Brass Bell: Bill Waters

Welcome to the May 2015 issue of brass bell, featuring poems by Bill Waters

first bird

at daybreak . . .

and then all the rest

neglected field . . .

for no apparent reason

daffodils

where two trails cross

we stop and listen . . .

birdsong

time

and clouds

passing

cracked cement

Johnny-jump-up

catches a sunbeam

deserted beach . . .

ocean roars

anyway

faintly

the woodpecker

across the water

Bay Avenue:

a flock of seagulls

a giggle of girls

gardening —

almost a leaf

the leafhopper

the clink

of the white gate

beside the twisted pine

luncheonette counter . . .

reaching for

her hand

deepening dusk . . .

one by one

the fireflies

peonies —

they rest their heads

in the grass

fitful sleep —

a single bark in the dark

then silence

piles of leaves

mounds of leaves

hills of leaves

the smell of clean laundry

and the huffing breath

of the steam iron

as if to name it

is to know it:

great blue heron

almost sunset . . .

silver ripples

of the mallards

purple clouds

some edged with copper

some edged with gold

sleeping in . . .

little by little

the sun on my face

old-growth forest . . .

chickadees in the trees

break the winter silence

black ice —

shortening my stride

even more

in the greenhouse

lilies

and the fragrance of lilies

he faints

in the heat of the sun!

fallen snowman

napping on the sofa —

two curled-up cats

napping on me

twilight

in the parking lot —

one bird chirps

book-lover’s bedtime —

I mark my place

with a smaller book

one owl

questioning

the whole night through

Bill Waters, a lifelong poet and writer, looks at the world through haiku-colored glasses and likes what he sees. He lives in Pennington, New Jersey, U.S.A., with his wonderful wife and their three amazing cats.

You can find more of his writing at billwatershaiku.wordpress.com, twitter.com/bill312, and facebook.com/bill312

Brass Bell: Phoebe Lakin

Welcome to the April 2015 issue of brass bell, featuring poems by Phoebe Lakin

the gusty downpour

seen

from behind my tea steam

drizzly sunset

I smell the rain on me

the rain on you

if I am sad

then why are the stars

so bright?

gray day —

the lilac buds

have popped

a playground

so wet

and yet . . . no frogs

so many flowers

who will 

count them?

cloudless day

under the forsythia

the sound of silence

amongst the gusts 

of April wind

the first violets

too far to reach

the stars reflected

in the rain barrel

after the rain

in yellow boots

jumping puddles

wind chimes at 4 a.m.

the damp ocean breeze

smells of seaweed

nothing to gain

nothing to lose —

the summer flowers

in the sunlight

green green grass

and one white flower

under the weight of blossoms

this earth must be straining

to hold itself up

daffodils in a vase

the cupcakes 

drab by comparison

wind creases the curtains —

tea bag wrappers

shudder like dried leaves

in my bedroom

two-day-old tea

and a sunset through green leaves

drizzly afternoon

those little white flowers —

what are they called?

honey candy

tastes of

cloud darkening skies

we are always ourselves

when we are by the sea

ah, how the sunset sparkles

summer night in a French garden

even the crickets

like the rain

on the train

apologizing to the face of a man

whose leather coat

is now

covered in my hot chocolate

***

Phoebe Lakin, a tea enthusiast, attends college in Cambridge, 

MA. She likes reading, archaeology, and ancient Rome, and 

hopes to live in the mountains someday.  

brass bell: Jack Goldman

Welcome to the March 2015 issue of brass bell, featuring poems by Jack Goldman

snowfall overnight

world seems less complicated

in shadowless light

fresh snow on the creek

unruffled ducks glance at me

over their shoulders

bread of life for birds

cast upon the snowy yard

squandered on squirrels

snow ablaze in sun

contest of fire and ice

cold consolation

under the streetlamp

my shadow hurries ahead —

I’d rather linger

wary of warm day

magnolia blossoms withhold

their sudden glory

that unnoted twig

suddenly lifts from the branch

and becomes a bird

duplicitous March

I’m on to your fickle ways

my boots stand ready

planting a fall bulb

an annual act of faith . . .

two bulbs hedge my bet

in this cold country 

where skies merge with mirrored lakes

stone walls stand their ground

frozen pair of jeans

swinging slowly on the line

Old Man Winter's blues

stones stacked up like books

along the turbulent gorge

“Ancient History”

hip-hopping squirrels 

break dancing in the branches

addle the cool cats

willow trees whisper

secret longings to the wind . . .

that flighty gossip

youth speaks the grammar

of present and future tense —

age speaks past perfect

my friend recommends

meditation and breathing —

I’ll think about it

my mirror reveals

an elderly stranger who

appears to know me

floating in the sea

merging with the ocean sky

I swallow the clouds

strolling on the shore

warm sand caressing my soles

the sun underfoot

twinkling butterflies

swarming in the morning sun

a tropical wink

leaving the islands

returning to a cold home

sand in my sandals

sketchy potted plant

still living at the window

drawing winter light

poor old puckered pear

judging by appearances

we two make a pair

moved by a March breeze

maple trees unpack their trunks

no longer snowbound

something consoling

in the nonchalance of crows

patrolling the storm

handful of haiku

neither poetry nor prose

this side of silence

***

Jack Goldman:

I graduated from UCLA in 1964 after several years abroad in Israel, France, Germany and Switzerland. I came to Ithaca in 1965 as a graduate student in German Literature; joined Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) in 1967, and devoted several years to opposing the Vietnam War and doing community organizing. In 1975, I opened the Bookery, a downtown bookstore which continues to thrive. I've been married for many years to the extraordinary Barbara Mink

and I'm the father of the equally wonderful Emily, and son Dan* (d. 2013).

*   you were a gazelle

    sensing an instant too late

    the shattering air

brass bell: Sandi Pray

Welcome to the February 2015 issue of brass bell, featuring poems by Sandi Pray.

twilight sounds

how quietly fall leaps

from tree to tree

a lifetime

of grass in my hair

prairie wind

raindrops

on my head i carry

the last few

morning blossom

how you always find

the sunny side

i hear your voice

but forget your name

faraway river

quiet afternoon

on the smoothest rock

my shadow rests

backcountry

i add a feather

to someone's cairn

one coyote

the entire mountain 

howls moonlight

december mist

walking into

the laughter of ducks

origami

the crane doesn't mind

all my thumbs

bed of stars

i cool my face

with moonwater

the part of me

that keeps on walking

cliff's edge

after you

the song i can't lose 

little grey bird

blackberry eve

a prairie accepts

all the sparrows

gentle waves 

the rise and fall of dusk

on a gull's wing

looking through me

the toad never blinks

morning light

last ray of sun

the trail one snail

left behind

moon shadow

a spiders's thread

from here to there

wild mint

the taste of night

where stars fall

almost tomorrow

my empty page

filled with moonlight

mending fences

i learn the language

of crows

the river bends

about my ankles

first spring day

listening to dawn 

until sunlight fills

my empty cup

first raindrop

the thrill of thunder

on my tongue

traveling north

the cold sees

right through me

Sandi Pray, a retired librarian, lives a quiet life divided between the forests of north Florida and the mountains of North Carolina. Living a vegan lifestyle she is a lover of all critters and the solitude of nature.

You can find her on Facebook

Twitter @bigmax722

http://ravencliffs.blogspot.com

brass bell: Caroline Skanne

Welcome to the January, 2015 issue of brass bell, featuring poems by Caroline Skanne.

Starting this month the format of the journal has changed. Instead of publishing anthologies on a single theme I will now invite one, two, or three poets each month to present their work as featured poets. Keep dropping by throughout the year to see what is new. I feel certain you will enjoy what you find here.

And now … presenting …. Caroline Skanne.

that feeling

of not being

enough

i shrink into shadows

dark moon

twilight skies

there is little else

on my mind

than the texture

of your lips

like so many

times before —

i write

myself

a way out

tears

fall into a river

of memory . . .

who i was then

shaped who i became

with you

every sunset holds

dawn captive

there is no other way

to breathe the stars

fairyland

so far away yet

at my feet

dog violets whisper

of everyday magic

yellow

watercolours

on a rainy day

you delivered the sun

bird of paradise

* * *

winter stillness

two swans carry

the sinking sun

child's pose

i return

to beginnings

spring equinox

all the transitions

i need to make

how gently

raindrops count

my blessings

without you

only night sky

to hold me

before i see you

there is song . . .

chaffinch

another full moon

there was a time 

when you loved me

alone at last

just you and i

long night moon

folded between

pages of dusty old books

childhood dreams

* * *

yellow iris a sunbeam for your smile

wherever you go moon of winds i will follow

cool winter air i wrap up in a blackbird's song

purple-loosestrife amongst the reeds my wildflower heart

in spring trees remember what they used to look like

a kingfisher skims the surface of this moment

* * *

Caroline Skanne is obsessed with anything wild and free. She is the founder of hedgerow: a journal of small poems, and lives with her family, puppy and two cats by the river in Rochester, UK. Find her @

https://www.facebook.com/caroline.skanne.9

http://hedgerowpoems.wordpress.com/