Richard Stevenson

 

 

 

*

Departure Bay:
cumulo nimbi
won’t take a hint

(Nanaimo, BC)

*

Departure Bay –
the rooster tail trail
of a small speed boat

*

Emily Carr House –
even the bees wipe their feet
at each blossom porch

*

horse and buggy tour –
a satellite dish aimed
at your childhood home

*

Emily, your brush
dips with the grace of this bee
on each pendant bloom

*

Emily Carr House –
I scan the strawberry patch
for a ripe berry

***

 

 

 

Richard Stevenson has 30 full-length and 10 chapbook publications to his credit, counting three forthcoming volumes: Fruit Wedge Moon: Haiku, Senryu, Tanka, Kyoka, and Zappai (Hidden Brook Press), Rock, Scissors, Paper: The Clifford Olson Murders (long poem sequence, Grey Borders Press), and The Heiligen Effect: Selected Haikai Poems and Sequences (Ekstasis Editions), which should all be out ion 2015 or 2016.  He is recently retired after thirty years of teaching for Lethbridge College and six years teaching elsewhere.

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Angelee Deodhar

 
Segue

Our fast train stops just outside the station. On the abandoned weed littered railway track, smoke strands from a sadhu’s chulha drift past a sinking sun. A chorus of mynahs joins the cacophony of crows. The cantonment junction where my dad, a doctor in the Army was posted five decades ago is just half a kilometer away.

Now as the train moves forward to stop at Ambala, on the station I see stacked olive green holdalls, black trunks and crates with army numbers and names painted in white and soldiers in battle camouflage drinking tea. The A.H. Wheeler’s bookshop, a bookstore chain founded in 1887, operating from railway stations is still  there. I remember buying Somerset Maugham’s The Magician.

As we begin to move from the opposite train a child calls ‘bye bye train’ and I wave and call back’ bye bye child’.

worry stones –
blue marbles tinkle
in my pocket

 

 

 

Angelee Deodhar, an eye surgeon by profession is a haiku poet, translator, and artist. She lives and works in Chandigarh, India.  Her haiku/haibun/haiga have been published internationally in various books and journals,  and her work can be viewed on many websites.

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Wayne F. Burke

 

 

*

spasmodic second hand of the clock

on the wall of the doctor’s

waiting room

 

*

 

walking along the beach

my sore feet–

the moon wrapped in gauze

 

*

 

another email from

Olive Garden–

what does she want now?

 

 

 

 

 

Wayne F. Burke‘s haiku and/or tanka have appeared in American Tanka and High Coupe. His two published books of poetry, Words that Burn (2013) and Dickhead (2015) are published by Bareback Press.

 

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E. Martin Pedersen

 

 

 

*

in Candyland
where everything’s candy
the winners get vegetables

*

at the politician’s funeral
you had to push your way in

*

your delicious perfume
gave me a migraine
that never ended

*

all my adult life
I have waited for the word:
malignant

*

watermelons and onions—
a feast that keeps on feasting

*

how sorry how sorry
is the hiker
who set the forest ablaze?

 

 

 

E. Martin Pedersen, originally from San Francisco, has lived in eastern Sicily for several decades. Some of his publication news can be found on his blog: http://emartinpedersenwriter.blogspot.it/

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Sonam Chhoki

The Meeting

A gaunt figure, head bent, face obscured, walks through the withered grass at the edge of the field. I don’t know why I think it’s a he. The measured stride seems to suggest a certain sense of purpose. Where is he bound for, through our overgrown land? And why does he keep his arms by the sides, as if he dare not breathe even as he moves? Against the bobbing branches of the old cypress, he is like an apparition dropped from the belly of the rain-laden clouds. Is it the failing light or is his frame elongating with each step he takes?
I’m not sure what I should say when we come face to face. A white Apsoo crashes through the shrubs. I bend to pat it.
‘Is this your dog?’
Even before I look up he is gone.

dipping
into the setting sun -
a swan’s head

 

 

 

 

Born and raised in the kingdom of Bhutan, Sonam Chhoki is inspired by her father, Sonam Gyamtsho,  the architect of Bhutan’s non-monastic modern education. Her Japanese short form poetry has been published in poetry journals and anthologies in Australia, Canada, Germany, Ireland, India, Japan, UK and US and included in the Cultural Olympics 2012 Poetry Parnassus and BBC Radio Scotland Written Word Programme.

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Jeff Streeby

 

 

 

Late Hunt

On a day this cold, you don’t even need the shotgun. They’re easy to spot, too, those beautiful birds dying in the tumbled stubble of harvest. Find their long tail feathers riffling prairie wind and you can take them alive out of little pockets in the snow. When you lift them from fencerows at the edge of empty pastures, from beside trees in abandoned orchards, withered fruit clattering overhead, from fallow ground where they shelter under shining plow-cut rubble of clods, they look up at you unmoved, eyes empty mirrors, odd ice in morning’s raw glare.

Tonight, below the Interstate, a cold familiar wind scours river ice six feet thick. New snowbanks build high under the bridge. Pearl is deserted, its few streetlights haloed in soot and old snow that spill in blizzards from downtown rooftops. That fine, chill powder when it dusts your face, melts and streaks down like tears. In front of Eagle Pawn Shop, where ragged spikes of rust-stained ice depend from eaves, tall, bistered drifts find hard shapes, slope knee-deep into the street. A plow, yellow lights flashing, growls across the intersection headed up Sixth. Rising over the vague skyline, the moon, oddly distinct, bright with an orient luster, counterfeits a silver coin in a deep pocket, an empty locket, a salver for a vanished chalice.

Along snow-choked back streets all across town, lights glow behind curtains in cozy rooms. And all you’ve got is a narrow bed in another cheap hotel. All you’ve got is a place where you can close your eyes while out here in the dark the world freezes over. All you’ve got is an accidental nest where like a winter-worn bird you can wait unmoved as what hunts you again tonight approaches through the cold.

Winter moon.
Trees in silhouette.
Gaunt wolves eat snow.

 

Jeff Streeby‘s poetry has appeared in Ginosko, Southwest American Literature, Los Angeles Review, Rattle, Haibun Today, Contemporary Haibun Online, and many others. He is a Senior Lecturer in English at Assumption University in Bangkok, Thailand.

Note: Suisun Valley Review published a version of “Late Hunt” in Edition #26 (May, 2009).

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Raamesh Gowri Raghavan

 

 

Still Life

I can see them, tweeting furiously as the slogans rise and fall, in ghazal-like cadences. It’s chaotic, the only discipline being the hashtag. The police are far better organised of course — in rows behind their bamboo shields, their birchwood batons so tightly gripped you could see their veins stand out. We have names and martyrs – Taksim, Tahrir, Tawakal, Tripoli. They have statistics, lists, orders, warrants. There’s adrenaline everywhere. Ours flowing in wild rushes, theirs like a dog straining on a leash. There may be, or they may not be blood on the streets, gas, tears. Right now there’s only a fragile silence. Meanwhile, I can see around me, the windows shuttered tightly. From some, I can see eyes peeping, heads pulling back. Across the barricades, I can see the vans, and the big officers. Peeping through half-shuttered windows.

still life…
the cobra and frog
sense each other

*

 

 

Raamesh Gowri Raghavan moonlights as an award-winning copywriter by day and daylights as an award-wanting poet by night, and sandwiches an archaeology course,running two literary clubs, astronomy, the occasional trek, some peer counseling for suicide prevention, and learning Gondi in between. He thinks he is funny, but his friends vehemently disagree.
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/raameshgowriraghavan
Twitter: @tweetinghaijin

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