http://lcpnationalpoetrymonth2009.wordpress.com

k.g.

On a tablecloth embroidered in truth
I would lay out for thee
a vase of friendly flowers
with petals of poetry;
a sugar bowl filled with lumps of laughter,
a pitcher brimming with milk,
and one small note from a rhapsody
etched on a cloud of silk;
charming china cups with golden edges,
heart-shaped spoons for stirring,
and pretty napkins laced with love
to wipe away life’s yearnings;
tall glasses of water-colored words
to quench our thirsty ears,
and to feed our hungry souls
the bread of yester years.
And just in case there was room for more
from Thalia’s kitchen I’d deem
joy jiggling in sparkling jello
and bite-size dreams in cream.
In cozy comfort we’d talk all day
and well into the night
until the lambent glow of friendship
became our only light.

Blanca Baquero, poet and haïkiste, has been published in a number of literary magazines, university works, and anthologies. She is a member of the Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia, the Quebec Writers’ Federation, the League of Canadian Poets, Haïku Canada, Haïku Society of America, and the Association Française de Haïku.

The night is starving itself. Fir tree. Fir tree.
What is driven

within dark mountain?
Miles below, fire burns. Who will

be awakened? What eclipses
shadow of a shadow? Sheer off

and go deeper. That’s one
direction. So that even if you hardly move

you return to the same place again
and again from far away. By the radiance shining through,

acid green snake slithers. By the radiance
shining through serpent fireworks zigzag.

See the black snake
in ash form. Not to be serpent

or yes to be serpent. Not to be sheared tree
or yes to shear it. By the shining Black mountain

night pulls dark.
Tree burns. Tree burns,

and bleeds
with the cinder of winged seeds.

Sun. Fir. Night. Mountain.
Our hearts are not in our bodies.

Carole Langille

so, on the far shelves of our dreams
wait mistily
the dreads we need not look at now-
To watch the pale sky turn to cream
seems good enough: a calm
that like an empty hand held out,
seems warm, seems almost welcoming,
signing the centre of hard days
with its still palm.

M. Travis Lane is a life member of the League of Canadian Poets.

Snapped up by the colossal magnet of war, men
brain-fevered pack troop trains, relieved of sweethearts,
shaking off familiar dust for
exotic bloodmud,
useless seed lavished
in hundreds of miles
of hand-dug homes,
two mirror lines facing off
from Ypres to St. Mihiel,
a rare opportunity to watch yourself
die.

Then on Christmas Eve, 1914, the guns fall silent and men
move dreamlike toward one another in
limbic exchanges
of smokes and puddings, cognac and newspapers,
relieved of hate, eyes desiring simple
recognition
and suddenly the frontal lobes kick in
and no-man’s land becomes absurd theatre,
the next step
beyond comprehension.

So with dawn, the cheery farewells, see ya Fritz, see ya Englander,
addresses hastily written
before leaving the field
fertile with tens and tens of thousands like them
to flex once again that old
reptilian muscle.

Marilyn Lerch, League of Canadian Poets

SOJOURN

And alone she stood,
amid the ruins
the blowing winds
reminding of her promise.
Amid the ruins
she stands
patrolling the night are her guards
for a return of peace is imminent.
Reminding of faithfulness
she awaits standing
hard earth beneath her,
the sunlight softens lost hopes.
For her reflection
transcends all doubt
her stance dispelling
injustice.
And the winds pick up
and none can hear,
her word shoots forth,
and her face reminds.
And they remain
mesmerized
for she effects and transforms
their love.

Michaela Sefler is a mystical poet living in Montreal, Canada. Her poetry is spiritual and esoteric and allude to ancient ideals. In her poetry she draws on the Qabbala, and other ancient writings, to convey a message of hope, and survival describing present realities in the light of ancient truths. http://www.msefler-inspiration.net

this morning
the haze across
the yellowed bean fields
like mist of mountain river
on a morning like this
when I ate rice congee
and saw fishermen casting
hand-nets
from the banks
when the Yangtze
had not yet reached the
markers
readied for the dam

I drive the same road
of so many late Septembers
when pumpkins ripen
like globes rolled in
fallow fields
when the chill of endings
drifts as mist
a pair of white horses
motionless at the fence

Dorothy Mahoney

This is the lore:

you couple with young men

(as rain moves against the dry earth,

as sky touches sea.)

I imagine you against the horizon.

For you are the promised land,

and lovers kneel on thee.

April Bulmer’s poem is an excerpt from her new book, The Goddess Psalms (www.serengetipress.ca). Her work often focuses on women’s spirituality. Contact her at: aprilb@golden.net [please cut & paste email address into your e-mail]

Poem for Peace in Two Voices

Penn Kemp’s “poem for peace in many voices” has been translated into 125 languages. Pendas Productions has published two volumes along with a double CD. Some translations and an eponymous videopoem are at www.mytown.ca/poemforpeace; our performance schedule is at www.mytown.ca/pennletters. Penn and translators happily participate in Beyond Borders. www.pennkemp.ca