Contributors:

Greg Braquet
Lorin Ford
Laryalee Fraser
Frederick Kesner
Robert Lucky
Cynthia Ludlow
Simone Mandana
Francis Masat
Jo McInerney
Kenneth Moore
Gautam Nadkarni
Adelaide B. Shore
Maureen Sexton
Rodney A. Williams
Jeffrey Woodward

glints on web
spider basks in
summer yarns
 
    simone mandana
 
 
petal by petal
you fall and wither
wintered flower

The monsoon wind -
blowing through the trees
each leaf whistles

    Frederick Kesner
 
 
summer night ~
i hum softly as
the crickets sing 

the winter sun
gives no warmth ~
even shadows shiver

winter end ~
a cigarette packet
lies by a gravestone

summer rains ~
inside the raincoat
is a toddler
 
first rain ~
the smell of wet earth
tickles my nostrils
 
    Gautam Nadkarni
 
 

in the long grass                                                                        
behind the shed                                                                          
a rustling
 
    Kenneth Moore
 

 
the winter dusk
willing to meet me
halfway
 
between
the two chairs,
a winter evening
 
    Jeffrey Woodward
 
 
baby’s breath
so delicate
mine catches
 
derelict shopfront
‘under new management’ sign
askew
 
 alone
she turns her wedding ring
in its groove
 
    Jo McInerney
 

boot camp –
my first taste
of snow
 
hurricane past –
a stray cat
decides to stay
 
spring afternoon –
watching our shadows
make love too
 
    Francis Masat
 
 
reading
between the lines
in your letter
I feel the man I was
falling through the gaps
 
at his funeral
no one knows
what to say -
generic phrases mould
a life out of death
 
    Robert Lucky
 
 

The Swish of Time

The Harlem Valley Rail Line, opened in 1852, running 127 miles north from New York City to Chatham. Now, the last 50 miles is a hiking trail. My husband and I begin our walk in Millerton, a village at the southern end of the trail.

An embankment on either side, ten, twelve feet high, layers of stratified rock pressed one on the other, jagged edges, smooth flat surfaces, glistening with the run-off from melting snow. Clumps of moss cling to them, filling in the spaces like green mortar. On both sides clear water gurgling… puddling at the base. In the shaded sections, ice still on the path.

I imagine a train rolling through, steam engine chugging, smoke stack spewing black smoke, whistle blowing, kids waving from the tops of the embankments. At the stations along the line, loading docks busy with commerce from the nearby mills and farms, keeping the City fed. Local folks going from town to town to shop, visit, attend school. Weekenders up from the City to hunt, hike and dine at the hotels built just for the leisure trade.

lengthening shadows
pursued by the cold
we hurry our steps
   
   Adelaide B. Shaw
 


crisp breeze
a gull's shadow breaks
from the pilings
 
lowered flag -
two swallows
wing  past
 
"Grandma, a push?"
her sneakers scuff
the curve of the sky
 
    Laryalee Fraser
 

 
new year’s day –
bushfire ash
along the beach
 
first day of school –
an empty bird’s nest
on the ground
 
hills hoist –
a spider’s web
in the corner
 
rain clouds -
cat asleep under
the bird bath
   
    Maureen Sexton
 
 
traffic jam
a prone kelpie
on the verge

winter sunshower
a pumpkin flowering
in the cow dung

evenfall
the moorhen
swops feet
 
    Cynthia Ludlow
 
 

an east wind
blows the surf beach bare
of fish –
no bites when I cast
for the teeth of your smile
  

black
cockatoos fly low
overhead
a toddler points
waving bye-bye
 
firetail
finches rouge-red in rump
brow and beak –
seeding grassland astir
with this hint of her lips
 
    Rodney A. Williams
 
 
bora ring
lantana pushing through
the melaleuca

distant siren –
a lorikeet’s underwing
flashes red

rainforest gloom
a shower of leaves
catches the light

    Quendryth Young
 
 
a seagull
claims the sandcastle ...
incoming tide
 

long drought –
boulder lichen
holds on
 
cricket–
seagulls vs plovers
on the outfield
 
even the names
in the shade have faded –
memorial park
 
express train
a hag's apparition
at the window
 
anzac parade –
swallows swoop over
the eternal flame
 
    Lorin Ford
 
 

At the Hospital
 
Daily visiting my mother for the week’s duration of her hospital stay, my attention often wandered to the opposite side of the room where lay a diminutive elderly woman, a fellow hospital-room inmate, whose hair was cottony white and thin, her skin wrinkled and papery in appearance. 

Not once did this woman speak nor demonstrate the slightest cognizance of our presence.  There at her bedside table, a fresh, crisp chrysanthemum held vigil.  Outside the window, the vibrant reds and yellows of autumn leaves afforded other distractions.
On occasions when my mother’s own weakness and medicated state made her too drowsy to speak, I was left with little to do but focus on the mute and aging presence opposite my mother’s bed.  The white-haired stranger that I stared at stared, in her turn, directly at the white ceiling.  Or perhaps her eyes were closed.  Nor was she disturbed, so far as I could see, by any well-wishing visitors.  Perhaps a member of the hospital staff provided the chrysanthemum.
The day of my mother’s discharge from the hospital came, a mild and clear October morning of brilliant and unimpeded natural light.  I attended her room with other family members. 
I noticed, for the first time since I’d been coming, that the elderly woman’s bed --- that ancient woman without living relative or visitor --- was empty and freshly made, although her flower, as lively, crisp and fresh as ever, still graced the vase on the bedside table.  I asked my mother if her roommate’s release had preceded her own, then.  But, in a hushed tone, I was informed that the lady had died during the previous night …
 
not once did it leave
the sick woman’s side ---
a white chrysanthemum
 
 
    Jeffrey Woodward
 
 
 
 

SENRYU SEQUENCE
 
    Snake Farm

Six Miles to Snake Farm
We slither with excitement
Three Miles to Snake Farm

We shed our patience
Curl in a station wagon
On a day outing

Snake Farm Just Ahead
We rattle and swallow big
Preparing to strike

Welcome To Snake Farm
We pounce through pits crawling with
Moving mounds of life

Wide-eyed tongue flickers
The hiss and spit of venom
The big boa bows

We constrict and play
Serpents, lizards and alligators
The two headed frog

And all the way home
A talking snake-head, stick toy
Keeps telling the tale

    Greg Braquet
 
 

given up smoking
he says as he reaches 
for his pipe
 
he writes verse
but his bread and butter
is the bakery
 
 

a teetotaler ~
 
he reads Omar Khayyam
 
between Cokes
 
 

at the used cars shop
 
the dealer puckers his lips ~
 
selling a lemon
 
 
    Gautam Nadkarni