spring rain
scent of rain
on the wood white butterfly
***
rainy evening
shadow of patterned wings
on dripping walls
***
rain aftermath
songbird drying her wings
in the sun
– Padmini Krishnan
In this new year, let’s have sun after rain. – mh clay
A baby shuts his eyes and sees
bull continents drift,
collide, startle, spin around.
Prehistoric bucks suddenly accusing-
(Did YOU just back into ME?)
They jam head-to-head,
gouge, reconcile, then confer.
(The baby likes what he sees.)
The beasts get down to business.
They iron out earth’s future
with special bellows, & lots of musk.
Above this caucus
of nodding, naying heads,
clacking antlers mesh
into a burgeoning thicket.
(He calls for more!)
The thicket shudders,
sprouts into a dagger forest.
It shoots up recklessly like a baby’s legs,
and jabs the sky with young ideas:
New species, struggles, lies.
Whole societies in the air,
too busy to teach their children
about the bellowing below.
The weight of so much life is too much.
There is a final SNAP
of prehistoric backs.
Not a grain remains on which to carve
the memory of all the things
that passed before this baby’s eyes.
– Jack Ritter
So young. So much to learn. – mh clay
I don’t switch on
the television
others do, everybody
does, so it matters
less and less, or
more and more
I mostly take a cheap
slow bus to an
advertising agency
and sit down to write
anything they ask
for as long
the night wind
blows a little
into my rough
hair, before I
plunge into the
subway crowds
and stare at
women growing
impatient with
their feminine
selves, so they
push and plunge,
and thrust me
out with their
backsides, dripping
sweat, the water
of life, for a while
I say, dear friends,
let me sit in the
dark and think
about killing myself
and yet I find
they’ve broken the
latch to my door,
‘cos I’ve thought ‘bout
this before, so I
crouch under the
mosquito net to
kill the day at least
– Sreemani Sengupta
A dead day, at least, is followed by another. – mh clay
We grabbed a cup of coffee
On the way to a hospital visit
Conversation flew
Like smooth stream
Life, its ebbs
And flows
Was it ever an endless river?
I asked
Humming Pink Floyd
We spoke of age filled
With congestions
Frailty
Life- That dirty
Yet delectable
Ephemeral thing
Once inside
We cheered up patient
Talking of pretty nurses
Quality of food being served
Anything that worked!
We said our farewells
Soon enough
Decided on ‘Subway sandwich’
On the way out
This place
Really has not enough
Eating options
We concluded
And so it went
Hunger
That keeps
Thoughts of places
Four corners of grieving walls
The air of malaise
Far away!
– Vandana Kumar
A hunger a day keeps the malaise away. – mh clay
You stand among a menagerie of buildings
Confused in structure and afterthought
Walking up an empty stairwell;
You avoid Sartre’s vase and puddles
Of standing water
Migrant geese have returned to nest
Where the past is laminated into
Form-filling boxes awaiting all
Arrivals and crash landings
Nothing appears straight forward
Venturing outside these familiar rooms
Introduced trouble, and I know we
Will not meet again
– Richard D. Houff
Fill that vase. If not with flowers, with fantasy? Best stay inside. – mh clay
Dark and violent classical piano
Plays on the dollar store, solid state, off brand, radio
Minor tones with syncopation
Sonata Tragica
As she packs up all her clothes and cosmetics
And is sure to grab
My last pack of smokes
On her way out the door
I’m still waiting for my summons from Lhasa
A letter from my Maharaja
I’m waiting in line to clear customs
Declaring everything, seen and unseen
Known and unknown
Forcing down the afterbirth of revolt
And smoking sativa in my sunflower garden
Wearing masks in public
Dreaming past the social distance
– PW Covington
However you wait, be safe – that summons will come. – mh clay
(for David)
one thousand pieces
pour out of the box
as a dark-haired teen
sits in a gray chair
reading shapes
recomposing
the aerial photo of earth
the haze of continents
beyond circle-swirling atmosphere
he turns each piece face-up
testing edges with tip of index finger
measuring faint demarcations
of sapphire cerulean indigo slate powder-blue midnight
with wavy bits of ecru and white
runs his fingertip
along russet black shadows of rapid synapses
to remake his world
with a visual precision
that words –
if he had them
could never achieve
– Mary Ellen Talley
Eyeful expressions, other than words. These artists deserve to be “heard.” – mh clay
I am ever cautious of the cat-
lying on your lap along with its hidden claws.
If I am not wrong at all
you too are watchful of my dog-
moving around my feet
and barking at your cat.
A dual is inevitable between you and me
yet we never call for it
rather
we are careful of extending our tea hour
to a decade or more
providing
a rational interchange of the masters
of our cat and dog
and now my eyes are fearless to kiss
your awesome fingers
though embellished with sharp nails.
– P.K. Deb
A brave embrace in the mayhem of mastery. – mh clay
ice-cream wrapper…
midnight sorts
love and parting
***
mangrove tree
tied by roots…
saws snarling
***
I am stuck…
scampering squirrel
flips travel brochure
– Jharna Sanyal
Little said, much conveyed; sort, saw, unstuck become. – mh clay
the ramson in fall
I would need tender feeling
of the meekest world
the dead bear’s garlic
in me fantasy blossoms
of marvelous dreams
enchanted autumn
wild garlic needs bewitchment
in some fantasy
autumnal buckrams
the last roses dreaming of
flowering seasons
some fallish roses
weird of my eternity
awakened – ramson
– Paweł Markiewicz
Five haiku, a sweetish stink. – mh clay
