The Hazards of Tunneling

All good escapists
perfect distance before
wielding the tools necessary
for subterranean travel

though palms blister
from repetitious retreat
the clamorous world subsides

down here
the air tastes like whispers
from long-forsaken ghosts.

Marsha Hollingsworth 

Kyoto

Awake to a slowly beating drum,
morning meditation from Chion-in Temple
drifting up the hill; in the garden,
tiny birds add sweet highs, tuneless ravens
the bass undertone, trees whisper
ancient secrets to the passing breeze.

I am gaijin, a foreigner, but still
I feel the pull of this place.

We stroll the Path of Philosophy,
through massive wood and metalwork gates,
into carefully sculpted gardens, exploring
the seemingly endless number of Buddhist temples
dotting Kyoto, each more lovely than the last.

Quiet Nanzen-Ji is where I feel the most, following
worship-worn steps to a tiny cave-shrine
heady with wet and incense.

We are purified by waterfall spray
before returning the way we came,
voices hushed, buoyed by eternity’s hand.

At the hotel, the lobby is filled with crimson
and saffron, glistening heads and broad smiles
from monks gathered there, we bow to each
other and are one, may it never be forgotten.

The Japanese try hard to remember
from where they came, arriving in busloads
for hanami, cherry blossom viewing,
beneath a revered tree decked out in pink splendor
and lit from below so it radiates surreal, internal light.

We sample Kobe yakitori, soba and corn
grilled over open flame as we flow
through the smiling, celebratory crowd.

We savor what is transitory
as sparks and blossoms whirl,
settling on our hair and skin.

Blades

I have been heedless,
reckless in my need
for perpetual motion.

Hours, a blurred periphery,
promises, like blades
pointed down
in case I stumbled.

Laurie Belanus-Odell 

God Spot

*This is an old poem, but the sun has come out today after 19 days of rain, a brief respite before the next storm, but enough to remind me that it is a priviledge to live where I do.


Shoulders hunched, it leans,
riparian limbs reaching to the sea.

This shore I love,
tautly stretched sweep
of rock and heaven top,
aquamarine and evergreen.

Geese squadron low and bank,
announcing imminent arrival,
seeking asylum from the wind
rising in the south.

Despite the falling sky,
I can only be lifted.

I hunger like waves
licking the edge of shore,
to consume

until this land and I
are all and only
here.

I Will

I will take the time to stop and gaze upon
the burnished chest of the resident hawk,
while I am waiting for the sun to drop
and pastel the watered blue.

I will wait for the mountain to radiate,
for the sea to quiet,
for my heart to steady,
for the return of peace.

I will slowly relinquish control
over my tiny world and set it free,
scattered thoughts flying up
brushing their curved wings against me.

I will remember that despite everything
the land and sea will forever be,
remaining long after we hurt each other,
long after we turn our backs on love.

I will take the time to be still,
moon balanced on my open palm,
the path of blazing light
beckons like the road to heaven.

Laurie Belanus-Odell 

Wintering Over

A chill wind prepares the land for sleep,
snow-weighted clouds brush golden
stubbled wheat fields and bare clotted earth
laid out in heirloom patchwork stitched
from lean and bountiful years, hand-quilted
like a mother’s lovely, unfolding dream.

Poplar trees with eerily uniform trunks
arranged in perfect symmetrical lines, resist
strictly enforced conformity, their flaming
arms reach for each other, tangle and entwine.

Here, good souls touch down
like wind-blown seeds from distant lands
of sunlit love, fading purple twilight
and midnight blackness, gently
settling in fertile, protected hollows
where possibilities rest and winter-over,
awaiting the time to wake and begin anew.

Laurie Odell 

Chemistry

I loved the white coat, safety glasses
and foreign names of lab implements;
crucible, beaker, pipette, Bunsen burner,
the acrid smelling, gem-hued powders,
blue flame-lit tubes and cylinders
reducing mystery to elemental ash.

We were real scientists, memorizing
atomic numbers (I no longer remember),
tingling with imminent breakthrough,
though we investigated only the solid,
concrete principles of Chemistry 101.

Learning is like that, fresh to the novice
deciphering phonemes for the very first time,
unraveling the delicate simplicity of haiku,
or trying to connect pinprick constellations
while lying on a mountaintop with a man
you believe you will always love,

love being the ultimate chemical reaction,
fusing a thousand acquired elements
of self and other into a new composite,
amorphous and mutable, yet resilient
enough to flex without disintegrating
into meaningless, random dust.

Monika Bartsch 

Release

I have become reticent, each year
adding dark to my lightness
I remember vaguely when
I radiated

It was not so long ago

Now a rock, retribution etched,
settles solid on my chest,
I cannot see the feather I once was
drifting from this high place

faith the air beneath me.

Balanced where edge meets air
above the green unfolding
alpine jewels reveal the face
of the goddess sleeping .

Clouds seep ragged,
a softly closing circle,
I am riding the cloud center,
trees dripping bearded lichen

witness my ascent.

Marsha Hollingsworth 

Confidence

Confidence has worn to translucent skin,
beneath which the inner workings
are on open display

look closely

the gears don’t quite fit together,
resulting in uneven wear
and inconsistent operation.

Alone

Down the hall
the Petri dish laundry
room cultures mildew
in the moist folds
of sheets and tee shirts

blond dog hair
forms a second carpet
over the existing one
and spattered coffee paints
the kitchen tile mocha.

There is always the question
of dinner, that mindless
repetition, seven days a week
what to make, what to make?
and the dishwasher calls,
needs emptying and feeding.

Sometimes I am dizzy
from this endless routine
and I want to be alone,
not just for an hour or two,

those thin wafers of peace
that dissolve too quickly
on the tongue, dissipating
with the next interruption.

Marsha Hollingsworth 

Revolving Art Gallery

I am very happy to bring the art of Marsha Hollingsworth to Water Line's art gallery. Marsha was the artist featured in the first book, Movements, published by Water Line Press in 2003. Her striking sumi ink paintings were a perfect fit for the poems, lending depth and beauty to the hand sewn limited edition. Did I forget to mention she is also the talented bookbinder I work with on all of my projects? I admire her for keeping the ancient art of hand sewing and case binding books alive and lovely. She is also a generous and wonderful person.

As with all content displayed here, I ask you to respect copyrights and not reproduce any work without permission of the artist.

Choice

This brilliant morning
anything is possible

we are limited
only by rigid minds
whose fragile confines

can be vaporized
by choice alone.

By Monika Bartsch