Saturday, December 21, 2013
Lilliput Review #190 (Don Wentworth), and! Candi Cooper-Towler. . . Martha Christina! Greg Watson!
Don Wentworth's Lilliput Review, #190 just arrived - Don has given us 190 issues (!) of what is, has been (and will continue as) the most heartfelt and influential small press print publication we have (in beginnings of bear creek haiku, Don was mentor) - 190 issues! Imagine Don's hard work, devotion to poetry, and sheer grace!
two poems from #190. . .
GARDEN MEDITATION
A mourning cloak butterfly
settles on a red dahlia,
folds its wings and feeds.
For five minutes
of its remaining life
(and mine) I sit, watching
Martha Christina
Bristol, RI
Sometimes the words
of a poem arrive
first, sometimes
the silence.
Greg Watson
Saint Paul, MN
and this, a lovely poem from Candi Cooper-Towler:
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen
darylayaz@me.com
bear creek haiku
po box 3787
boulder co
80307
usa
worthy, healthy holiday wishes!
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Ms Angelee Deodhar, doctor of poetic peace and communication between cultures
this image, from Ms Angelee Deodhar of Chandigarh, India, contains an obvious beauty and (for me, humbling) blessing - below the image itself, a latest international poetic endeavor of this remarkable woman of poetic peace and communication between cultures. . .
Haiku Sansaar
Haiku Sansaar is a new online bilingual English/ Hindi journal, presenting haiku and its related genres. We present the work of both international and Indian poets who are well-known among their own language groups but unknown outside it.
The journal’s chief goal is to foster understanding and communication among haiku poets and readers who speak different languages so that we can learn from each other. It is our hope that Haiku Sansaar will help to promote friendship in a truly international way. The work will appear in both languages.
Editors : Dr. Jagdish Vyom (Hindi)
Dr. Angelee Deodhar (English)
http://haikusansar.blogspot.jp/2013
Dr. Angelee Deodhar (English)
http://haikusansar.blogspot.jp/2013
a translation of Japanese haiku into Hindi through the window of English, this, and Ms Deodhar's prior translations/endeavors, "speak of her love of Japanese literature and her actions as a bridge between Japan and India", as "gifts for poets writing in Hindi".
Thank you, Dr Deodhar (and Dr Jagdish Vyom).
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Miriam Sagan's beautiful failures
Miriam Sagan has 60 of her haiku (a celebration of this remarkable poet's 60th birthday) in a limited edition book (100 copies) titled
ALL MY BEAUTIFUL FAILURES
cover illustration by Katsushika Hokusai 1760-1849
among these 'failures' (which have many fine homes including bear creek haiku and have earned many fine awards) are. . .
bend in the road
you're not home
I suddenly feel it
talking to crows
as if expecting
news of you
the nun scatters
her cut hair
for the nesting birds
you tell me these ducks
don't always mate for life
are you flirting with me?
footprints in snow
crescent moon, all my
beautiful failures
my birthday blessing from Miriam Sagan was receiving copy #35 - and! have been inspired to gather my 'beautiful failures' into a limited birthday edition, but, was not able to move beyond the age of three (alright, ok, it was two). . .
may we all have the extreme good fortune of failing as beautifully as has Ms Sagan
Miriam's Well (http://miriamswell.wordpress.com)
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
poetry (11 lines or less) for consideration by bear creek haiku is mailed (perhaps with an SASE) to:
bear creek haiku
po box 3787
boulder co
80307
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Bukowski's first and last words
Rediscovering Bukowski every other month. Near-sleep last night, reading first and last words from his poems realized they're still better than most I've written sometimes I appreciated the abbreviated poem as much as the poem in its entirety. . .
I laugh sometimes when I think about
say
he's not alone tonight
and neither am
I.
repeat
it's an
old poem:
for their sake
and for ours.
4 cops
dogs walk the walls
as the submarine sinks quickly to
bottom.
I'll never return to this coffee shop
again.
KFAC
here I sit
again for
one more
nightalong with me.
beaujolais jadol
the dogs of Belgium feel bad
the lost and forsaken
lives of so
many.
a plate glass window
dogs and angels are not
very different
working good
all up and
down
inside the
darkness
here.
and,
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
above semi-desecrations extracted from Charles Bukowski's
Love Is A Dog From Hell
(and)
the night torn with mad footsteps
Sunday, November 3, 2013
'on the way home' and a 64 year marriage
on the way home. . . at Austin-Bergstrom Int'l Airport after father-in-law's funeral, the most moving moment (for me) was Judith choosing to carry one item to the plane: the American flag (for his military service) given to her at Elray's graveside. . . am re-reminded of one (of so many) sacred moments as a hospice nurse, standing beside a lovely lady as her husband moved on after 64 years of their married life together, she turned to me, and said -
the day we were back in Colorado, an elder of mine, (and of many), a dear friend who had insisted I take his new plaid sport coat to our Texas funeral, unexpectedly, quickly moved on. . . his wife stated as we stood bedside his hospital bed 'he wanted you to keep his coat'. . .
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
Sunday, September 15, 2013
much needed uplifting poetic vibes from p l wick, the versifier of bard valley
Our Front Range Mountain Range, declared a disaster area (heavy rains, unbelievable flooding, loss of lives/pets/homes) - the National Guard states immensity of their rescue efforts here with military helicopters, vehicles and personnel compares to Hurricane Katrina (the Guard has rescued many hundreds, even thousands, of Coloradan folk, including friends of mine, have saved many lives, and are, again, even beyond heroism) (and) (as a veteran, am re-reminded of thankfulness for having served through the vehicle of our US Army) -
Saturday, September 14, 2013
from Anisoara Ioradace, Constanta, România, trans Miss Alina Bumbac (heartfelt thanks for sending your poem/image), and, a poetic visit from Peggy Dugan French
from Anisoara Ioradace, math teacher at Secondary School nr.6"Nicolae Titulescu", Constanta, România (translated by Miss Alina Bumbac) this abstract poetic image which - - the more one looks, all the more one appreciates - - am delighted she (they) choose to share (seedy character in lower right hand corner not part of desired poetic/artistic image)
and, from Peggy Dugan French, Cardiff, California - poet, editor of Shemom, friend -
seasons of love
spring love
we climb mountains
bask on a perfect rock
summer love
we gather with family & friends
exchange vows
autumn love
we raise two kids
pass on family traditions
winter love
we bury parents
watch the kids leave home
forever love
we stand together
past radiant, future unfolding
and,
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
(worthy associate Frosty)
Thursday, September 12, 2013
A lovely poem from Tatjana Debeljački, Užice, Serbia (also in the latest bear creek haiku, #114)
and, from the versifying skunk cabbage of Empire, Colorado, p l wick - -
early morning frost
burrowed down into a pail of feed
three meadow mice
Sometimes, when I whistle
and Bud-dog
does not amble in,
I'll find him
dreaming
out behind the shed
in fender-deep weeds--
beside the rusted pickup.
Helping him up
onto the opened tailgate,
we sit in silence
letting summer's breezes
ruffle our hair.
old friends
up on blocks
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
Friday, July 26, 2013
beatidude Carl Mayfield ~ Modest Proposal Chapbook #24 'All the Way Up'
an especially necessary early morning's yawped beatidude of poetry becoming: mister master Carl Mayfield's multifarious Blank Looks and Read Agains...
Blank Look #819
no post card
can do it:
mountain peak
knowing where to stop
Only witness
to behind the knee kisses -
the scented candle
Blank Look #137
I hold a begonia
up to the light
no, all the way up
cold wind--
the daffodils
anyway
Blank Look #186
hearing the finches
singing at first light
means we've come
through, too
Wife's knees
spooned into mine. . . .
sound of the house doing nothing
beatidude Carl Mayfield's current chapbook (including some above Blank Looks/Read Agains plus! Many Others) is
Modest Proposal Chapbooks (#24)
an imprint of Lilliput Review
Pittsburg's Don Wentworth
and,
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
Blank Look #819
no post card
can do it:
mountain peak
knowing where to stop
Only witness
to behind the knee kisses -
the scented candle
Blank Look #137
I hold a begonia
up to the light
no, all the way up
cold wind--
the daffodils
anyway
Blank Look #186
hearing the finches
singing at first light
means we've come
through, too
Wife's knees
spooned into mine. . . .
sound of the house doing nothing
beatidude Carl Mayfield's current chapbook (including some above Blank Looks/Read Agains plus! Many Others) is
Modest Proposal Chapbooks (#24)
an imprint of Lilliput Review
Pittsburg's Don Wentworth
and,
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
yawping beatitudes of poetry becoming - days/nights becoming better through/because of especially necessary early morning poems...
from the last post, Judith Partin-Nielsen's Poetry Everywhere, to this, Coyopa's longerish and quite wonderish Sometimes A Wild God -
Sometimes A Wild God by Coyopa
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.
When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.
He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles around his feet.
You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides...
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.
The dog barks.
The wild god smiles,
Holds out his hand.
The dog licks his wounds
And leads him inside.
The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.
'I haven't much,' you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.
When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it's fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.
The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox. You cough.
Oh, limitless space.
Oh, eternal mystery.
Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
Oh, miracle of life.
Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.
You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour from your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exhalts and weeps at once.
The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.
In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.
In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fist on the table.
The moon leans in through the window.
The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.
"Why did you leave me to die?"
Asks the wild god and you say:
'I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn't know how. I'm sorry.'
Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer...
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart...
There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black hair.
Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear sits by the fire.
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.
next, early morning beatitudinal yawping of poetry becoming from master mister Carl Mayfield
so, will
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
from the last post, Judith Partin-Nielsen's Poetry Everywhere, to this, Coyopa's longerish and quite wonderish Sometimes A Wild God -
Sometimes A Wild God by Coyopa
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine.
When the wild god arrives at the door,
You will probably fear him.
He reminds you of something dark
That you might have dreamt,
Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.
He will not ring the doorbell;
Instead he scrapes his fingers
Leaving blood on the paintwork,
Though primroses grow
In circles around his feet.
You do not want to let him in.
You are very busy.
It is late, or early, and besides...
You cannot look at him straight
Because he makes you want to cry.
The dog barks.
The wild god smiles,
Holds out his hand.
The dog licks his wounds
And leads him inside.
The wild god stands in your kitchen.
Ivy is taking over your sideboard;
Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades
And wrens have begun to sing
An old song in the mouth of your kettle.
'I haven't much,' you say
And give him the worst of your food.
He sits at the table, bleeding.
He coughs up foxes.
There are otters in his eyes.
When your wife calls down,
You close the door and
Tell her it's fine.
You will not let her see
The strange guest at your table.
The wild god asks for whiskey
And you pour a glass for him,
Then a glass for yourself.
Three snakes are beginning to nest
In your voicebox. You cough.
Oh, limitless space.
Oh, eternal mystery.
Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.
Oh, miracle of life.
Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.
You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour from your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exhalts and weeps at once.
The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.
In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.
In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fist on the table.
The moon leans in through the window.
The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.
"Why did you leave me to die?"
Asks the wild god and you say:
'I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn't know how. I'm sorry.'
Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer...
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart...
There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black hair.
Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear sits by the fire.
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.
next, early morning beatitudinal yawping of poetry becoming from master mister Carl Mayfield
so, will
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
Sunday, July 21, 2013
yawping beatitudes of poetry: Judith Partin-Nielsen... Coyopa, Carl Mayfield, and a Courtney Love manifestation
'yawping beatitudes of day becoming' - days/nights becoming better through/because of especially necessary poems... and, I realize they weren't for me to write (well, ok, a somewhat ego-soothing way of saying 'couldn't have written') -
three of these yawping beatitudes: Judith Partin-Nielsen's Poetry Everywhere, Coyopa's Sometimes a Wild God, and a poem (plus) from Modest Proposal Chapbook #24 by Carl Mayfield (love this dudearoonie)
and we begin, in this post, with Poetry Everywhere, by Judith Partin-Nielsen...
Poetry Everywhere
for Courtney Love
"I wrote poetry everywhere
on the walls, on his shirt
I wrote poetry everywhere"
I couldn't stop
at night on the sheets in our bed
in my sleep, in my dreams
I wrote poetry everywhere
on my face like war paint
(stirring up all kinds of trouble)
I wrote poetry on the table cloth
in Jax's Fish House
a haiku surrounded by wine
glasses, white napkins, red brick,
walls, green fish - tiny dots of
blue light hanging from the
ceiling - Nick Forester eating sushi
at the next table
I wrote poetry everywhere
I wrote in books that
didn't belong to me, past due,
checked in, checked out,
on posters at the coffee
house, poetry notes on golden
peeling bathroom mirrors
surprise tanka on the
toilet seat
I wrote poetry everywhere
I wrote poetry on the stairs
seven steps to the landing
turn left. Six more up to your room.
Listening to the blues, Muddy Waters
wailing, sitting on the floor
eating dates, drinking white wine.
I wrote poetry everywhere.
You made a pass, I didn't notice
better to keep writing poetry
everywhere
Flat on my face, flat on my
ass, flat on my back
just keep writing
poetry everywhere
and,
see you in a moment
and,
in Coyopa's beatitude
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
three of these yawping beatitudes: Judith Partin-Nielsen's Poetry Everywhere, Coyopa's Sometimes a Wild God, and a poem (plus) from Modest Proposal Chapbook #24 by Carl Mayfield (love this dudearoonie)
and we begin, in this post, with Poetry Everywhere, by Judith Partin-Nielsen...
Poetry Everywhere
for Courtney Love
"I wrote poetry everywhere
on the walls, on his shirt
I wrote poetry everywhere"
I couldn't stop
at night on the sheets in our bed
in my sleep, in my dreams
I wrote poetry everywhere
on my face like war paint
(stirring up all kinds of trouble)
I wrote poetry on the table cloth
in Jax's Fish House
a haiku surrounded by wine
glasses, white napkins, red brick,
walls, green fish - tiny dots of
blue light hanging from the
ceiling - Nick Forester eating sushi
at the next table
I wrote poetry everywhere
I wrote in books that
didn't belong to me, past due,
checked in, checked out,
on posters at the coffee
house, poetry notes on golden
peeling bathroom mirrors
surprise tanka on the
toilet seat
I wrote poetry everywhere
I wrote poetry on the stairs
seven steps to the landing
turn left. Six more up to your room.
Listening to the blues, Muddy Waters
wailing, sitting on the floor
eating dates, drinking white wine.
I wrote poetry everywhere.
You made a pass, I didn't notice
better to keep writing poetry
everywhere
Flat on my face, flat on my
ass, flat on my back
just keep writing
poetry everywhere
and,
see you in a moment
and,
in Coyopa's beatitude
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
Thursday, July 4, 2013
this nation's birthday: sacred texts under stars, among fireflies - robert wooten, joanna m weston, caroline simpson, michael conner, carl mayfield, p l wick, dorothy mclaughlin and giovanni malito
us, and fireflies, beneath the evening's stars...within, the sacredness of this nation's birthday (of these United States) accompanied by a few sacred texts of poetry within the hearts, minds, and loveverliness's of all whichever/wherever paths and poems are truly ours...
blue-velvet dusk
the evening star
nestled in thereness michael conner
tahoka, texas
Venice Prayer
caroline simpson
goztepe, turkey Why do I crave the fog,
a softened silhouette?
Wrap me like a Russian nesting doll
in layers of mist that soak and sink;
Immerse me in damp whispers
and blur my outline into thick emerald lagoon,
bright, crisp stars twinkling above.
shades of moonlight
the difference
she makes joanna m weston
shawnigan lake,
canada
cardinal beaks grown close
robert wooten with mating in the dark path
raleigh, north carolina he gives her the seed
old crow and I
laughing, cawing as
we meet once again crows by a lone crow
fort collins, colorado
senryu, ayaz
marmots
whistling from the talus
a mountain flute ensemble
p l wick
empire, colorado
the sound of the wind
clearing a path for itself
through the trees
dorothy mclaughlin
somerset, massachusetts
What I wanted -
well, dust is quick to forget
the busyness
carl mayfield
rio rancho, new mexico
on the lake
listening to the loon
after it's gone
giovanni malito
ireland
and
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
laughing, cawing as
we meet once again crows by a lone crow
fort collins, colorado
senryu, ayaz
marmots
whistling from the talus
a mountain flute ensemble
p l wick
empire, colorado
the sound of the wind
clearing a path for itself
through the trees
dorothy mclaughlin
somerset, massachusetts
What I wanted -
well, dust is quick to forget
the busyness
carl mayfield
rio rancho, new mexico
on the lake
listening to the loon
after it's gone
giovanni malito
ireland
and
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
soon enough, everything! the poetry of a. l. wright, of Pat Prine, plus, editor as tank commander and ninja
And this especial morning (as it is, above) loverly and embracing 'everythings'...
including some mistakes of this editor...
yet! a morning breeze, the rising sun and my assistant Frosty (Famous Cat Who Ran for President and who is actively participating in
a sleep-in across the middle of our desk) inspire, even insist
upon an early morning attempt
at amending mistakes...
Am delighted to share with you two poems by a. l. wright whose poetic inspiration often comes from walks beside lake Michigan, from 7 year old son Malachi, from a love of visual arts and whose poems I accepted some time ago, misplaced somewhere and, fortunately, was re-reminded of their necessary existence:
My Name Is Called
A door opens
And I
Awake.
My name is called
And I have gone
Looking.
Looking
For the one
Who seeks me out.
Paper
Paper on my desk
Becomes origami bird
Silently chirping
thank you, a. l. wright
and, whose poem is this? I mis-listed it as one of Pat Prine's in the bear creek anthology (which is still somewhere near completion):
He strains
to pee -
the old hound
Pat Prine is one of my most favorite poets, and here are two that are hers:
standing guard
in the children's playground
a green rhinoceros
Happy Birthday!
Dad's old flannel jacket
still hanging in the closet
plus! mistakes by this editor are often, I'm told, of unique interest -
two examples -
first picture, the notion of self as 'tank commander'
(kept falling off/out of tank) -
second picture, a belief in my super-effectiveness as an almost invisible ninja...
and,
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
Sunday, June 23, 2013
legends of enchanted beginnings - joanna m weston, sean lause, donna snow, carl mayfield's modest chapbook!, and, frosty!

lovely poems, necessary poems have found their way to bear creek this past week, many of which were/are a response to poetry within the last post... among these poems, many were selected for issue #114 (the next issue) of bear creek haiku, and my assistant Frosty the Famous Cat Who Ran for President in the Last Election (all the cats who voted voted for Frosty, who is currently sprawled across the middle of our desk) and I are elated about sharing a few of them, below, with all of you...
summer day...
the scent of
creeping thyme joanna m weston,
shawnigan lake,
british columbia
The learned astrologer
told us the sun sees all.
"Not so, not so,"
said the nightingale.
sean lause,
bluffton, ohio
The woman who walked in feathers
scattering them
as she tread,
smiled as the colors fluttered
around her.
donna snow,
turlock, california
cold wind -
the daffodils,
anyway
BLANK LOOK #819
no post card
can do it:
mountain peak
knowing where to stop
two by carl mayfield,
rio rancho, new mexico
from a new collection of carl's oh-so-worthy
poetry via a new Modest Proposal Chapbook
from don wentworth/lilliput review
summer day...
the scent of
creeping thyme joanna m weston,
shawnigan lake,
british columbia
The learned astrologer
told us the sun sees all.
"Not so, not so,"
said the nightingale.
sean lause,
bluffton, ohio
The woman who walked in feathers
scattering them
as she tread,
smiled as the colors fluttered
around her.
donna snow,
turlock, california
cold wind -
the daffodils,
anyway
BLANK LOOK #819
no post card
can do it:
mountain peak
knowing where to stop
two by carl mayfield,
rio rancho, new mexico
from a new collection of carl's oh-so-worthy
poetry via a new Modest Proposal Chapbook
from don wentworth/lilliput review
and,
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen
darylayaz@me.com Frosty
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Elk Heart Walking, poets Michael Conner, Peggy Dugan French, Dennis Rhodes, Caroline N Simpson and! Don Wentworth!
blue-velvet twilight
the evening star
nestled in thereness
poet Michael Conner
thumb in your back pocket
arm draped over my shoulder
strolling....
poet Peggy Dugan French
Venice Prayer
Why do I crave the fog,
a softened silhouette?
Wrap me like a Russian nesting doll
in layers of mist that soak and sink:
immerse me in damp whispers
and blur my outline into thick emerald lagoon,bright, crisp stars twinkling above.
poet Caroline N Simpson
Issa's Answer
The whole world sloughs off
it's skin - do you have a question
for Mr. Snake?
poet don Wentworth
orphan
Poor little haiku.
Seventeen sweet syllables
with nothing to say.
poet Dennis Rhodes
see you in the next bear creek haiku, and/or, perhaps, a future bear creek post... better yet, upon a Colorado mountain, beside a river among aspen, mountain mahogany, big bluestem, pasque and columbine, listening to bull elk bugle as they slowly wade through the clear, cold glacial current...
and,
see you in a moment
ayaz daryl nielsen darylayaz@me.com
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