“just look with an open mind and you’ll see the movement of the stars and the phases of the moon…the archaeologists haven’t got a clue…our bones are the rock, our flesh is the earth and our skin is the grass…this place was a fucking hippie commune before my ancestors arrived…”
orcadian dusk –
wind wolves running
away from the sea
Stephen Toft
cloud-mottled sky
picking wilted lettuce
out of the salad
I take the 6718-word manuscript and start cutting, slashing with the precision of a Daoist butcher, until there’s nothing left but the title, which says it all. The End.
Bob Lucky
notes of the piano ripple from the airwaves in syncopation filtering down the chimney the flute of a bird drips through the intervals to fill the ancient flasks along the mantelpiece
‘Scenes from Childhood ‘
another glass of water
sip by sip
Diana Webb
Having just learned about the death of Brendan Slater, poet and editor, The Other Bunny re-presents a few of his works that can be found on this site. Rest in peace, my friend.
…
Our Father;
the sins of man
beaten out of him
This morning, like every morning, returning home to a cold empty flat along the cinder packed towpath, under lichen covered bridges and across frictionless rancid-black footboards from one side of the lock to the other and back again, holding tightly to the gate rails to prevent slipping into the cut and being pulled down with the swell and through the paddle into the chamber to almost certain death.
I passed a young man wearing a red raincoat, speaking as if to Himself in a timbre that told me His adolescence had been drawn out, and I thought, that thought, that one, that one day He will be dead, and what will be left of Him will simply be graffiti in the minds of the ones, if there were any, who had loved Him.
In His name, Amen.
…
Rain
After three sub-zero mornings it is relatively mild at 4°C. I put on one too many layers for my trip to the chemist, arriving home ringing wet. Though, so long as the rain holds off I don’t mind the cold, the relative mild, or the sweat, because the rain doesn’t “cleanse me”, as a friend describes his relationship with it, but attempts to drown me in my own guilt.
half-life…
sleeping the rest
away
…
Title: Guilt.
No memory of a coaster in that home. Tea or coffee always came in a blue-white patterned cup with matching saucer, so never a tell-tale mark was seen.
willow tree
dancing the circumference
of its field
Diana Webb
Metamorphosis laced with fault lines. The last flower withers, yet here, no win recorded. Upping his games watching buzzwords and catchphrases. Pick up lines not helping. Garden full of tinder raises a spark now and then.
buried
under thousand forts
forest fire
Daya Bhat
At it again, dishing out apple pies. White lies for extra crust. Common man gets the hunch, turns into a comma, the never-ending pause, period. Amidst dwindling tallies …
election flyer
street kid folds
a paper bird
Daya Bhat
All the miles dotted with volcanoes raised by monosyllables. The last thing I would need on a long-haul flight is one less wing.
at the shore
sandcastles of
all lost one minutes
Daya Bhat
(Hiroshige – Whistler – Hokusai)
Asphalt gleams with the dark of sleeked crow feathers. The curve of the pavement suggests a bridge to a far away place. Umbrella after umbrella after umbrella…
morning deluge
headlamps of cars
conjure moonlight
And there it is. The moon shines full in the sky above Kyobashi Bridge. A man navigates his rustic craft beneath with its simple cargo. He passes by the bamboo yards. No fireworks here. The lunar disc suffices.
woodblock prints
glint back from his eye
on the twilit Thames
He catches the ancient wooden structure before demolition. Old Battersea Bridge. One of his series with hints of music. His aim to convey a sense of tranquillity, harmony too. For many a night he trawls the river accompanied by the oarsmen he hired, for a touch of some elusive beauty to apply by oil on canvas in his studio back home. Nocturne in Blue and Gold. Lunar light appears as a shower of sparks that fall beyond the shadowy figures who walk above a man silhouetted, poised at the edge of his barque, the only cargo a gilded spot.. It seems the remnant is jettisoned. Into the water it pierces deep, while a fragment ricochets high in the sky where it forms a streak. There are buildings with windows lit from within which cast their light to lap at the bridge.
alchemy
in stipples of paint
birdnotes at dawn
Up there he perches on a branch of tree blossom watching a spider. The threads connect like the spokes of umbrellas. Droplets fall. One clings, suspended. A glimmer of sunrise.
Diana Webb
the other bunny 