Category: Issue 13.3

Hello and welcome to the newest issue of t i n y w o r d s, which we are happy to present to you with the help of a wide range of poets hailing from Canada to Sweden, India to

autumn morning the smell of fresh rain in my coffee  

autumn chill harbor seals crowd a buoy  

campaign sign the dog registers his opinion     (Haiku News, Vol. 1 No. 44, Nov. 12, 2012)

frost night so many last breaths

Indian summer — stepping into the path of her perfume

rest stop after 90 miles of desert the way green feels

roadside perch the hitchhiker’s distant stare

driftwood we discuss our origins

reunion dinner saying hello to old habits

homebound ferry thoughts zigzagging with the terns

line in the sand another wave shows me the way things are

seen through a reef shark my dependency  

windswept dunes the difference between wants and needs

a river behind the graveyard forget-me-nots  

Normandy Beach the screams of gulls

the shape of my sadness like a cloud drifting fraying, taking form again oh, but I love this life     (red lights Vol. 9, No. 2)

3/4 moon clouds move in waltz time

in the moment a faceless clock on the mantle  

  still day… a dry leaf breaks free from the sycamore  

deep autumn all the tree tops full of sky

hunter’s moon the old tabby refuses to come in

moving sale … among the bric-a-brac the owner’s dog

in a shoebox all the candles of uncelebrated birthdays

at the bottom of the discard pile Books to Keep  

years since I’ve thought about heaven– the rusted hinge

Christmas Eve- the sound of one star blinking

time to burn the whole candle holidays

I am a moth too in the face of light

meditation bell even the starlings are silenced

day long drizzle — in the mailbox one windowed envelope

full-bodied rain the wine tasting winds down

hanging in my closet the person I used to be

Zen garden the tourist dips his toe in the gravel

wind chimes the gentle rain he would have loved

lost in my own world ground fog

bark beetles in the Ponderosa pine these gnawing doubts

where forest was the old map is thick with dust

New sheets. I remember your hands.

I always thought mother’s silk pillow cases a luxury now that they are mine I dream silk worms threading light to light

stone by stone, the river widens

moon bridge the wide mouth of a silver koi

a shivering moon in the kayak’s wake wood ducks resettle

obedience school for the dog for me  

finally it finds a home this feral cat my son brings home to bury

wildflower . . . not needing to know its name

dandelions all over again

cowbells . . . the pasture view never the same

Siesta Half-sunk in the undergrowth, an abandoned bamboo swing. Perched atop, a sparrow couple in disagreement about whether to set up their nest here or not. The

a lily’s chalice brimmed with the empty sky

as she turns to leave my mother’s girlish smile     (originally appeared in Valley Micropress (NZ), June, 2010)

apple slices— our last words in the knife’s blade  

night shade i close my eyes and disappear

my childhood is buried in this body — a flock of whispers, a sheaf of pleasant voices

a lecture on the paranormal . . . a faint whiff of sulphur

empty house the deaths hiding in the clock

there is nothing to do but keep still howling wind

the priest motions a blessing aftermath

summer haze the lost timbre of dad’s voice

canning day apple peels quilt the table top  

hunger moon a tuft of rabbit fur on a wire fence

reheating last night’s soup our long marriage

hailstones in the attic the patter of mice

Gita chanting — as each stanza ends the bell