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COLLABORATIVE POETRY
YEOMAN WALKWAY
Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime
looking back at the village – a picture postcard
a bronze reed sculpture mimics the riverside
just flicking the surface a welcome swallow
before the bird installations, blank signboards
vantage points – herons perch on old fence posts
off the path a broken sign points skywards
courting rituals, splash of wings between mangroves
river snag, vigilant eyes of a cormorant
full of black seeds, dry pods of the flax
still in the same field, the swish of cows’ tails
on the deserted jetty a tattered net
autumn leaves against a backdrop of hills
in the pitted rock last night’s rain
boys fishing – their bikes splayed on the shore
Haiga by Billie Dee & Michele Harvey
TRUMPET CREEPER
Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime
selling apple & feijoa juice – the young hawker
inside the trumpet creeper a tiny blue butterfly
months after the flood – debris snagged on trees
rubbing against our legs the stray tortoiseshell kitten
trying to persuade us it belongs
on the girl’s bare arm a glittering starburst
I brush silt off the boulder’s name plate
from the cliff top the drone of voices
cacophony in the liquid amber – sudden silence
along the pathway, the slap of girls’ jandals
ants discover the jelly worms spilt on the grass
holidays – three canoes pull up at the jetty
clunk of paddles against fiberglass sides
graffitied on the picnic table a trefoil crown
GLITTER
Vaughn Seward
John W. Sexton
Mrs. Noman
her eyes of coal glitter
in the moonlight. /jws
Our city of snow tunnels /vs
Dad comes through the roof. /jws
We charge across
the schoolyard battlefield
snowball artillery. /vs
THE UNTRUE
Vaughn Seward
John W. Sexton
Chink, chink chink
only the false water drip
of hidden blackbirds. /jws
High alpine meadow /vs
a horse gallops his shadow. /jws
A half hour passes
the groom leans and whispers
to the best man. /vs
DROPPINGS
John W. Sexton
Vaughn Seward
Honey sandwich
fumbled... which side
will turn up? /vs
Broken hive, a static of bees /jws
droppings among bear tracks. /vs
Alcor, Mizar:
cartilage of ursine tail?
or just stars? /jws
Father's Day--
the long wait for
a phone call H. Gene Murtha
my neighbour's yard
full of laughter John E. Carley
MIDNIGHT STIRRINGS
Janice Thomson
Vaughn Seward
Gibbous moon
on every primrose leaf
a starlight dance. /jt
Midnight velvet breeze /jt
a canopy of shining stars. /vs
Pre-dawn stillness
distant harbour lights
frolic on the ripples. /vs
GRAINS
John W. Sexton
Vaughn Seward
The sun rises
over the red planet
as Phobos sets. /vs
Ghost-river in its arid bed /jws
the landbooster skims near. /vs
The shell cities
now grains of sand, rotted empires
simply methane. /jws
SPIDER'S STRAND
Patricia Prime
Catherine Mair
Kirsten Cliff
Margaret Beverland
Steve Cordery
Owen Bullock
Sandra Simpson
George Swede
summer morning
the smell of sausage rolls
lingers in the air
trying to elongate
the floral arrangement
with flax stems
cicada song
replaces the heavy traffic
of home
strung between
the house & the rhododendron
a spider's strand
across the valley
an idea
follows a seagull
dry leaves
scuttle across the deck
- crumbs under the table
falling into shadow
shadow
a pause
in haiku table talk . . .
the last link
Haiga by Gillena Cox
Japanese Translation by Sakuon Nakamura
meisou no
sanbika hibiku
konuka-ame
MEINE INSEL
Ruth Franke
böiger Wind
die blaue Wildgans
dreht die Flügel
Einmal Nils Holgersson sein …
Reetgedeckte, weiße Häuser mit dunkelblauen Fensterläden, Rosenstöcke
an blauen Haustüren, weiße Fähren im graublauen Meer, weißer Strand am Watt.
Eisbergwolken
schmelzen und treiben
ins Nirgendwo
Sandige Kiefernwälder, Sonnenblumenfelder um alte Windmühlen, grüne
Deichwiesen, meerweit gelber Raps, Dünengras im Wind.
Meine Insel …
Windstille
das Blau der Flügel
kehrt zurück
MY ISLAND
Ruth Franke
translated from German by David Cobb
sudden gust of wind
the blue wild goose
twirls its wings
To be Nils Holgersson for once …
Reed-thatched white houses with dark blue shutters, rose bushes by blue
front doors, white ferries on a grey-blue sea, white sands where we
wade the shallows.
iceberg clouds
melting and drifting
to nothingness
Sandy pine woods, fields of sunflowers around old windmills, green
meadows behind dykes, a sea of yellow rape, marram grass blowing in the wind.
My island …
a brief lull
the wings get back
their blue
TAN RENGA
Gerd Börner
Claudia Brefeld
Dorfbahnhof –
nur der alte Schmied
ist ausgestiegen
ein Hund bellt
den Schlusslichtern hinterher
village station –
only the old blacksmith
gets off the train
a dog barks
at the taillights
Dicker Nebel –
Laternen brennen
den ganzen Tag
zwischen Wollsocken
der Duft von Lavendel
heavy fog –
street lamps burn
the whole day
between wool socks
the scent of lavender
Ein letztes Glas Wein
der Seemann hastet
zum Hafen
bis an den Horizont
ahnungsvolles Blau
a last glass of wine
the sailor hastens
to the harbour
as far as the horizon
the blue full of foreboding
Im Felskamin
über mir
ein Edelweiß
nachts am Berg
kein Herzklopfen mehr
in the rock chimney
above me
an edelweiss
nights on the mountain
no heartbeat anymore
Krippenspiel –
Ein Engel mustert sich
im Stern
noch immer dein Bild
zwischen den Seiten
nativity play –
an angel checks his looks
in a star
your photo still
between the pages
Am alten Kraftwerk
ein Mädchen pustet
Seifenblasen
das Knarren der Tür
unter dem Regenbogen
the old power plant –
a girl blowing
soap bubbles
the creaking of the door
under the rainbow
BICYCLE FOR TWO
Mike Montreuil
Luce Pelletier
Spring sunshine
pedaling a bicycle for two
with your words in my ear
oblivious of the miles
smiles against the wind
with your words in my ear
flipping through the pages of
my dog-eared cookbook
smiles against the wind
a bunch of faded pictures
my dog-eared cookbook
with mémère’s apple pie
Sunday dessert
a bunch of faded pictures
shared with coffee and laughs
Sunday dessert
hand-picked from the vineyard
melting in your mouth
shared with coffee and laughs
thoughts of what lies ahead
melting in your mouth
the falling snow –
my tea turns cold
thoughts of what lies ahead
on this New Year's Day
my tea turns cold
the cat has seen the jay
on the window sill
on this New Year's Day
is there a better moment
on the window sill
condensation frozen hard
minus twenty
is there a better moment
to reminisce
minus twenty
cuddled in the library –
pink coral reefs
to reminisce
on a beach at ebb tide
pink coral reefs
is that where you swim alone
under the moonlight
on a beach at ebb tide
a bonfire waits for us
under the moonlight
even the mud crabs
cast a shadow
a bonfire waits for us
a heron's lonely cry
cast a shadow
before we return to the cold –
a last souvenir
a heron's lonely cry
our jet leaves paradise
a last souvenir
the softest one in my pocket –
Spring sunshine
our jet leaves paradise
oblivious of the miles
SILVER THREADS AMONG THE GOLD
Patricia Prime
Catherine Mair
The concert has already begun. Molly is sitting in the front row. We find seats behind her. It is Mavis' birthday and Fred and Alfred (on piano and accordion) play a rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday" to which the residents add their cheers and claps. Mavis nods quietly to herself. A woman who has so far slept soundly through the chorus wakes
and shouts across the room "Birthday. Hurrah!" then curls up and goes back to sleep. "She screams whenever you go near her," says another resident.
through the window
croquet players
shoulder their mallets
Molly begins to fidget and lurches to her feet grabbing her zimmer frame. She 'drives' it like a dodgem car impatiently nudging obstacles aside. She doesn't ask if we've come on our horses today but wants to know if our rooms are as nice as hers. The worms are biting and she's anxious that we leave in case it's time for her midday meal.
on a white board
today's menu
THERE AND BACK AGAIN
Catherine Mair
Patricia Prime
sprayed with graffiti, the playground equipment
back to school – hats of various sizes and colours
balcony café – peeling the tab off the ginger-beer
in the blackbird's beak a half-eaten sandwich
ceiling fans matching the breeze outdoors
"The River Was the Road"– the café painting
grandmother's hair, a bleached layer on top
showing her granddad the library book – pre-schooler
retired from the laundromat, Natalie joins her family
a lurid pink milkshake – same shade as the carnations
above the pukeko mural a seagull perched on a street light
reflected in the bank window – a german shepherd
dodging bees on a stem overhanging the path
on the walk home–the thrum of cicadas
stretched out on planks the leisurely cat
RENDEZVOUS
Patricia Prime
Catherine Mair
Birthday girl. We arrange to meet the family at the hot springs. They are driving over the hills in their vintage car. When they fail to arrive at the appointed time, we begin to worry that they might have broken down. Deciding to go for a walk we check out the thermal springs and meander down the path towards the museum. Coming back up the hill we see their Ford Y parked at the kerb; two slender teenagers running to greet us.
sunlight
heightens colours
in the girls' hair
People peer in the windows of the dun-coloured car. They reminisce about the old days and imagine travelling any distance in her. There is something very dignified about the small impervious machine.
looming
over café tables
Te Aroha mountain
During lunch the fire siren wails. Someone has reported seeing smoke rising from the forest. "It's only mist," says the café owner nonchalantly.
squashed in the back seat
still space for the girls'
board game
A HIDDEN SNOWDROP
Diana Webb
Frank Williams
sunlight
amongst cropped lavender
a hidden snowdrop
the gardener wrings
his frozen hands
seen from the hill
women by the river
with their washing
on the dim horizon
a row of oil tankers
***
new yellow crayon
to draw that big full moon
for his new teacher
first the honk arrives
followed by Brent geese
as they clear leaves
off the old banger's roof,
she spots a bald patch
her sugar daddy
visits once a week
one of the bin men
gets the shock
of a dead cat
landfill methane
to heat village homes
***
bit by bit our patch
of sandy beach shrinks
to the size of a pea
at Rick's outdoor bash
the moon multiplies
all the monks
file in at daybreak
for First Hour prayer
a butterfly-like tickle
from seeing some girl's tattoo
just taking off
an unmanned rocket
heading for Mars
popular classics CDs
liven up the workshop
***
your childhood home
full of dusty shelves
of unread books
strange shapes emanate
from the rising mist
ladder by a tree
to photograph the blossom
from every angle
a jar of tadpoles
for great-uncle’s pond
THOUGHTS STREWN ABOUT
Dick Pettit
Frank Williams
laughing children
bend over the jellyfish
coming to land
slowly the sand sculpture
returns to the sea
an ice hotel
wins free advertisement
on all media
one too many faux pas
costs a journalist his job
kicking a stone
along the road towards
a ragged moon
I give the sloe gin
its quick daily shake
***
Father Thomas
distinctly slurs his words
during evensong
at the Dixit Dominus
soprano's lost in the roof
during the interval
she asks him coyly,
“is this a real date”?
a touch as good as a pledge
it's settled between us
concluding in a charge
the silverback gorilla
sees off a rival
thick-leaved vegetation
disappears in mist
fragrant breezes
drift across the beach
an all-night party
coming down fast
the balloon has to land
an airhead
sits in a friend’s closet
and will not come out
the window pushes open
against apple blossom
birds twittering,
the soldier poet stares
at a blank sheet of paper
my back against a date palm
thoughts all strewn about
***
Land Rover halts
our host takes off a sandal
to kill a scorpion
draft resistors march
on parliament square
Cromwell's statue
guards a small protectorate
in the palace Yard
fine crystal glasses
are set out for the banquet
ice shards
kicked across the surface
of the frozen pond
on the hilltop a snowman
three meters tall
looking out to sea
a sailor envisages
his next voyage
a girl in Valparaiso
and one in Singapore
no one to love,
now I just sit here
me and my thoughts
the autumn evening darkens
with small whirls of wind
harvest moon
impaled on the church spire
like a lollipop
'safely gathered in'
the stubble field is fired
***
poor visibility
shapes wave down traffic
on the motorway
for her birthday a puzzle
of one thousand pieces
the tax form
changed from last year
is now impossible
all the family join in
the pond-cleaning exercise
orange blossom
decks the bride profusely
and everyone else
at midday a hare
naps in the long grass
AFTER THE RAIN
Marlene Buitelaar (odd verses)
Betty Kaplan (even verses)
Max Verhart artwork
FOOD FOR THOUGHTS
Jane Reichhold
Werner Reichhold
spinach
half-n-half
coffee
bread
low fat hot dogs’
buns
apples’
oatmeal
eggs’
honey
noodles’
cat food
hamburger
capers’
rice milk
onions’
mouthwash
Imagine a land where queens ruled
mothers who gave life were the ones
the only ones who could take life.
Less prisons, no death rows,
no capital punishment - less courts
only a few judges needed for the motherless.
You see in this land of right mothers were given
as they had given, the power of life and death
over their own children.
If a mother found her child to lack what she wanted
him or her to be, she like the potter smashing the
crooked pot back into the clay pit, could do likewise.
Think how sons would treat their mothers
if they knew she had the right on any day
to end their life as easily as she let it begin.
Think how daughters would listen to mom
if they knew she only needed to raise her arm
and point her thumb downwards.
dialing the fiber
optics
lit by a stranger’s question
incongruous a cry
in the night of the matter
dream words’ proximity
they seem to get closer
to a nearby spider web
erecting the angle over
a base one dares to trust
autumn
things she warms
are not departing
through rays of the spine a shift
away from talk about animals
on the verge of entry yet how to explain the olive
tree flourishing on an island no one goes to anymore?
who could say that dreams make us honest at last
measured with a five at the twenty-espresso mark 
even the horticulturist believes in the mystical onyx
though that is without significance the coincidence
that hollyhocks root themselves into summer soil
a loving script they believe to be in fragments
and allow themselves to be held in the stories
of children who have ascended the night stairs
unarmed
velocity
keel over down to silence
half turned a face
habitual as the moon
wing from
the more absent
ivory-feathered attention
bird can you call closer
the color of coming
in layers gestured stone from inside out
If a mother killed her children no one
questioned her right – it was her decision
she alone could decide and do.
Animals live like this and there were times
when this wisdom lived within the bodies
that bore the human babies in those days.
Maybe we have lost something we need.
peaches’
cream
raspberries’
dream-whip
HOW DARE THEY?
Jane Reichhold
Werner Reichhold
raku was the rage
for the shine of carbon soot
the fire pit
invaded and populated
by the gloss of a pair
we are held by twigs
the bone that has no marrow
shadows on the grass
where wind comes like a bugle
its thoughts are just one heart
In heat already with what others think she will be engaged with later. Camouflaged, her guts’ own divine purposes obviously at risk. Friends gave her new first names: Hekamede, Luciferase, Yasumina – one of those most shimmering will be coined. Fall-oriented, she sheds her skin in a sheep milk bath. Lover Dorine oils the bracelet’s lock.
after the snow
does a cloud divide into two?
murder the truth
jarred by every night and day
a slave to thought or painting
The one walking on water naked is the model: give in angel of the punctured wing, do not forbid me to steal the trembling of a jeweler's scales, just by eye contact. May I subscribe to the silk of low tide sands becoming the hairy canvas allotted by a few inches' of colorful cries?
a mention of dreams causes a reabsorption of
what religion had layered over the facts
in our lives there is a geographical problem
of wide skies over the scoured earth plaza
I stood tall in 1946 for my eighth birthday
Ohio had a city America had reduced
to streets made desolate with neon and prayers
let it explode as one work concentrated for a
Dealer: the top price telephoned by a suspicious bidder is less than a tip for the eagerly gasping senses getting served. Remember the grammar of an artist's juice is taken from a pear at sleep, dreaming
horizontal commas
another late day and I am sitting
drawn by some body
wily and sage who served Lucifer
but not so witty in the movie version
any trust but ache
without the door winked closed
persiflage in poets
spill old and curled crustaceans
as a vessel of blessed conjecture
Dinner time. They are not blaming the kitchens’ chef for keeping the sweet doves alive and sacrificing instead only garden-grown spinach leaves and raw herbs. The yogurt floating on top works for the humming wasps entering their liquid heaven
how dare
those two old folks
fingerprinted
by clay pots and holy beads
lift the larger lid? | 
