Humanitarian Aid
By John Pappas
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
humanitarian aid
spilling out of the bag
a parent’s hope
Boy with a Bow
By Gary LeBel
“Bring me my Bow of burning gold”
William Blake, Jerusalem
He may be all of ten. He’s hiked on ahead of his elders and younger siblings, taken the lead
on the trail, a blazer, protector, explorer, loner, or budding alpha male. As he walks some
ten to twenty paces ahead of me, I can hear him as he talks to himself or perhaps he’s
singing.
Missing its quiver and arrows, he carries a bow at his side, but soon hangs it over his
shoulder so that it rides his back like an Arthurian knight, or a Cheyenne leading his pony.
When he slows a little, I pass him and, as I do, I commend him on his bow. Though I’ve
probably disturbed his reverie, he’s quick to smile and, like most any boy his age, his mood’s
a chimerical thing. He’s a polite, good-looking lad and his life awaits him like the winding
paths that wend their ways through the park’s small and intimate woods.
Having left him far behind me now, two thoughts come to mind and one’s a question: how
incandescent yet bittersweet is youth . . . and what sort of world are we bequeathing him,
this boy with a bow?
Through the long afternoon
it seemed a prism had led the way
like a team of Isthmian horses
though it was the same old world as always
bathed in September light
Plastic Apocalypse
By Anna Cates
Wilmington, Ohio, USA
“Doomsday is quite within our reach, if we will only stretch for it.”
—Loudon Wainwright III
Time moves counterclockwise to heal the breach.
Do we dare to name it, to face what we betray?
Toxic world; do we dare to eat a peach?
Time moves counterclockwise to heal the breach
While those who long for doomsday reach—
The fruition of our blunder, Orwellian, they say.
Time moves counterclockwise to heal the breach.
Do we dare to name it, to face what we betray?
golden tones
of a seaside sparrow
who will listen?
Ode to the Dragon Rider
By Anna Cates
Wilmington, Ohio, USA
I have panted for green places
standing before statues:
admirable men to questionable men
mortals on horses, Confederate generals
to conquistadors, cowboy cliches, Marlboro Men
of deceptive advertising, the old and ugly
even the beautiful, masterfully chiseled cold stone
or too hot to touch in record-breaking heat
leaving a thirst for boundless verdancy
an infinity of flowers and trees, a land
of clear water and skies, for you and me
and every peaceful Ferdinand.*
Ride fiery dawn
on a monstrous snake
with wings!
*In Munro Leaf’s children’s classic, The Story of Ferdinand (1936), the peace-loving bull, who preferred smelling flowers to bullfights.
To Each Their Own
By Anna Cates
Wilmington, Ohio, USA
version of justice
image of god
prayers at dusk
on either side of invisible lines
shifting left or right
at the whim of strong men
muscling pawns . . .
they aren’t so mean, are they?
a white butterfly
enters his dream—
the fallen trooper
New Year
By Sankara Jayanth Sudanagunta
Hyderabad, India
new year…
the bullet-riddled shopfront
gets a makeover
Failed Haiku, Issue #85
The Iconoclasm of Artifice
by Edward Cates and Anna Cates
To me, ancient ruins
Are always preferable
To stark metropolitan glitz
Let me see the places
Where time has seeped into
Lichen-wreathed stonework
Appreciating nature’s revulsion
At the angular excesses of man
Set my soul free to dance
Where the wild winds whistle
Untamed through empty panes
Let my tired heart again savor
The taste of reclamation
There is oft more beauty
In where man once was
Than where he yet remains
Artistry in tumbledown ruins
Deciphered by nature’s pen
Transcribing life onto bricks
In fantastical, kenopsic verse
Teach us to love her poetry
Let our hearts learn to exult in
The iconoclasm of artifice
antique land
eroded strand revealing
the cairn . . .
poised like the sphinx
on the vibrant sands . . .
desert lynx
sunset
wind whispers
the mystery
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
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
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
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