Solar Eclipse

By Debbie Strange
Canada

solar eclipse - Debbie Strange

Honourable Mention, 2024 H. Gene Murtha Memorial Senryū Contest

Walking Widdershins: An Ode to Joy

By Jenny Ward Angyal and Autumn Noelle Hall

Walking Widdershins is comprised of 108 sets of collaborative tanka, a genre of Japanese short-form poetry more ancient than haiku. Historically, tanka were often exchanged between two poets as a kind of poetic conversation. The tanka conversations in this volume were written over the course of a single year and reflect the poets’ rootedness in the places where they live, their love for the natural world, and their concern for the havoc the human species is wreaking upon it. In his ‘Afterword,’ David C. Rice, tanka poet & editor, asks “If the root problem of our planetary crisis is that we see ourselves as separate from the natural world, not just another part of it, couldn’t two poets writing together offer poems that would help connect us with the natural world in ways an individual poet could not accomplish?” Four original, full-color mandala illustrations allow readers to visually enter and interact with the poetry.

Available now on Amazon: Walking Widdershins: An Ode to Joy

by and by

By Debbie Strange
Canada

by and by - Debbie Strange

Editor’s Choice, Cattails, October 2020

Carcass Ecology

By Debbie Strange
Canada

carcass ecology - Debbie Strange

Half Day Moon Journal, Issue No. 1, August 2023

Day Three in Siem Reap

By: Anna Cates, Wilmington, Ohio
and Steve Van Allen, Cincinnati, Ohio

A kilometer from Ankor Wat, at Ta Prohm, a Mahayana 12th century Buddhist temple.  Huge fig trees hang over the temple and spread across the ground. Moss grows green over the temple stones.

I walk around the walls and note three young saffron-robed monks sitting around a campfire. They call out, “Sok subai,” and wave. I wave back and walk on.

When I get back to my driver, I ask what the phrase means.  He says, “Are you happy?”

In decades since, I have often wondered, am I happy?

The US fell to 23rd in the World Happiness Index last year.

moon’s halo
melancholy blue
memories

You will Hear

By: ©Noris Roberts
Lecheria Municipio Urbaneja, Venezuela

You will hear that the day is of pearls
and the night a percussion of stars,
that the enemy’s evil plays at misfortune
and sinks its claws into you when you least expect it

You will hear that the weapon of violence
is man’s by nature,
that the blue is just a line in the dawn

You will hear that there are voices that shriek with envy
and pain is forever

You will hear that suffering never finds
the safe conduct of justice

You will hear that freedom is an inverted illusion
that sometimes leads you to doom

Of kindly greens are the mountains covered,
and of dazzling colors of the twilight on the horizon

When the drought cloaks you
with its furious garb, there will always be glimmers
of hope in the reflections of some twilight and in your thoughts

As Goethe wrote, “How blessed is he in whom the fond desire to rise from the sea of error still renews hope! What a man does not know, he needs, and what he knows, he cannot use. But let not fickle thoughts cast their shadow O’er the calm beauty of this serene hour! In the rich sunset, see how brightly it shines.”

Independent International Fact-Finding Mission on the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela – From UN Human Rights Counsil

Carter Center Statement on Venezuela Election


Oirás que el día es de perlas
y la noche percusión de estrellas,
que la maldad del enemigo juega al infortunio
y te hunde las garras cuando menos lo esperas

Oirás que el arma de la violencia
es del hombre por naturaleza,
que el azul es apenas una línea en la aurora

Oirás que hay voces que chillan de envidia
y el dolor es para siempre

Oirás que el sufrimiento nunca encuentra
el salvoconducto de la justIcia

Oirás que la libertad es una invertida ilusión
que a veces te conduce a la fatalidad

De amables verdes están cubiertas las montañas y
de deslumbrantes colores el crepúsculo en el horizonte

Así cuando la sequía te cubra con su furioso ropaje,
siempre habrán destellos de esperanza
en los reflejos de algún crepúsculo
y en tus pensamientos

Como escribió Goethe: “¡Cuán dichoso aquel en quien el afectuoso deseo de salir del mar del error renueva aún la esperanza! Lo que el hombre no sabe, lo necesita, y lo que sabe, no puede usarlo. Pero que los pensamientos volubles no ensombrezcan la calma belleza de esta hora serena. En el rico atardecer, mira cuán brillante brilla”.

Prepared

By Elizabeth Crocket
Ontario, Canada

Aquarium Show

by R. Suresh babu
Chikmagalur, Karnataka, India

aquarium show
guppies for sale
in polythene bags

Sooty Smokestacks

By Theresa A. Cancro
Wilmington, Delaware, USA

sooty smokestacks
where dinosaurs
once grazed

Faint Aurora

By Theresa A. Cancro
Wilmington, Delaware, USA

faint aurora  . . .
a polar bear clambers
onto the shrinking floe

MAID*

By Anna Cates
Wilmington, Ohio, USA

. . . and she wilts like wet paper,

her watercolor life bleeding pink

across unfinished pages,

the faintest pink, like the weakest sunset,

where purple fails and pales, thinning,

her voice, their voices, mortal voices,

angel voices, demon voices, choices,

choices, such agonizing choices . . .

        fragrant
        chrysanthemums . . .
        prayer threads

*Medical Assistance in Dying, Canada’s euthanasia program, legal since 2016 and expanded in 2021 to include those suffering without foreseeable death.  

Aspects of remembrance

By Florence Heyhoe
County Down, Northern Ireland

“Your father was a great man,” said Theadora,  “He used to stay at our house, he fished up Gortin way with my husband, they would talk for hours; they were good friends.” 

slippery eels
sizzling in the pan
caught netted

I know better. I have seen him cross the line at times teasing cats: tumbling into cruelty. He told me a story once of a Siamese that sprung at him from the top of a door, sinking in teeth and claws on landing. Serves him right. He beat the living daylights out of my brother, locked him in with the hens, used his fists and the strap to beat the good name into him.

cows in line
mooing a sad song
leather and meat

Folk spoke well of him, he was a pillar of respectability and helpfulness and an elder in the church. A diabetic, he kept his bible in the car amongst the sweetie papers and dispensed pills day and night. He put bad into me, secret sin in secret places, thrusting me to smithereens He photographed the children’s smiles in chapel and church.

peas in purple pods
round and green and sweet
hungry worms

First Published: Her other language 2020

Omnipotent?

By Florence Heyhoe
County Down, Northern Ireland

He took the children in his arms . . . and blessed them

I watch her marching into the middle of the road, wearing a white coat carrying her lollipop. The traffic parts like the Red Sea and the children cross over safely. Some walk hand in hand others skip. Most smile but a few are scowling on their way to school.

There are other places where they take children, herded like cattle, delivered. Crossed over to sordid places, devoid of smiles. Here, there, everywhere, congregations of lecherous deviants drool and throw silver coins. 

clenched fists 
raised in prayer
heaven’s silence

First Published: Drifting Sands Haibun, Issue 20

Yulara – the town square

By Marilyn Humbert
Syndey, NSW, Australia

where the ghost gums gather
on-country women spread canvas squares
crushed ochre in small precise piles
red yellow orange
water to mix
a white clay paste.
all day, shade lessens
and lengthens
their brushes stroke and daub
ancient lore in dots and symbols
their life, their dreamtime stories
when bark canoes found this shore
when feet wandered songline trails
beside rivers, beneath stars.
today bitumen and gravel divides
wire and pickets corral
the ghosts of memory forests.

Yulara is the village about 25kms from Uluru NT Australia, the place to stay when visiting Uluru.

Insurance?

By Steve Van Allen – Cincinnati, Ohio, USA, Earth
Anna Cates – Wilmington, Ohio, USA

Sugar-Pie is third in line at the pharmacy, six feet behind number two.  As she walks down the allergy aisle, she often wonders if her mother cursed her into diabetes.

The pharmacy is busy; it always is.  Finally, “Can I help you?”

“My name is Sugar-Pie.  I have one prescription to pick up. My birthday is August 14.”

“Here it is.  That will be $280.”

She feels faint and holds onto the counter.  “It was $40 last month!”

“You are into your donut hole.  Spend another $8,000 and you will be back to $40.”

Sugar-pie stares at the pharmacist, turns around, and spends her $40 on candy.

autumn moon
warm aromas
of home

*According to the Congressional Budget Office, 92% of Americans are insured. That leaves 26 million with no health insurance, and often insured have a donut hole.

Health Insurance Coverage Projections For The US Population And Sources Of Coverage, By Age, 2024–34 (healthaffairs.org)

Understanding the Medicare Part D Donut Hole (verywellhealth.com)

Flag of the Weeds

By Margi Abraham
Sydney, New South Wales, Australia

Who will fly the flag?
The flag of no homeland
but this Earth, this sphere
circling a life-giving star.

The unsymbolic, forgotten flag
with no country, no team
no cheering, no burning
with partisan meaning.

The flag of the waves
crashing hope on every shore.
The flag of sun-flecked mountains
reflecting beauty to the dawn.

The quiet, sacred flag
of peace and love enduring;
breaking walls and shackles,
unlocking doors with mercy.

The flag of weary hearts
that search for signs already told
by weeds persisting through the cracks ─
their breeze-tattered flowers.

A Toy Gun, with Real Bullets

By Robert Witmer
Tokyo, Japan

new music
a catatonic scale
for the poet’s requiem

we are but clouds
of cosmic dust
collapsing in a dream

apples sweeten
in the shadows
hungry birds

dark secrets
from a broken heart
arctic waters warm

water
into wine
resource wars

the courthouse
in the pawnshop window
antique scales

haves
and halve nots
taking the last peace

vacuum sealed
the totalitarian minds
of mixed nuts

fanning himself
with a meat cleaver
the butcher sighs

a thin rat
over broken glass
moonlight in a slum

rain
a gravedigger’s fingers
flipping a coin

gravestones
huddle in spring grass
a church bell
without a tongue

waves leapfrog
the ripping tide
empty pews

dream songs
in night’s chamber
pot

our eyes
glazed donuts
sweetening the whole

each pledge
a bullet whistling
hand over heart
to stop the blood

polished buttons reflect
a make believe sun
ashes remembering books

worn hands
scouring pots
the cold pipes cough

wind-up toy
the high-pitched whine
in war’s broken hands

First Published: Lothlorien Poetry Journal, December 2023

Dreadful Speech

By Robert Witmer
Tokyo, Japan

Herdsman: I am on the brink of dreadful speech.
Oedipus: And I of dreadful hearing. Yet I must hear.

wise men
the star that guides
on the blink

the labyrinth
behind her eyes
a broken thread

a brilliant idea
out of the blue
Icarus

twitter
the bead
in his whistle

sunlight
on ice
the banker’s smile

somewhere
in the dark room
a clock ticks

wild canaries
singing on the wing
from the coal mine

climate change
we turn to face
a firing squad

war
a fistful of ashes
in a game of dice

twisting shadows
beneath falling leaves
war’s children

little red rooster
the hen’s dream
sizzles in the skillet

First Published: Lothlorien Poetry Journal, September 2023

Disabled Society

By Steve Van Allen
Cincinnati, Ohio, USA, Earth

Judy cashiers 2 days a week at a Dollar Store,  loves the job, the people and it works well with her wheelchair. At the end of a day, she is tired, and so happy the two blocks home are mostly downhill. 

She unlocks her door and rolls into her tiny apartment, turns on the one overhead light and says hello to her green budgie. 

Judy grabs her one bowl and fills it with off-brand cheerios and the end her milk.

Six months ago it was a no-tell motel, pay by the hour.

She reads her cozy mystery, then goes to bed. She dreams of a time when she could sit outside on cool evenings. A drug deal goes down outside her one window.  She sleeps with her Louisville Slugger.

The poor will always be with us…
God, are we stuck with poverty 
or is this a challenge?

Resources:

The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), passed in 1990 estimates 42.5 million Americans are disabled.
The US Census Bureau Current Population Survey (CPS), 2024 shows the poverty rate is 11.5%, 37.9 million Americans.