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,
with the cinder of winged seeds.
Sun. Fir. Night. Mountain.
Our hearts are not in our bodies.
The roads, the winds, not roaring, and the sky
unpricked by commerce, shadows, birds,
the sheeted yard distilled in sleep:
it seems a sort of happiness-
nothing that must, or easily,
Wants to be done-
so, on the far shelves of our dreams
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
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
Then on Christmas Eve, 1914, the guns fall silent and men
move dreamlike toward one another in
of smokes and puddings, cognac and newspapers,
relieved of hate, eyes desiring simple
and suddenly the frontal lobes kick in
and no-man’s land becomes absurd theatre,
the next step
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
Marilyn Lerch, League of Canadian Poets
And alone she stood,
amid the ruins
the blowing winds
reminding of her promise.
Amid the ruins
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
And the winds pick up
and none can hear,
her word shoots forth,
and her face reminds.
And they remain
for she effects and transforms
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
back in Essex County
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
from the banks
when the Yangtze
had not yet reached the
readied for the dam
I drive the same road
of so many late Septembers
when pumpkins ripen
like globes rolled in
when the chill of endings
drifts as mist
a pair of white horses
motionless at the fence
Psalm 4 for the ||Goddess
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: email@example.com [please cut & paste email address into your e-mail]