The Bamboo Hut a journal of tanshi
Spring 2017
The Bamboo Hut Spring 2017 Journal of Contemporary Tanshi Š 2017
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The Bamboo Hut
Spring 2017
Edited by S Wilkinson
Pat Geyer
narrowly passing through whittled outlines... i draw myself as a stick figure to channel a path
she looks at the follies of youth her steely blue eyes ask was that me?
in my twilight buried 'neath a rotting log a snake... crawling out it steals my life
autumn is gone... as the season dies snow buries me
my brown eyes watch the beauty of nature brown hair blows in the wind as life and seasons come and go this gift from my parents
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Theophilus Femi Alawonde homecoming... father still smokes his pipe under the old oak
waxing gibbous... i say my resolutions to my shadow
Pat Davis garden center the hummingbird and I make our choices grandchildren practice card tricks grandma is young again walking out of the cinema taller homeless man eats a Christmas cookie his eyes close
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Brenden Kent shaking myself out of this world ... snowglobe
winter solstice mybreathandyours
even after all snow melt and I
all we couldn't say the hills are repeating -snowscape
an old winter's dream ... cool night air filling with woodsmoke and whiskey between seasons, a star is still a star
3
Radhamani Sarma Between East and West hot Sun and cool Moon life veers round its own pathway you like or dislike.
pen a poem of prosaic living a sad metaphor serendipity is God’s dictum.
in sea’s roar a drowning fear runs me down
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Robert Beveridge Kierstin I would run fire for you the fire of your hair thrown into morning
The Next Day Your smell, lilac, jasmine, tobacco, is everywhere on the bathroom towel, in the rugs, rubbed into my chest like liniment. I lie back, breathe deep and fill my lungs with you.
Rachel Sutcliffe blossom clouds we head deeper into spring still snowing I smell the memories in your scarf trying to hold on outside my window forget me nots fade spring dusk flooding the stream with stars
walking further into the flames autumn woods
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John Grey deer at water's edge nibbles lush green pasture one ear pricked for danger one hoof marking time until dark
palm of my golden hands last drop of fair-haired sunset blown like a thistle into dark's waiting embrace or wind's ceaseless motion
rain drums on roof to announce the tympani of drops from caves to rose petals
6
Shloka Shankar cleaning out the medicine cabinet nobody tells me we are past expiration, too
staring at a wall the universe darkens
forgetting to open quotes fingernail moon
making me choose my battles New Year's resolutions
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Pere Risteski
the wind discovers trees to stir them up and retires again
above the small pear tree buzz bees from distant orchards
a bee buzzed and the leaves hang still not moving at all
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Anna Goluba
Already crucified (So with nothing else to lose) He asked: "Eli, Eli, lamma sabachthani?" But still the silence Was the only answer
Was it all Worth it? Empty shell
Working late All these gods Stuck behind desks Are transformed Into devils
Just to have Something to hold on to... Pocket stone
9
Debbie Strange
Night Terrors we don't go downtown anymore it's not safe for women and girls of any age, every colour shots fired another child dies for a debt her chalk outline macabre street art
the songs of an eldritch choir lure me to the precipice but I do not look down
arts and crafts glitter sparkles throughout the galaxies
thundersnow a shattering of ice bones
10
Bob Carlton
Distant storm clouds-too hot, too humid to write.
Garden wall: red brick painted with haiku.
Last rose one year, first rose the next-ice storm.
our sweat blends on your belly a salty kiss
Winter sky, perching mockingbird: same color.
11
Ernesto P Santiago
birds are returning to the place they'd visited and the best thing is I'll be there as always to welcome you home
the defined edges of unspoken message of such "I love you!" warms a heart in stone I am saving for life
oh, Mother Earth, still fresh and green the high land and the forest and my marriage with you are no different
rushing river simply a lure to own my inner self your thirst awakens this breath within
chalk moon . . . our bedroom talks evolving what we believe, guide us to love
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Paul Chambers
the turn of a pike clouds the shallows departing spring
last of the light… an oystercatcher’s tracks fill with snow
darkening cold a yellow leaf falls after the crow
slow spring breeze… rippling the dark side of the bed sheet
plover’s cry – a strand of wool caught in the fence wire
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James P. Roberts SOSTENUTO A long sustained note Will it rise or will it fall ends in shattered heart MOVIE SCENE MOON Wispy clouds skim past Full round orb glows spectral white A distant low howl SA BAI DII Rose garden path winds Petals drop in dragon scales Tiny pink hand waves *Sa Bai Dii is Laotian for "Hello". NYIN DII THII PHOHP JAO Night held flowers bloom Soft breeze masks scented perfume Dress slips, tumbles free *Nyin Dii Thii Phohp Jao is Laotian for "Pleased to meet you." LIPSTICK To get herself ready to write a poem she puts on lipstick and nothing else
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Anna Cates weaving through a chain length fence white thyme the simple things that surprise me
full moon a marshmallow melting on a stick on nights such as this my thoughts turn to witches
the lucky few— Japanese macaques bask in steaming waters
rosy sky puffed up with clouds ripe melons
spring luncheon violets on an antique cup
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Paul Fauteux Briefly, in cool, moonlit spaces behind strong walls— a man in right thought.
Michael O'Brien
low sun the sound of a bird among fallen leaves
sun dog a world once loved
sharing recipes on social media winter rain
tenement constellation the neighbour’s menorah
new year’s sun a deflated balloon caught in a tree
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Gabriel Bates
snowstorm my bootprints fade into a stranger's
crackling ice I spend the day with an old friend
North Star sleeping on her side of the bed tonight
withdrawal I hold her as she used to
Aleppo these houses as their graves
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Matsukaze into city darkness, our car moving rapidly down the highway, dad enjoys the local rnb station
red ochre sun sets: getting dressed quickly, there's an event at the bookstore i desire to attend
i drank yesterday, held up in my room---i drink today and enjoy the way it leaves me feeling
completing another work-shift, took a cab home; its cold and silent i make my way in the house
he calls—two hours spent chatting in baritonal whispers, a sputtering candle perfumes my room
18
Anna Maris spring rain i upload poetry to the cloud
sacred ground in the pale landscape bulldozers
murky water on the bridge railings rusted love locks
dried leaves the truths i entomb
family grave on the stone covered path shadow patterns
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Matsukaze Answering Mokichi (tan)ka rensaku on the funeral road, sorrel blossoms, bemused, on the funeral road, were they not falling?
where i am, the leaves have turned brittle, and brown --- there's laughter here
along the road through the field where windflowers with red mouths bloomed, light flowed as we went
i live in the city, along the highway; nothing but deadened grass and the wind of passing traffic
i hold the fire with which i must cremate my mother. In the skies here is nothing to look at
Mokichi-san, may i for many years, not experiece the grief of a mother being gathered to her ancestors
under the night sky where the stars are, red and red, mulberry mother went on burning i am certain no one can gage the grief you had mingled with red mulberries and fire
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deep into the night, i looked at the funeral fire of my mother, simply red, it went on burning
barely into the morning, i stare at sunspill on the brick drive-thru, simply golden, burning, spreading
we guard the fire, the night is old; my younger brother sadly sings a song of life
guardians of life. the days gather age; inside of me my brothers and sister must become closer
single-minded, i will keep watch over the faintly red rising smoke, the smoke
working hard to pull in my double-mind, in the distance the smoke of passing traffic
in sour hot water, body sadly immersed, i saw light blaze in the sky
a slow day, i think of bathing, of immersing myself in light, in sunlight coming back to my birthplace, the village where my house is, i pickle the flowers of white wisteria and eat them
21
home of my birthplace, no longer there, pickled-anything i do not enjoy... well, i've never really had
near the mountain where faint flowers fall, mists, flowing, have gone away
another cool but balmy morning, no mists, no flowers --- at least none i can readily name
a fire burning far off on a mountain beyond the valley—its scarlet, and my mother, saddening
no morning fires, no mountains, or valleys—i purpose in my heart to call mother, its long overdue
it touched me---the way the rain was falling. The earth near the mounain was red---how pitiful it was
no no Mokichi-san, no falling rain, or mountains---just myself behind mulberry mother!
it is January. there are no mountains here, or bamboo shoots, and mother, is where she is--alive.
22
Margaret Mahony
on the kitchen table a biennial orchid in bloom my granddaughter and I share breakfast
magpies in season I duck for cover heading home a kookaburra on my street sign
23
Bruce England One moving spot on the sheen of the pond dragonfly shadow
Not Tetris, a flock of crows landing in cul-de-sac
Suddenly one butterfly becomes two
24
Ben Moeller-Gaa freezing rain at the pub door the tips of lit cigarettes
from me to you moonlight in the puddle
after the party the stillness of dirty dishes
evening chill the emptiness of the mousetrap
humming an old hobo tune i double knot my shoes
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Bryan Rickert
returning to the berry patch full ripe moon
winter rain– blackbirds rise against it
the length of autumn– corn stubble
puddles become Kandinskys– city rain
island time– between my toes sand slips
26
Elin Bell
full moon in the eyes of the tiger iron bars
sleepless again in my window the universe
in still water the shadow of my shadow darkness and light
27
Precious Oboh
falling pearls of dewa night crawler still snores by the side of the cape
migrating geese she left on the tenth month of the harmattan season
the tour guide discussing Adolf Hitler -the portrait of a survivor wearing a "purple triangle"
new moon the sweet scent of roasted corn brightens grandma's face out front evening breeze rocking the swings the silence between us
28
Elizabeth Spencer Spragins
blueberry branches draped with beads of unripe fruit— clusters of white pearls that glow in summer twilight hold no tender promises a mourning dove calls as the fog burns to cinders willows loose their veils and sway to unknown rhythms that my feet cannot follow silhouettes embrace as breezes stir the plume grass— a dance of shadows draws my eyes to flattened grays beneath the arc of rainbows sailboats rock gently as a breeze tugs braided lines tethered to the pier my rod strains against a trout that tacks toward open water wild roses tumble over roadside rocks and weeds— fickle waterfalls blossom over barren earth and color pools at daybreak
29
Todd Saukkot
Two distant lovers They have one thing in common The first two raindrops
The explorer peeks Above the stars Rose clusters
30
Robert Witmer
water breaks over rock blinking in the sun a frog croaks
night swallows my shadow a single moth circles a bare bulb
flowers in a vase the unmistakable scent of her hospital room
wind in the trees howling at the silent stars
scented music a symmetry of pine trees swaying to the clouds
31
Dave Read
falling leaves ... the canopy fills with starlight
winter bells a puck rings off the crossbar
soaking in the birdbath moonlight
a child chases a plastic bag right to the end of the wind
floating on the lake's surface the boy who could not swim
32
Joy McCall The Bay Horse the man at the reins says ' are we good to go?' the boy smiles loading the creatures onto the hay so many trips back and forth over hump-back bridges to the old barn on the northern moor the old cart heavy with sweet grass and hay the tiny field mice the big-eyed tawny spiders on the moor the ruined abbey the risen moon casting long shadows across the stones long dead monks quiet as the mice and the spiders as the cart tips and the creatures run the mice into long grasses and gaps in the stones the spiders climbing the cracked timbers and the man and the woman weary travels done sleep in the cart under the setting moon
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Andrew Howe & Marilyn Humbert Forgotten Folk
evening addicts dose on reality TV watching one-day hero’s march flower sprawled pavements ah
one by one street lights flick on shadowy figures mark nightly rituals behind painted masks
mh
locked door fibre optic cruising dark-side chatroom friendship spark inner secrets shared
ah
waiting at garden’s end faerie folk redundant in the clutter of pixel enthralled minds
34
mh
Andrew Howe & Marilyn Humbert Chasing Ripples
footsteps the morning bell calls time interrupted a forced face smiles under downcast eyes
ah
bare feet shiver on worn tiles in the shrine through tree canopy wind moans in alien tongues
ripples chase across the pail tears fall orderly rituals cold finger peccadillo’s
ah
hooves beat a path beyond the grove pools of blood gleam in the light
35
mh
mh
torn rags draped in red scent adrift the woven reed basket cradles discarded souls
ah
Frances Black & Marilyn Humbert Rhythm of Love
gold shimmers as the brush strokes untangle her hair her heart unseen lies coiled in knots
fb
on the canvas he daubs shades of blue – an outline of the distant shore waves washing her toes
promenading her new blue dress she checks her appearance in every window 36
fb
mh
wind ripples across the still pond distorting my reflection I wonder which me do people see
mh
sleepless I toss in bed destroying my memories of you
fb
in my garden watching blue wrens hop between branches my thoughts flitting so much unexplained
mh
as I swing over perfumed flowers inhaling petals of perfect love my senses return
37
fb
my silk chute billows into a curve I am a leaf drifting in the rising breeze
mh
the wind of life blows change as baby explores grandparents relearn simple pleasures
fb
Frances Carleton & Marilyn Humbert Is It Worth It ?
outside dining earl grey tea and scones affluence spread like jam and cream this cafĂŠ life fc
biting chunks from shore foundations churning ocean undermines sandcastles and mansions 38
mh
working hard with little play children in the care of a stranger love thrown outward
fc
on the stoop in deepening dusk a kiddie waits key lost, mum and dad in peak hour gridlock
mh
dog barks car slowly cruises by the boy waves hoping it's his parents another innocent taken
fc
a product of the me generation she stamps and pouts still the rain falls and chill wind blows
39
mh
skilled thumbs tap the keypad during dinner across the table an image is mirrored
40
ah
Matsukaze and Larry Kimmel a haiku sequence Citrus Trail flowering primrose your hands against my skin a dark melody / m where crabapples bloom along the avenue, we say goodbye raspberry sherbet / lk handful of orange rinds in every room leaving a citrus trail / m on our quest for piping hot soup a few dozen snowflakes / lk enjoying a croissant watching guest's depart for the Cowboy’s game / m putting out kibble for the feral cat snow on every branch / lk the age of the world tasted in cappuccino writing 100 ku / m one bite of sugar pie and I’m back in that oilcloth kitchen / lk
41
Ramona Linke and Helga Stania a lotus seed old and silent… her thought’s strong momentum /HS deep inside me the calligraphy of straying stars /RL centuries of darkness ── a lotus seed /HS harvest moonlight passes through the apsis rose /RL
far dreams side by side the coloring of our shadows /RL forgotten legends ── flotsam /HS day moon the honest blue of far dreams /RL the sound of walnuts during meditation /HS
42
Tom Sexton & Joy McCall home from the sea a bitter cold wind I'm watching a diver slip beneath the choppy water to harvest scallops waves reach up to catch the wind I light a candle for the Chinese oystermen drowned off our coast in the great surging sea that swept by like a banshee the stars are candles for those who are lost at sea I've read your sad lines your Chinese oyster diver's spirit is rising sea smoke the moon is a lamplight for old sailors finding their slow way home from the sea
43
Jonathan Day (prose) & Joy McCall (tanka)
The mid-winter solstice has passed and the mad busyness of the last few months. Christmas has come and gone and the old year has ended and the new one has just begun. Now it's the time to slow down. If we were horses in the fields, we would move from a gallop to a canter to a trot and at last a slow ambling walk. Like the land, we would rest, dormant, not doing much on the surface; just taking stock, musing, but deep below, gathering strength, preparing for the new season.
like the land we are gathering deep down strength for the spring for the new growing we are waiting in the quiet place calm and silent turning, shifting in winter peace my friend stay close, as the season stretches to its end this lovely cold slow moving winter
44
Tom Sexton & Joy McCall following Basho house sparrow singing on this very cold morning a small bird brought here long ago from where you live do they visit you at dawn? small brown birds of house and hedge come by my place morning, noon and night flitting from tree to tree the moon has its own song open your windows wide and listen for it they say Basho always left his hut at dusk - follow him a night bird calls from the edge of the dark path I recite poems aloud, willing myself to walk on deer tracks in new ice did they pass this way last night under a full moon leaving a constellation of hoof-stars for me to find?
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