Tuesday, 6 June 2023

Twelve Haiku Poems by Julie Ann Thomason


Haiku The day



New day genesis

Luminescent mist shrouds

horizon hints light



Weak winter sun

Painted pallid blush

painted whispering sky



space before noon

optimism opportunities

Hours to love work play



Picnic in park

Butterflies bees dance

Vibrant panoply of petals



Lovers hands slip together

End of day fascination

seduction melting mystery


Golden hour

gloaming glints dips

hued hills striped sky slithers

magic moment manifests

Haiku The Night


Blue Hour

Licking shadows

Periwinkle whispers

Last lingering light



final fluttering rays

daydreams dim

crepuscular chimera



Burnished butter gently

Slips highlighting horizon

Nocturnal lives stir


21 Dusk

shades shapes shadows

penumbra coverage

welcomes witching hour



Speckled sepia sky

Scented with belladonna

New date begins


Dead of night

still silent cobalt blanket

Shrouds cities countryside

Sea shore hills homes

Julie Ann Thomason -  Has been composing poetry for over 30 years. Her poems normally begin with a phrase or sentence in her head that she likes the feel of.  She explores feelings, reactions to people, places, things, and events.

Julie studied English Lit at university and taught EFL in Spain. Initially for a nine-months, she fell in love with the country, living there for twenty-three years.  Fluent in Spanish, Julie composes in and translate into both languages. Translating began by giving Spanish friends, the opportunity to read her work.  It proved to be fascinating and instructive; she saw new meanings, better words, nudged nuances, through the prism of a different language.  

Julie became heavily involved with Primary English as a foreign language, which lead to her first publications textbooks in primary EFL

She performs poetry at spoken word events. If a piece of work is well received, she posts it on her blog.  During lockdown she worked on her writing and had her first poems published in 2020.   In 2022 Julie published her first poetry collection “The Possibility of Pebbles” poems inspired by the Japanese Tea Ceremony.

Julie was Scottish chair for WGGB 2010 – 2016.


One Poem by Sushant Thapa


Carrying a Novel

My friend carries a Novel

When he visits a market.

"It is hilarious," said someone.

"It is creative," another replied.

My friend says he needs stories.

I say stories are around us.

The market filled with air of spices

Becomes an imagery to

Include the taste of opinion.

It sets its sun

In the vast area

Where social bells ring

For every start and ends

With some watery impression

For a parched throat.

The Novel to be written

Will have its own spices

When the tasteless day yawns

And sleeps.

The Novel will be

Voraciously carried by many

When they read its taste.


Sushant Thapa is from Biratnagar, Nepal. He has published three books of poems: The Poetic Burden and Other Poems (Authorspress, New Delhi, 2020), Abstraction and Other Poems (Impspired, UK, 2021) and Minutes of Merit (Haoajan, Kolkata, 2021). He is an English lecturer to undergraduate level students of BBA and BIT at Nepal Business College, Biratnagar, Nepal and Master's level at Degree Campus. He has an M.A in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India. He has been published in print, online, school book and anthologies around the world. He also writes Flash Fictions, Short Stories and Book Reviews.

One Poem by Oladejo Abdullah Feranmi


Song sets


I have listened to you breathe, the symphony

of your heartbeat and closest to the tender petals

of your mind wilting into footsteps, tiny, deaf

enough for me to hear the wind walk you away

into the oblivion of the past as you wear the hands

of time and turn goodnight into goodbye.

These echoes I hold dear, and its silence belongs to me

as I walk my solitude in steps tiny as a heartbeat

tickling the tocks of time at the back of my waiting.

Oladejo Abdullah Feranmi is a Poet, writer, and veterinary medicine student from Ibadan, Nigeria. An Haikuist, He reads submissions at Sea glass literary magazine and edits for the incognito press. His works are published in Gone Lawn, Hooligan Magazine, The Lumiere Review, and more. He tweets from; @oaferanmi_

Five Linked Form Collaborative Poems Jerome Berglund, Michele Rule, Christina Chin, Marjorie Pezzoli, Kati Mohr and Sherry Grant


Jerome Berglund

& Michele Rule






        longer days

        confuse circadian rhythms

        maple tree


sleeping sunlit


        last snow

        treading newly mopped floor

        near closing time 


hanged man reversed


        cat walks backward

        under a black ladder

        good-luck charm



Christina Chin

          & Jerome Berglund




escalating tensions


posterity —

giving directions

to a place you don’t know


noisy blackbirds


the empty swing

hangs from a huge bough

wind creaks the chains


at the birdfeeder


maybe they’ll

send help back

ten of swords



Jerome Berglund

& Marjorie Pezzoli




sunflower paintings


roasted seeds 

muffled ears

open your eyes




green goddess


the part


broken drier


sun dried tomatoes 

water boils

frog doesn’t care



Kati Mohr

& Jerome Berglund


Carnival of the Animals


            angel wings of decay
            on the red tenement:
            pose for photos

barely scratching at

            sound of dew
            a sand gecko licks
            its eyeballs


            flood waters
            reach the roof
            sob story



 Jerome Berglund

          & Sherry Grant




armageddon genre:

home videos

every channel


        woollen blankets

        over the snow


slugs from magnum 

with gleeful abandon

Virgil’s chicken scratch


        scorching sun

        dwindling eyes

        of a whale


floating barriers catch offal

theoretical physics


        twin moons 

        an ancient name

        long forgotten



Michele Rule is a disabled poet from Kelowna BC. She is especially interested in the topics of chronic illness, relationships and nature. Michele is published in OYEDrum, Five Minute Lit, Pocket Lint, WordCityLit, the Lothlorien, and the anthology Poets for Ukraine, among others. She is an associate member of the League of Canadian Poets. Michele’s first chapbook is Around the World in Fifteen Haiku. She lives with a sleepy dog, two cats, and a fantastic partner.  


Christina Chin is a painter and haiku poet from Malaysia. She is a four-time recipient of top 100 in the mDAC Summit Contests, exhibited at the Palo Alto Art Center, California. 1st prize winner of the 34th Annual Cherry Blossom Sakura Festival 2020 Haiku Contest. 1st prize winner in the 8th Setouchi Matsuyama 2019 Photohaiku Contest. She has been published in numerous journals, multilingual journals, and anthologies, including Japan's prestigious monthly Haikukai Magazine.


Marjorie Pezzoli is a visual artist who took up poetry in 2018. Her artwork and observations inspire many of her poems. Writing helps Marjorie find clarity and insights to life. Finding the words worth more than 1000 images is a wonderful and powerful pursuit that brings Ms. Pezzoli joy. www.Pezzoliart.com 


Kati Mohr (she/they), born 1976, is a disabled, intuitive artist, known online as pi & anne, who lives in Germany with her family and two rabbits. She likes to jump into old ponds to pull up lost cargo, mostly in the form of poetry (but not exclusively!). Her art aims at tracing the filters humans apply; as how we see things says more about us than about the things themselves. Being a member of her city’s disability council is one of the means she chooses to empower and support people. Her heart beats for minimalist art, coffee, cuddles & pancakes.


Sherry Grant is a Taiwan-born NZ concert pianist, cellist, poet and translator. She is the author of ‘Bat Girl’ and the inventor of ‘nonaku’ poetry form. Sherry organised and performed 12 concerts in 2019, mostly with viola. Her youngest daughter, 7-year-old Zoe Grant, writes with her frequently. Sherry is the national/international outreach officer at NZPS since 2021. Apart from music, she also has a bachelor’s degree in Computer Science.



Jerome Berglund has a background in film, television, and fine art photography.  His poetry work includes published or forthcoming haiku, senryu and tanka in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, Ribbons, rengay in Otoroshi and Starlight, split sequences in Scarlet Dragonfly, tan-renga in Five Fleas. His first full-length collection Bathtub Poems was just released by Setu Press. Writing Publications.



One Poem by Joan Leotta


Reading Neruda on War While Waiting in the Doctor’s Office


Probability of my leaving the office covered in blood is nil—

well, never really nil in the world today with

assault rifles poking around every corner waiting

to turn everyday errands into bloodbaths of revenge

or just pure evil.

Again  last night bombs shattered sleep for

an apartment full of Ukrainians, leaving children with dreams

of rifles and bombs as when Neruda wrote of Civil War in Spain.


Does it matter who we or those children shelter from?

While I wait for surgery to be scheduled

wait with a congenital condition that like magic

transforms a mundane procedure.

into a high-risk adventure, time to fret and trust,

I am thankful that I have a competent surgeon.

who understands, is confident he can successfully

help me to see more clearly.


As I note potential dates for the scalpel to scrape my eye

I see all too clearly the possibilities, but know

if there is a horrible accident, it will

be only a horrible accident that

no one wanted to harm me.

I will still have my inner vision intact,

no matter what the surgeon’s skill.

If the worst happens I will be

spared parades of dead children

across pages, across tv screens.


Yes, the probability of exiting her or there covered in blood is almost nil.

My process will likely be peaceful if nothing else.

I wish peace, even the peace of suffering everyday

ills and cures for all the children of the world, for all the people.

As I wait with my still-seeing eyes, I look

first upward, to the office television, then downward

to my Neruda, and at last, inward to the sight that

cannot be taken, and I ask blessings on

all touched by sorrow, by danger, by war, by unknown outcomes.

I wish hope and love and peace for all of us.

Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. She performs tales of food, family, strong women. Internationally published as an essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist,  she’s a 2021 and  2022 Pushcart nominee, Best of the Net 2022 nominee, and  2022 runner-up in Robert Frost Competition. Her essays, poems, and fiction appear in Ekphrastic Review, Verse Visual, Verse Virtual, anti-heroin chic, Gargoyle, Active Muse, Silver Birch, Yellow Mama, Mystery Tribune, Ovunquesiamo, MacQueen’s Quinterly and others. Her chapbooks are Languid Lusciousness with Lemon and  Feathers on Stone.

Joan Leotta
Author, Story Performer
“Encouraging words through Pen and Performance”

Nominated for Pushcart and Best of Net in 2022

"Feathers on Stone" poetry chapbook available from me and at


Other Joan Leotta Books

Languid Lusciousness with Lemon, Finishing Line Press (Amazon)

Morning by Morning and Dancing Under the Moon, two free mini-chapbooks are at https://www.origamipoems.com/poets/257-joan-leotta 

For information on my four out of print novels, collection of short stories and four children's  picture books, contact me at this email 

Monday, 5 June 2023

Five Poems by Jack D. Harvey


You’re Only Dead Once

(Odyssey Book XI- Nekuia)


Farming not at all

we like,

the pasture boggy and

the day dirt-long with toil.


In the kingdom of the dead

Achilles’ flap

about working a live sharecropper

than ruling the death-house-

he must have been kidding.


He was.


Toil is lady luck’s backside,

unfurnished and smelly;

give me ghosts and

the rest of eternity.


Michael the Paphlagonian


Michael’s fingers

were big as his arms,

riding in from

a good war;

sick as a dog,

he won acclaim.


A long disease does more

to our souls

than our bodies;

the fretful blood

and flesh accept.


God called,

Michael answered

at the last;

the crown of gold

exchanged for

the white robes

of the anointed,

the helmet of salvation.


At the sacred font,

omphalos of

God’s mother,

Michael stands;

dipped in the

watery hole

Michael emerges,

waiting on death

like a good servant.

The mystic waters

close again,


as Christ’s belly.


Take, O take

these bleeding guts

away, whispers Michael

to his servants.

Tottering off,

he remembers Zoe

betrayed in her palace,

a moment’s pleasure repaid.


He has gone to

his reward,

they say,

looking skyward.

In a golden halo

he smiles from

his beautiful picture;

art for life.


Psellus told too much

and not enough about

those troubled times;


again and again

never to touch

the groping fingers

find the reins.


The Persistence of Beatrice


Yes, then I kissed you

behind the barn and

in the barnyard things

went on and on.

You quacked

like a duck and

I honked like a goose

behind the barn and

then you went to heaven

and we all cried.

At your grave

the birds

sat on the ground

and blinked.


But soon the

grass grew in

behind the barn and

in the barnyard

you crowed on and on.


Playing With Fire


In the hills and dales

of some southern state

the doves eat luscious

Daisy Mae alive;

I wouldn't mind a bite,

but I'm not there.


The gorgeous belles,

attentive at Sunday church,

later in downtown hotels

develop tremulous leaks of sound

getting poked by their beaux;

the pampered fairways of Heaven

lapse back to brambles,

closed for the duration,

but I don't care.


I'm bored as hell,

looking for something to do,

something to kill the time.


In the midst of discovery

I crouch over an ant hill,

magnifying glass in hand,

watching the orderly hysteria

of the ants.


Science, my eye,

I want to kill.


Magnified out of proportion

by my thick round lens

the ants move on their correct paths,

oblivious to impending doom

focused in a deadly point of light.


Unalterable law, my foot,

under the ranging roaming needle

of searing heat, random as Roderick,

they burst out of instinct and

blind against the fates,

spread out against me

in black perimeters;

unconcerned as a Lucretian god

I burn legions of them to a crisp.


Unafraid and afraid

of divine vengeance

I walk on.


What a heartless

sadistic story this is,

telling on myself a nasty tale;

the grasshopper, the ant

and the tertium quid.

A timeworn fable becomes

destructive and horrible;

pharisaical morality

against the grain transmuted

and to the ants' sudden dismay

the grasshopper's fiddle

sounds a fearful woebegone note.


If winter comes,

and it will,

it comes too late

for ants untimely dead

to get off a line

at the grasshopper's expense;

lost forever the cruel retort

in the sun's concentrated rage

brought to bear

by a bored colossus.


Sometimes that's how it goes

and best to go along with it

and rightly so; learning

what we really are from

the bare bones

of a tale unadorned

with humanity or compassion.




In spring you touched me

like a newfound flower,

kissed me with your rose-red mouth,

caressed me with your hands;

you said wait till summer,

write it down, write it down.


Now the river grows hot

and slows under the sun,

the path

along its bank clear and bare

as a swept palace corridor;

the sky above

immense blue dome

ominous, empty of life.


The grey mallard floats alone

under the wooden bridge,

forever fixed in place,

a Chinese painting;

nature rises in disgust against it,

its stillness, its careful art;

do we care that captured

now is really now?


When the time is right,

cut the two of us open,

see our hearts,

supposed lovers,

surprise the living flowing world

that so long we waited

in the same place,

withdrawn and empty,

still as the willows along the path,

still as the stones.


Our fire has gone out,

the days long past,

but this time together

will never end;

lost in our own bower

we need no faith in the morrow,

no newfound continents looming;

just the two of us

in one embrace,

static, eternal,

like an unbroken ring,

like a distant star's

unperceived swing

around the heavens;

only here, only now,

in one moment abiding,

under the light of our own sun

love's fulfillment is complete.

For purposes of attribution, You're Only Dead Once and The Persistence of Beatrice first appeared in Zombie Logic Review (according to Duotrope, this magazine is kaput),  Michael the Paphlagonian first appeared in Mediterranean Poetry, Melissa in RavensPerch and Playing With Fire in Fleas On the Dog.  I retain all rights to these poems.

Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in The Comstock Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Typishly Literary Magazine, The Antioch Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and elsewhere. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies.

The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, New York, USA. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired.

Twelve Haiku Poems by Julie Ann Thomason

  Haiku The day   Dawn New day genesis Luminescent mist shrouds horizon hints light   Sunrise Weak winter sun Painted pall...