog has hooves.
The Beast.
Jack says he found his dog-horse in the forest.
Lies.
I know where Jack got him.
What he sold for him.
Too much.
Jack thinks I don’t see, but I do.
Enough.
Jack’s name is stolen, too, from his father.
Thief.
Jack gave Red too much for his dog.
Heartless.
I’m going to tell on Jack when I can.
Redemption.
I’ll take away his beast forever.
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Confessions from a Leather Armchair
Paul Healy
As I was tearing the heart from the lung;
Ripping the mouth from around the tongue;
Turning to steal the soul from the mind;
I smiled and acted kind.
At a bosom with an open sore
I sucked on life and asked for more.
A nipple cracked, a mothers’ scream,
Made me smile: made me dream.
I rode roaring giants around the earth.
Life just shrunk from my toxic mirth.
I bashed, I belted, I fought and I won.
What’s life for if you can’t have fun?!
A serious frown furrows my brow.
Business first and here and now!
A clever disguise can fool yourself
Into attaining outrageous wealth.
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First Flight
Deepthi Rajashekar
Gallons of milk clouds,
creaming up to the sun
Fused with clear waters,
kissing the edge of a shore
Sun rays like a ladder,
from infinity to infinity
Blue to white as if,
the sky had spaces,
ocean fingers could fit into…
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Something To Be
Mike McFetridge
Up at five, to work by six;
Day after day, it’s no easy trick;
But such is the life of the person who works
Believing that duty is nothing to shirk;
A working class hero is something to be
According to Lennon, and I tend to agree.
A life can be lived simply working like this;
Work first and play later is one kind of bliss;
The satisfaction it brings one is easy to see;
At the end of each day, the mind is at ease;
According to Lennon, and I tend to agree,
A working class hero is something to be.
Yes, a working class hero is something to be;
Until your work is fun, then you’re just like me.
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Acrid smell of asphalt
As rain first pelts
Naso labial sneer
As nostrils flare
Impenetrable membrane
As insatiable the quench
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a marvel of the Mediterranean
evergreen coniferous tree
with clusters of needle-like leaves
in hues of green from
an Edward Lear scene
dimorphic shoots short and long
the trunk, dark grey, stands tall and strong
abundant in altitudes of
thousands of meters
a national emblem:
the Lebanese Cedar
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I am a runner.
I am always running.
I am afraid, of the truth.
I am scared that you won’t
like me. I am always running.
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Red Maples
Rondeau by Jim Hoyle
Dry fallen leaves interred by plough
invested, once, a higher bough.
Disturbing such a tranquil spread
disturbs the peace; it mocks the dead
and silent now.
Though living once, I ponder how
in death they keep their ruddy glow
alive, as Autumn’s heralded
by fallen leaves.
Just symbols, now, of death; I bow
to naked trees which have endowed
this pasture with a cloth so red
it seems that all the world has bled
in sympathy and stained somehow
the fallen leaves.
Open Heart Forgery 
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