jazz cricket by Rethabile Masilo

on the
way home I
noticed
a cricket
playing
in the park,
and stopped
to see how
it placed
the yellow
brass to
its lips; I
stood there
on the grass
a while,
wondering
how flowers
tint cloth,
blend scent,
scissor their
kangas*
to good size.


*kangas are the sarong type cloths worn by women in various parts of Africa.

Rethabile Masilo, France

Un cor by Johannes Beilharz

In memory of Catherine

On the toe between your middle toe and your little toe of your left foot
(the »ring toe«)


You, as a whole, the one I said I feel like eating entièrement sometimes


And, if I'm not mistaken, an instrument, brass


The on-and-off honking of cars I hear while we’re on the phone, cruising going on along a desolate main street in Haute Marne, yellow lights impinging on dust and the occasional dog


While not a noise is heard behind the hermetic glass panes of my far-away empty house–


Johannes Beilharz, Germany


[Poet's Note: This plays with French to an extent that might make it meaningless for readers not familiar with French, hence a brief explanation:“cor” can refer to a corn, the undesirable thing one might have on a toe, or to a horn (musical instrument). The word “corps” (for body) is pronounced the same as “cor”, and there is yet another phonetic similarity – “un cor” and “encore” (still) – the title plays with.]

Bamboo Hut Poem by J D Nelson

Small aircraft overhead,
trucks rumbling on Hwy 7,
lawnmowers --

The poets of old
didn't have these
distractions.

(The whine
of a Japanese
motorcycle engine)


J D Nelson, Colorado, USA

A Gift Of Desert Sand by Michael Lee Johnson

I wish to offer you
a possession, but all
precious things have
been given to you-
diamond rings from weary strangers,
fine linen weaved by foreign hands;
but a nomad owns little,
scavenges much.
For this reason, I write
warm words in dry wilderness,
hijack a private plane,
parachute down to you
this short poem, a gift
of desert sand, a gift
from desert sky.


Michael Lee Johnson, Chicago, USA

towards summer by Janet Butler

minutes grow heavy
plump with promise
late spring blues packed in tight
weighted with white sands
burnished by winds
that drift from there
just there beyond that line
bursting now to color
then fading to night
momentary demarcation
where sight becomes vision
and longing drifts hungrily towards
the ever-desired elusive perfect summer


Janet Butler, Pittsburgh, USA

Late Spring by Mike McCulley

Morning sky is bright,
shadows are deep along my way.
A butterfly leads my eye
to hidden blossoms.


Mike McCulley, Montesana, WA, USA

Casket of Love by Michael Lee Johnson

This moon, clinging to a cloudless sky,
offers the light by which we love.
This park, grass knee high tickling bare feet,
offers the place we pass pleasant smiles.
Sir Winston Churchill would have
saluted the stately manner this fog
lifts, marching in time across this pond
layering its ghostly body over us
cuddled by the water’s edge,
as if we are burdened by this sealed
casket called love.
Frogs in the marsh, crickets beneath the crocuses
trumpet the last farewell.
A flock of Canadian geese fly overhead
in military V formation.
Yet how lively your lips tremble
against my skin, in a manner no
sane soldier dare deny.


Michael Lee Johnson, Chicago, USA

haiku by J D Nelson

a goose calls out twice
as Orion disappears --
just before sunrise


J D Nelson, Colorado, USA

Proof by Rethabile Masilo

Tell me--
it was proof
you wanted
that day
at the lake
wasn't it?
and so
in our room
following
one of your
mood trips,
with a
slick move
(I swear)
lest it get
too late,
I lassoed
the moon,
put it on
your roof,
told the stars
to wait.

Rethabile Masilo, Lesotho

Eclipse of Thought by Michael Johnson

Wing tipped
by the sun-
I see a different
version of the moon.
A movie not yet seen in darkness.
A story not yet told by prophets.
No movie mongrel
has siphoned the
joy from the wing,
the eclipse.
Clever this fore night
how the transition
of sun and moon
cloud my thinking-
create this poem.
Somewhere in between.

Michael Johnson, Chicago, USA

Pitch by Sue Turner

imagine
senescing
inside amber honey
biding the millennia,
wooing
sages with loupes
enamored by eons,
imagine
dwelling
in the glow of suns
the echo of moons,
preserved. unchanging.
embraced for eternity,
imagine
reflecting
the birth of all time
in the numen of amber


Sue Turner, Idaho, USA

fourteen by J D Nelson

I forget how many shooting stars
I counted last night.

I woke up at dawn
on the living room floor.

I stepped outside
into the new light.

(a planet
& two suns)

I set my alarm
& went back to sleep.


J D Nelson, Colorado, USA

Vagabonds Vision 29 by Felino Soriano

Soaked by sunlight, antithetical
to last night's downpour of
slanting, descending, silvery rain.
I prefer this day's disposition,
its rays of multilingual hands of
drying day long arduous work.
Muttering toward myself
a language of content,
dragonfly swoops within
view to attract my eyes and
obtain serenity's circular shape
of illusion, interaction
with turquoise impression.


Felino Soriano, California, USA

hazy dawn by J D Nelson

the scent of smoke

last night,
the moon was
a sick neon pink.

the sun's been up
for almost two hours --

the bats think
it's still dawn.

red Martian sky


J D Nelson, Colorado, USA

train ride by Janet Butler

A momentary sun shines
on a world lighter, brighter,
half-glances almost meet
to slip to nonchalance
as eyes shift
feigning interest in passing things
unseen
heart beats
in fluttery stops and starts
a tightness
where longing sits
the pit
where dread
flits
electric wires
of desire.

Janet Butler, Pittsburgh, USA

Identity by Alan Dunnett

At night, I think I hear this child, a sound
among the deep still dark and yellow windows.
No one stirs. I used to think the cats
were children, very small children crying insistently
and insane. I saw the cats. I heard them.
But now I hear a low, slow intermittent running
in my inner ear; molten, worm-like. It is not sour wax.
My ear turns into a chrysalis whose shell bursts apart
and in a floor of the air stands the voice of the child,
heard only by me, impossible to prove! If I make you see,
it becomes nothing: a conjuror's coin disappearing between fingers.
A smudge of sweat at its last, greasy glistening in the palm.
You are here, beside me. Welcome. I am in your spell,
I am outside your spell. You smile. Whatever does that mean?
You believe I asked you here. Perhaps. One thing is clear.
There is a sound. Look out. Look down. I am outside
like Nebuchadnezzar, ugly in excrement, head
cocked. My pupils are the orange edges of doors.
Yet you say, if you hear anything, it is only a cat.

Previously published in Interpreters House

Alan Dunnett, London, UK