Sunday 28 January 2007

Wingtipped and Resisting by Michael Lee Johnson

It made sense to watch him grow;
the foolish things he did to girls,
the endless hours he filled their
bedrooms with delight-I swear
he was an Indiana boy.
He was a whisper of dreams & words.
The pines of Alberta fanned his brain, the
intensity increased the blaze of conviction.
The voices of many personalities
formed in his larynx over the early Indiana years.
Names, ideas, beliefs, & images gathered in a garden
of imagination & sand merged, bred & spread Northward
outward like eagle wings.
It was a cancer without a cure or antibiotic.
The wind had stopped prayer when he was born
& he had felt his own creation with his own breath.
More than new desires or old desires, or old war memories of the past,
this boy was a proclamation of potential rejected by his peers.
But then a war, the Vietnam curse,
a conflict that ripped the internals of a nation/guts wide opened
by opinion & past dreams then men died.
Blue north wind now blows icicles through his hair,
& he works against the wings of the red/white-& blue-eagle-
while blood torn stars blend in his blue eyes
the border of two dissonant countries divide
& another night passes to sleep in exile.

Michael Lee Johnson, Chicago, USA

Friday 26 January 2007

Hawk by Pete Lee

the wind skimming
off the edges
of the hawk's wing
makes a dull hum

as if the hawk
were a sailor
alone at sea
the hawk dives and
the hum sharpens
to a high scream

then the heavy
beating of wings
as the hawk drags
the rabbit off

and the hawk hears
the rabbit's heart
beating of wings
the mind's low hum

Pete Lee, California, USA

Wednesday 24 January 2007

Sunday 21 January 2007

A Meeting by Pete Lee

startled great egret
angular ascending cloud

its shadow upon me
for a passing instant

hello father death

Pete Lee, California, USA

Friday 19 January 2007

Sunday 14 January 2007

Bread Crumbs For Starving Birds by Michael Lee Johnson

Stretched across the ravine,
the walking bridge
is covered with snow.
Steam lifts from the narrow river bed below.
The hand guided ropes are glazed over with ice.
Raccoon tracks are pepper sprinkled in front of me
like virgin markers leaving a fresh, first trail.
Once across, and safe,
I toss yellow bread crumbs across white snow
for starving birds.

Michael Lee Johnson, Illinois, USA

Friday 12 January 2007

Both Sides Out by Gerald England

a cold, wet tramp -
snow-dripping from neck's back -
a two-hour-chat-cum-cup-of-coffee -
a lift returns me
to where green tulip leaves in the window-box
poke their life
out of the whiteness

Below - the virgin-white garden
Beyond - the ravished slush of road

Inside I warm myself.

Gerald England, Hyde, UK

Sunday 7 January 2007

31st by Chris Major

Every year's arse
end we try to
fight the darkness:
colour and tinsel,
sparkle and glitter,
the parties which explode
with noise and cheer
sending people 'over the top'
to fight for fun and meaning.
Charity appeals:
the homeless;
the brief crusade
that never lasts,
the coming year,
approaching darkness-
streets lined with
the tracer fire of fairy lights......

Chris Major, UK