The Cyclorama  

By Tish Davis
Concord Township, Ohio, USA

as blood seeps
from the soldiers’ ears
handmade bone dice
tumble out of crevices
in the hastily built stone wall

After touring the museum, I ride the escalator up and onto the battlefield.  An attendant directs the crowd into the chaos silently motioning us to step in closer, to step down onto the dimly lit viewing platform that encircles Philippoteaux’s, Battle of Gettysburg.

I stand, by chance, near an exploding caisson.  Wood bites from a splintered carriage carve jagged cuts deep in my skin; gunpowder dust—brushed hot and thick—swells my lungs. A wild eyed gelding— riderless, powerful legs in long strides—gallops madly through the cannonade; through the heavy, humid air; through the massive toll.  

first published in Bright Stars, volume 5, Autumn 2014

Turtle Moon

By R. Suresh Babu
Chikmagalur, Karnataka, India

turtle moon
an overturned frisbee
on the beach

No Quarter

by Richard Grahn
Evanston, Illinois, USA

fields of cotton . . .
we sing “Amazing Grace”
with the larks


Pine shadows rest on the flowering dogwood. Steadfast, we’ve marched to this place. The Southern Cross and Old Glory wave—colors of this April day. Soon the sky will turn to smoke and spider lilies will weep. Rows of soldiers stand in the oaks as we kneel near the Poison Spring. A cloud obscures the sun and I hear the battle cry. The air swells thick with blood. Recalling their chains, I pull the trigger.

wasps
in the beehive—
family feud

Once, twice, they charge, then scurry back to their holes. Hurrah! The eagle soars.

But songs of the master’s whip haunt this battlefield. As ghostly boots breach lines in the sand, I lay my weapons at my feet and raise my hands toward Heaven. I came today to stand, but he can’t bear to see me rise. Pummeled to the earth, I crawl into my past. Above me looms the victor, proud as rough-hewn stone. He sees only my skin, dark as his coal-black eyes. Sharp enough to pierce my heart, his blade too blunt to scar my soul. I gaze at him standing over me—a bolt of lightning ready to strike. The wind caresses my hair. My final breath escapes into the breeze.

All across the field, pollen spills from blossoms.

beyond Jordan
so far from my bones—
milk and honey

Sundown 

By Kala Ramesh
Chennai/Pune, India

Meanwhile a city wired to the hustle and bustle of aspirations.

     Kali temple
     a mantra-mumbling priest
     cuts the goat’s throat

Bones Journal: #22, February 2021

The Red Dot

By Kala Ramesh
Chennai/Pune, India
the red dot
on my forehead
binds me
           to a man
who’s in his own orbit
         parading
         the so-called equality
         with iron bars concealed …
         this urban woman lives
         in her dreams

tanka doha (tanka couplet)

Kabir, a 15th-century Indian mystic-poet-saint, is famous for his doha. We have longer tanka sequences, but there is something special about a twin tanka which says so much in a short span of 10 lines. 

Tiger Tiger

By Kala Ramesh
Chennai/Pune, India

tiger tiger
dwindling rapidly—
my grandchild
one day will know you
only from pictures

Tanka 2020 (Red Moon Press Anthology)

Early Spring

By Neena Singh
Chandigarh, India

early spring . . .
young doves coo
amid war sirens

Chrysanthemum, issue 30, Spring 2023, 15/4/23

Starless Night

Neena Singh
Chandigarh, India

starless night
the abused child’s
blank look

haiku Dialogue, facial expressions- sadness 1.11.23

Sturgeon Moon

Neena Singh
Chandigarh, India

sturgeon moon—
a tramp rummages
for his livelihood


HaikuNetra 1.1, 10 September 2023

Vultures

Kala Ramesh
Chennai/Pune, India

vultures
around a dead elephant –
tusks missing

Modern Haiku: issue 52.1, February 2021

Trampled

Richard Grahn
Evanston, Illinois, USA

Richard Grahn - Mirage

Scattered Grains

Sandip Chauhan
Great Falls, Virginia, USA

wooden rafts
petals drifting aimlessly
in the stream

A plea passed along by a friend catches my eye: an urgent request for women’s clothing donations for Afghan refugees. I quickly search through my wardrobe, gathering whatever items I can spare. Clothes that have long been neglected suddenly gain new purpose as I carefully fold and bundle them together.

Carrying the bundle, I approach the designated drop-off location. I lightly tap on the door and a woman with flour-dusted hands answers with a smile. I hand her the bundle and say, “If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”

As I exit, I notice four children, gathered together in a corner, eagerly exploring the donated toys. One child is busy building a tower with colorful blocks, while another is engrossed in a game of make-believe with a doll. A third child giggles uncontrollably as they spin a toy top, while the fourth sits quietly, meticulously piecing together a puzzle.

burgundy rose
submerged in mire
spring fen



Quo Vadis

By Rupa Anand
New Delhi, India

a dahlia in full bloom lifts its face to the sun

Whatever is born, dies. Over the years I’ve buried koels, squirrels, bulbuls and doves. I’ve lost beloved pets and nursed dying ones.

I’ve seen friends fall to covid, ill health and disease, relatives with Alzheimer’s, friends with dementia, and batch-mates dead. I’ve struggled with relationships and ended fruitless ones. It’s when Death comes riding close, that we realise our physical mortality.

Yet through it all, one thing sustains me, this sense of eternal Existence, of being truly alive through the ages. I’m alive and always will be and I bow to that.

rain on the river . . .
the many lives i live
mere ripples

For Breath

I thank you God. 

For even one to disadvantage others,
please forgive me, God. 

With every one I praise you immanent in all creation, God.

For all who wish to animate our planet well, i ask your help oh God,
And that includes myself.

flit of a bird 
through morning prayers.
a sigh of wings 

Diana Web – Leatherhead, Surrey, UK

THE LAST OF THE WYANDOTS


By Tish Davis
Concord Township, Ohio

A local artist sketches him in full Indian headdress.   At the entrance to the trail, two painters read the short biography about Bill Moose before setting up their easels along the north rim.  A viewing platform overlooks the ravine where brown leaves ferment along the bank of a stream.  Glacial erratics are scattered along the bottom— fallen warriors on flat limestone. Indian Run Falls, heard but not seen.  Voices in the abandoned village.

I’m a few steps behind carrying my camera.  The sunlight is filtered by Maple, Blue Ash, Shagbark Hickory.  An occasional opening exposes roots, granules of dirt freshly creased.   I slip off trail and follow the sounds to the secluded basin where Indian Bill once washed. I remember the biography that I‘ve read: He slept outdoors every night during the summer and once a month in the winter with only a blanket for cover.

Moss covered formations cling to the ledges.  Flowering rockcress juts out into space.   The camera, now wrapped, hidden under a giant sycamore; the light in the spray against my skin.

leaves in a shallow pool
paragraphs of fine print
tacked under glass

*First published in Frogpond, 32:1 (Winter)

Ref:  https://uahistorytrail.upperarlingtonoh.gov/bill-moose-memorial/

That Day

By Reid Hepworth
Sidney, British Columbia, Canada

People sometimes mistake innocence with ignorance. It certainly isn’t that way with my brother.

Today, my brother got a bee in his bonnet and won’t let it rest. He keeps bringing it up. It doesn’t take long, what with his incessant harping and a healthy dose of reality checking, to motivate me to start listening. 

In no time, he has a bunch of us agreeing to give up our afterschool hours and weekends to help him. Armed with clipboards and a handmade petition, we knock on neighbourhood doors, and ask for signatures. Most of the adults we talk to just smile at us, or ask if our parents know what we’re doing, but some actually sign our petition. This motivates us to continue. 

A few weeks later, my brother drafts a letter to Prime Minister, Pierre Elliot Trudeau, puts it in an envelope with the signatures, seals it and gives it to my parents to mail.

Much later, he receives a letter back.

locking hands
we sit silently in the middle
of our street
a small group of children
wanting to change the world

Black Hole

By Alan Peat
Biddulph, Staffordshire, United Kingdom

This morning I awoke with an ocean inside me. The faint cries of gulls gave the game away; that, and a gentle lapping at the back of my throat.

With every breath, salt air filled the room; shoals of fish swam in my belly; sharks slept; the calls of whales boomed deep within me; kelp waved behind my eyes.

All was well until lunch when the cramps began. By evening, I had no choice but to take a taxi to the hospital.

The doctors ummed and ahed; the nurses frowned. I guess they’d never seen a man with an ocean inside him before. The senior doctor buzzed for a surgeon who had once saved a mermaid. Immediately upon seeing me, he plunged his arm deep into my mouth and down until I felt his bony fingers clasping inside me.

He pulled out a child’s ball, rubbed by the sand until it was as white as an eye. He pulled out plastic bricks, a spoon, a hosepipe, credit cards, a beat-up bath duck. Then, quite suddenly, he raised his scalpel and sliced me open. A wave of water bottles spilled upon the floor. Puffins circled.

“Now,” he shouted, and with all the medical staff assisting, a net was hauled from the deepest part of me; a net so large that it stretched from my ocean to an ebbing time: before ice retreated back up mountains; before junk fell from the vacuum above; before we all ran headlong into waves.

day moon . . .
footprints still
in its dust

Frogpond 44:3 Autumn 2021

No Chirps

By Pravat Kumar Padhy
India

no chirps
in barren trees
I grieve
for the lost treasure
of mountain green

truth-be-told

By Roberta Beach Jacobson
Indianola, Iowa, USA

straying far
from the truth-be-told
cracks in democracy

Cracked Soil

Anju Kishore
Bengaluru, India

cracked soil
this thirst for more
high-rises