Hands
Across the Water
A journal of collaborative poetry
Hello and may I wish you a very warm welcome on this cold December day ( at least it is here in Co.Durham). The idea for a special collaborative issue of The Bamboo Hut was born out of a poetic exchange that I had with that well loved and respected poet Joy McCall. I often receive responsive poetry submissions for the regular issue of The Hut but I thought it might be a good idea to dedicate an entire issue featuring this type of work.As to whether or not it was a good idea I leave that up to you the reader to decide. I personally feel that it was. You may notice that one particular poet features quite a lot in this issue. This was not by design but was due to the fact that this poet is a profuse writer who engages in many poetic exchanges with poets from all over the place. This issue would not have been possible were it not for her so I would like to say a big “Thank You” to Joy for her contributions and friendship. The poem that sparked the idea is titled “que sera, sera” I would like to express my thanks and appreciation to everyone who has contributed to this issue and indeed to everyone who has and will contribute to The Bamboo Hut in times to come. Kindest Regards, Steve Wilkinson
I pass half-blind a caged bird picks the lock with song— mountain meadows and boundless skies pass beneath her wings I feel the prison bars and rage at cruel fate then, the cuckoo calls at dusk the barred owl’s voice opens a door into the silence this moonlit flight the mad crow lands on my head squawking I ache to speak the language of birds on my hand a one-eyed sparrow— I pass half-blind through a green world, trusting in unseen song ~ Jenny Ward Angyal & Joy McCall
Tremors
after the storm of words leaves me gasping …
eyes stare
a carp trapped
shoulders set
in a muddy waterhole
what will you miss – the hand that hurts or unfamiliar comfort
across the sky bruised clouds skid closer … tremors ripple down my spine
static rises before thunderous rain lightning water rolls cleansing all
this stillness
Frances Carleton & Marilyn Humbert
Round and Round
driftwood tumbled in the surf
hand in hand jumping pavement cracks
squawking gulls
forgotten
swoop a sea of people
glass bowl fish
seeking
circle anticlockwise
thrown morsels ... eating tasteless love
round and round on the city-loop train
singles night feast
tangled
exotic and comfort food
in the commuter crush
arrayed
we talk of living together
on the board – so many choices
scentless keyboard message received
steel and flint
stranded
spark dry tinder
bleached white shells
beginnings
above the tide line
flames gently fanned coax endless conversations
alone watching the sunset my thoughts
Andrew Howe & Marilyn Humbert
Maze of Shadows
these days of endless noise –
numbered
cicadas’ song
pavement chalk squares
through summer’s heat
play awaits
I wait for russet leaves
hop-skip-jump the maze of life
discarded broken alter vows ...
arms linked
alone
out the school gate
gangly legs dance
3 o’clock rush
a Hills hoist waltz
to meet dead lines long shadow afternoon
click backseat restraint half heard one-way chatter starved of adult conversation
Andrew Howe & Marilyn Humbert
Around the Tree
by hums and whistles
Christmas lights
for reindeer names
red blue green blink in time
our glasses
with carols we sing
catch falling stars –
around our tree
holiday week special moments
tinsel strands
with family and friends
embrace tangled globes cradling
one more
dusty baubles
piece, plate and year
in a glittered web
sleep beckons as guests dwindle
elves and fairies
and lunches settle
gather by Charlotte’s home – sharing stories
good cheer
from my childhood
stored with care
with my granddaughter
in the attic forgotten for months
winter lyrics
under old receipts
amiss in such heat replaced
Marilyn Humbert & Kate Brown
the candle burns the prayers are said the mice are sleeping rotting logs and moss their dry bed in the holy room all is still the candle burns throwing shadows on the wall Joy McCall & Andy McCall
all the songs I wish we had sung together snowdrop breeze the music is still playing on the wind find the words, friend find the words Paul Smith & Joy McCall
a raven hopping in fresh snow on the solstice calling to something as the day’s last light begins to slip away, become night one for sorrow a lone magpie in the rain picking the raisins from cheap mince pies Tom Sexton & Joy McCall
I'm sending you the ravens - their voices sound rough but they are loud and bold and strong the doe, resting in the deep woods lifts her head to the tree tops, the blue sky, the dark wings Kate Franks & Joy McCall
Dissonance
In a boom room fussing over the future
coping mechanism slips out the door falls into a crop of barbed-wire lancewoods
Pleas for softly fuzzed meds drown in a sea of shimmering ambiguity Keith Nunes & Ruben James
Trapped
Trapped inside oblivion dreams smell like diesel
the recycling bin is full of my own grey matter Keith Nunes & Ruben James
Weather ‘Everyone moans about the weather but no-one does anything about it’ ‘That’s not true! We have done something about it, we’ve made it much worse’ -
Keith Nunes & Ruben James
Saturation of light
Middle of a heat-lamp day The hour when shadows hide beneath feet Masks slide All colour
a shade of beaten hide
Keith Nunes & Ruben James
End of the world as we knew it
The sun sounds like an exposed wire shorting The scent of burning worlds seeps into hair
The detonating fizz-bang The acrid stench
A short wait to uninterrupted tangerine skies
Keith Nunes & Ruben James
night owls the last light of day folds itself into the trees from the gloom an owl heralds its presence into a technological world I play the sumac flute beside the old flint wall at sundown from the tall trees a barn owl answers I watched them quarter the field at twilight over my shoulder the gentle evening tide lapped unnoticed up the shore little owl perched on the pole paying no mind to the streetlight or the passing cars the secret lives of creatures of the night 2 am the city streets start to fill with shrieks and shouts of drunks
a dozen ambulances lined up, waiting outside casualty the night owls here are nothing but trouble Steve Wilkinson Joy McCall
praise of a different kind poems and hymns running through my mind amazing grace wild mountain thyme the road not taken the mountains heather and lochs save my soul the babbling burn sings its song offering praise of a different kind shingle rattling onto the shore stones tumbling downstream; my fingers tapping on the table the syncopated rhythm of the water tumbles on swing low sweet chariot have you come to carry me home? the full moon sets the bright sun rises and I wonder will the circle be unbroken?
Steve Wilkinson Joy McCall
smoke and rain in the middle of burning pine needles another glass of red wine and silence my hair smells of smoke my fingers stained purple with berries a sordid and hectic day at the job planning my next vacation to the Mediterranean gathering mushrooms in the field dreaming I'm Issa, my feet in the ditch roasting a few chestnuts in silence a bit of Mahler perfumes the air the only place of peace I find in this land is in the fallen abbey, lost in briars and thickets from the eaves hang red peppers surrendered to a thick sleep and the sound of rain the log pile is full of darkling beetles the fire has gone out and the night is cold Matsukaze Murasame (Joy McCall)
heaven when my time comes forget the harps and angels just give me a fire in the hearth and a comfy bed no pain, a quiet mind, and some work to do, the sort that makes me happy, say tanka enough to scatter on the wind Larry Kimmel & Joy McCall the placebo affect my doc –the mad alchemist – prescribes . . . prescription in hand I already feel calmer I refuse the meds tear up the papers close my eyes and try praying ... is anybody out there? Larry Kimmel & Joy McCall
beggars what can you do when a stray kitty-cat looks at you with great, green eyes ... ? same thing I do when a tall young hobo comes stumbling by singing the blues … – only I throw coins Larry Kimmel & Joy McCall the light, fading on a stormy night the town'’s once favorite son huddles with one Jack Daniels in a cut-bank along the river’'s edge fame and fortune are fleeting things like night winds give me peace of mind and warm saké Larry Kimmel & Joy McCall
dim-lit wind rages rain pelts the weed-strewn garden in a dim-lit den the good-as-unwifed pastor pens another prurient parable Emily staring from the high window at the passersby ... alone, and lonely waiting for her muse Larry Kimmel & Joy McCall old is the new young how did we once do our schooling and burn the candle at both ends 24/7 month after year? —weren't we magnificent then? we're still amazing in our new/old ways just slower ... sometimes slow is the better way to go Larry Kimmel & Joy McCall
deep dark days winter days all running together I need to see something beside ice and snow and deep, dark woods moving shadows of tall old trees in the woods – ghosts, or the wind and the sun going down? Larry Kimmel & Joy McCall into the real when I’'ve a chance to read by lamplight late into the night then, and only then, do I breathe easy the shadows from a small candle carry me far from the noisy city to a hill-hermit's hut Larry Kimmel & Joy McCall
worse for wear how am I doing? read my tee same shirt, different day though a little worse for the wear my skirts are all patched my hems all ragged much like my mind kinda worn out Larry Kimmel & Joy McCall o western wind wild night winds like a pack of howling wolves take me back to Canada land of the free o, that my love were in my arms and I in my bed again* *paraphrase of O Western Wind, anonymous Larry Kimmel & Joy McCall
hiding in the hut beautiful noon: again i try writing the haiku of my soul I want to write the deepest words they hide inside so I write of birds and skies and hymns on this sacrosanct afternoon reading Takuboku reading billboards searching for hope like that young poet from a century ago I stare at my hands as bent and broken as this sorry world
oh there should be plenty of red lights to steal attention away from despair the old book its pages brown and torn, carries the voice of Saito calling to his kinfolk again on this long renovations day i lose myself in the spinning yellow flowers of Mokichi waking to news of missile strikes and yet more dying I want to run and hide in Gogo-an Matsukaze Joy McCall
dancing on the edge
Joy is a friend only recently met but I’ve known all my soul’s life dancing on the edge the bodies are still and hurt and yet, look how we sing and dance lighter than any air
the fates may crush us to penguin dust but cannot break our hearts or quiet our radiant visions
there's no magic dust in the empty bottles on the doorstep just an old zombie, sitting waiting for the night in the morning he has disappeared and we hold one more day to smell the sweetness of newmown lawns Bill Albert Joy McCall
she asks do all mothers smell of chocolate? the closer he comes near the less and less he will hear
she brings blueberry smoothies I'm lost in brambles in this rambling thicket a stray answer follows me
spring will it never stop raining? packing the mud foundation the child and her worried smile
Joy McCall & Don Wentworth
are we here for some deep reason or are we just ...here? “if I step out of my body I would break into blossom� quotation, James Wright great footprints from long ago haunting me listen to the hollow wood rap, rap at the cellar door
one egg broken in the falcon's nest a young mother openly distressed, reaching over, voice so assuring
Joy McCall & Don Wentworth
our roads claim so many young lives mother strikes out for the woods not seeing tree, leaf, or foal the old city full of knives and dying on the convenience store shelf tobacco and alcohol springtime first the flowers then the weeds the young father sighs deeply lost in his mind, in the world a night of sleep and my frightened muse comes ambling home rising as fast as it drops her image on the veil, gone Joy McCall & Don Wentworth
winter dusk a goodbye kiss for the old cat who won't make it to the week's end I hide my tears in winter dusk as the yard fills with birds among the pebbles on the sand a dead wagtail caught in seaweed if only the drowned girl was so saved from the cruel tide in the moon-silver clouds tonight familiar faces floating and in the old crow's lonesome blues a song I know so well
Liam Wilkinson & Joy McCall
into the dusk disappearing into the dusk my flesh, my bones and all my fears once I was afraid of the dark now I hide myself there slipping into the slow river the water closes over me reeds and rushes hold me captive my dreams drift on downstream at dawn, light filters through the stones that have stood here for centuries we wake in the circle's centre two strangers, two old friends Liam Wilkinson & Joy McCall
Mixed Realities Lotus yield the manifestation of Yin and Yang RL woven in silk mixed realities HS to trace the murmur of shadow pines RL for his movie noir he chooses low-key lighting HS
Ramona Linke & Helga Stania
que sera, sera magnolia flowers all along the road while far away missiles are striking what world is this? falling to the earth before reaching maturity. so little time between sunrise and sunset to make the garden beautiful interred under the rubble pale pink petals scattered seeds dark-skinned boys no inscriptions on the shattered stones, only poems to remind the world that we were here
monsoon washing away the dust and sorrow small green shoots between all the rocks the lateness of the forsythia flowers eventually what will be will be through changing seasons Joy McCall & Steve Wilkinson
Homecoming wilted scents moonlit the tail of the deer /HS homecoming draw strength at Luther's well
/RL
carefully we write a hint in the snow /HS The Meaning of Life* she goes offline /RL ripe grain he carries her over the threshold /RL as if frozen in motion the terracotta army /HS digging up the roots of the yellow gentian /RL a suspension bridge cradles the morning light /HS Ramona Linke & Helga Stania * Satire of the British comedy troupe Monty Python
I stick dark thorns into the small haws a drop of juice purpling the pentacle above my heart
one seed sticks to the tip of the black thorn clinging to a life not yet born
when I reach out eager for the seed, the thorn scratches is it not always so, the seed, the blood?
Michael H. Lester & Joy McCall
sick and tired
before calling
of the poking and prodding
on the fidgety hedgewitch
of men in white coats
barefoot down the lane
she scans the horizon
I get kanji tattoos
for a rough ragged gypsy
and bake in the blistering sun
a white-haired witch with an ever-fetching smile wheels over the hills but the wild gypsies are gone a tinker will have to do
give me a poet rain-washed, sun-dried skin-deep kanji all over his arms striding barefoot down the lane
Michael H. Lester Joy McCall
working late to ease the anxiety of unread mail he listens repeatedly to raggle taggle gypsy
too hot for sleep the witch takes to the sky screaming, flying over LA. dropping chunks of sugar beet
ever grateful for the manic antics of the hedgewitch the tinker pounds sugar beets to make jugs of sweet syrup
Michael H. Lester & Joy McCall
if I could fly . . .
sitting under the chestnut tree
soar above the clouds
as the sun goes down - I come indoors
toward the sun would I thereby disrupt the natural order of things?
the zen card says trust
catkins and hoverflies in my hair ... the soft sound of pigeons
I ask: what, or who -
she brings the garden in with her
life, God, fate?
and all its various creatures
is it not all
still clinging to leaves, buds, and twigs
random chaos?
which fall upon her bed Joy McCall Michael H. Lester
Joy McCall Michael H. Lester
Living Will
the aftermath
emptying the wallet a last untorn photo crumbles
of everything we were
late vigil candles in the chapel down to their last
wind blown leaves
this age forever the bicycle’s dead stop
Bryan Rickert & Peter Jastermsky
Learning the Way
a hollow spot
childhood battle a shovelful of foxholes
where the old branch was
family Christmas our present to dad left unopened
winter remembrance
on our own without a warning black ice
Bryan Rickert & Peter Jastermsky
The Next Steps
coming home
rusty gate . . . everything ages but the squeak
to an empty nest
snowfall turning the tv on just for the sound
mother dove and I
remembering how you once fluffed them tiny wings
Bryan Rickert & Peter Jastermsky
Cutting Deep
threading the needle
funeral day grandma darning holes in the family
another stitch drops
life story all the things that never happened
into the wound
taps the crisp precision of a folded flag
Bryan Rickert & Peter Jastermsky
Solace
listening to crows
morning coffee your half of the pot growing cold
the lessons learned
returning the key a sum of what’s taken for granted
from time alone
learning how to shop for one hunger moon Bryan Rickert & Peter Jastermsky
Winnipeg Wind
at Fort Whyte the snowshoe tracks
Portage and Main—
of humans and hares
the wind whipping snow after my missed bus Michael Dylan Welch Assiniboine Forest at dusk a deer flicks its tail
in the ruin of St. Boniface Cathedral a crushed snail
another heatwave— Leo Mol nudes recline in the garden
the Golden Boy still pointing north
Debbie Strange
King’s Books a rengay by Jim Westenhaver, Megan Shea, Michael Dylan Welch, Judt Shrode, Burk Ketcham, and Janice Sakai
touching the book cover a mouse mooning
Jim
running my finger along a cracked spine
Megan
new year’s day— I turn a page of a self-help book
Michael
black cat curled up on a dog-eared page
Judt
the Harvard Classics— so many to read and I am 91
Burk
reading glasses left on a half-finished novel
Janice
Splashes by Michael Dylan Welch and Ernesto Pangilinan Santiago
summer rain— the marching band continues to play
Michael
sweat runs down my tuxedo
Ernesto
whitewater— a pinecone follows the overturned kayak
Michael
the colors of drinks along the bar— visiting in-laws
Ernesto
the sandcastle’s moat filling with the tide
Michael
autumn wind— the taxi splashes my blind date’s dress
Ernesto
Hot Rocks by Bob Redmond, Michael Dylan Welch, and Amy Baranski
young lovers show off their hickies at the bus stop— summer heat
Bob
hands not in the air on the roller coaster
Michael
lake stroll they take turns licking honeysuckle
Amy
cloudbusting— at last, the two faces touch
Bob
their scores forgotten at mini golf . . . the clown’s nose lights up
Michael
at the swimming hole hot rocks wear the clothes
Amy