Tuesday, May 23, 2017

from bear creek haiku #140: poets Cathy Porter, Toma Rosen, Lone Crow, Patricia Carragon, Ndongolera C. Mwangupili, Joanna M. Weston, and, Paula Yup!

Print issue #139 will soon be in the mail to everyone, and!  I'm already eager to start on issue #140. . . noble assistant editors Tama, Frosty, shall we present a few of issue 140's finest in this post?

Eager meows!  Frosty                                             
says, "And that little bribe 
of an extra treat made my 
saying yes even easier!"

"With or without treats,"
insists Tama, "let's do it! And I'll choose 
our first poet!". . .

from across the street
I watch you
turn out your nightlight                          we hit our stride
no ill intent                                        when we wear
just longing                                        the other's shoes

                    ^poet Cathy Porter  Omaha, Nebraska^

  from Toma Rosen's journals. . .

    Weed-cat waits   purring
    resting at my window sill--
    only entering when invited
    unless of course
    when supper's on the grill

    he boldly saunters
    into the kitchen light
    if this day's special
    meets his approval

^artist^ Paula Yup  Spokane, Washington

^artist^ Lone Crow. . .  we miss you            

mosquito lovefest
scratching my way             subway in motion
through summer                       wheels sing lullabies
                                                  passengers fall asleep

            ^poet Patricia Carragon  Brooklyn, New York^

                                          ^poets/artists Tama and Frosty^


                           Like light
                           throwing its rays,
                           you shine.

                           Like wind,
                           you blow away

                           Like seed,
                           you blossom
                           new living.

   ^poet Ndongolera C. Mwangupili    Mzuzu, Malawi^ 

            connecting flight your hand in mine

^poet Joanna M. Weston  Shawinigan Lake, British Columbia^

Frosty: "You know, Mister Editor, creating this post has been a lovely endeavor". . .  "quite poignant, too," states Tama. . .

Noble assistant editors, thank you for selecting these fine poets and their poetry. . . now, it's time for us to have our treats!

see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen

                    darylayaz@gmail.com (and/or) darylayaz@me.com

Sunday, May 21, 2017

Charles Bukowski- what would Bukowski say? (his wrists are rivers/his fingers are words)

Assistant editor Frosty                                     

asking: "Tama, in these 
unusual times
it seems more is 
needed than even
favorite treats! 
Have you any 

"Yes, Frosty", says Tama, 
"I agree... and let's ask 
Mr. Charles Bukowski!!!

Mister Editor, can Frosty and I create a post of what Buck would say?"

Excellent suggestion, Noble Assistant Editors: this post is all yours...

                'those men                                   
                were all

                what has happened

    'the horns of reason are muted as
    the laughter of fools blockades the air'

                'you are so 
                in your
                so assured
                that you are
                on a hot roll

                imitators of

'they become unalive
because they are unable to
undo themselves
roll clear.'

                  the obedient applause,
                  the death of the bluebird,
                  the shading of the sun;
                  the hooves of the horses from
                  pounding on the barren
                  of the human spirit.'

          'they are a bad bet,
          the worst you can make.'

'oh, Jesus or somebody
help us, help us, help
save us from
the centuries have
reeked with them.'

          'then I back out, swing around and enter the 
          real world 

                            'I walk into the front room
                            look out the south window, it
                            looks fine out there:  trees, lawn
                            not a jackal in

Noble Assistant Editors, the best thanks I can give you is one last poem from C. Bukowski...

                              in this house,
                              2 cats
                              who tell me
                              all that there
                              to know.'

see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen

above quotes from C. Bukowski's 'The Last Night Of The Earth Poems',
and, a touch of 'Betting On The Muse'

            thank you, Linda Lee Bukowski, and, our Judith

           darylayaz@gmail.com (and/or) darylayaz@me.com

Monday, May 15, 2017

two fine poets, their latest poetry collections... Martha Christina: Against Detachment, and! t. kilgore splake: Last Dance

Assistant editor Tama:  "A very few years ago, high school poet Martha Christina began submitting poetry to bear creek haiku"-  "Ms. Martha," continues assistant editor Frosty, "deserved many fine treats for her high quality creativeness"...                 

"She is earning many
more fine treats as her
poetic presence continues to flourish!" states Tama-
"It just makes us happy!"  

And! Mr Graybeard poet 
hisself, t. kilgore splake, 
has released yet another collection of his always unusual and always exceptional poetry... 
Frosty, "He's still creating at 287 years young!" 

umm, perhaps you have given mr. splake an extra year or so, Frosty
"Yet his poetry will never grow old", states Tama...

Noble assistant editors, we have copies of Martha's and t. kilgore's most recent published collections of poems!

"'Perhaps everyone should have 'em!" Frosty suggests...
"No perhaps about it", insists Tama!

"loverly poems", states Tama- "here are two"...


Always traceable;
some days,
only its residue
on a windowpane
or a cheek.



                   SIX DAYS

                   Like sand
                   thrown against a tin roof,
                   rain began.

                   Black cloud,
                   she of multiple stories
                   of weeping, wringing
                   her coarse hands.

                   After six days
                   I knew
                   the smell
                   of rain's skin.

                   Then, suddenly, the pressing blue sky;
                   its great weight
                   silencing everything.

and two from t. kilgore!...

  small rusty kettle                              
poet at last declaring
   final nada mas
walking to escarpment
  looking at the sky

                   graybeard's christmas

                     stereo player quiet

                   cds in plastic shelves

                    no nutcracker suite

                     silent night hymn
                instead morning memories

                    bright lights shining

                 sparkling tree ornaments

                   finding fire place note

                      santa's thank you

                 for sandwich and cookies

our heartfelt appreciation of your poetry,
                                  Martha Christina, t. kilgore splake!

and, it's sunrise in Colorado!

see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen

           darylayaz@gmail.com (and/or) darylayaz@me.com

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

bear creek haiku #139 is: Patricia Carragon, Cathy Porter, P. L. Wick, Dean Wiseman Golden, Stella Leonardos, and, normal!

an excited assistant editor Tama: "Print bear creek haiku is saturated with most favorite poets!"
assistant editor Frosty: "Let's show our blog readers- all three of them- at least a few of these fine poets!"
great idea, assistant editors (and, Frosty, we have a few more than three blog visitors)...
"Hmm," says Frosty, "obviously, not enough treats..."

like tombstones
the rocks remember
each flower that died


sunlight hides sadness
the flowers and herbs
seek comfort from rocks


                       songs of birds
                                  songs of trains
                                           roots of trees sing-along

               poet Patricia Carragon  Brooklyn, New York

Tama: "You just gotta love Brooklyn..."

 BY THE TIME I GET TO ST. JOE                

                        The sun should be rising
                        I'll pull into Denny's
                        Have a few cups
                        Head out on I-29 south
                        As far as this old Mustang
                        Can go
                        Leaking three quarts a week
                        Find your old address
                        Pull into the drive
                        Leave some spots
                        To remember me by

                  poet Cathy Porter  Omaha, Nebraska

    if the damper is open

    the wood-stove
    will let us know
                                     too eager
                                     opening the wood stove door
                                     blast of pine smoke

                        poet P. L. Wick  Empire, Colorado


Spring in full swing--
birds of many persuasions
singing for their rent

                                                  Evening eastern sky

                      If it's really good
                      I mean really good-- 
                      there's an echo

              poet Dean Wiseman Golden  Auburn, Alabama

               WOMEN AT THE RIVERBANK                               

               (Das Mulheres Beira Rio)

               In humble poverty
               In modesty that hides them
               Where these women come from?

               They are so skinny, with dry eyes
               so tired of tears...

               The woman at the riverside
               praying at the barren river edge
               like burned dirt
               color of deforested earth.

               Saint Francis, the river's brother:
               our river is dying, it is drying,
               its fishes are dying without water!
               Country side women
               on the river banks
               even lack tears to cry.

         poet  Stella Leonardos  Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
                   (translator Teresinka Pereira)

                       for the children of aleppo

             do not come any closer
             for i am the forgotten child
             mine is the look which goes un-remembered
             such as just another wave of the sea
             which returns to its mother
             leaving the sand a barren face
             with eyes the size of hollow shells

                                 poet  normal  Saugerties, New York

Tama: "Mister Editor, our last two poems... now I'm crying..."
Frosty:  "Could we send our treats to the women on the riverbank and to the children of Aleppo?"

come, noble assistants, and let's find out what we can do...

see you in a moment

ayaz daryl nielsen

           darylayaz@gmail.com (and/or) darylayaz@me.com