Riverside Bench

A place to meditate, take stock. A place to gauge how an elusive dream can reach new levels of intensity.

quicksilvered by sun

How long to live in order to attain the full extent of that innate creative flow.

span of an egret’s flight

Within the context of the universe ‘s life, one small planet’s aquamarine hue, viewed from afar, just ripples with the splendid  insignificant.

a space of water

Diana Webb

Riverside Bench

Over Troubled Waters

trolley wheels
beneath me
floating island

gleam in the eye of one nurse to another mask to mask has she heard of haiku and yes I am a grandmother

full grown cygnets
the brown flood waters
white with sunlight

nearly over now a gleam in the eye of one to another above her mask it’s nearly

shaded garden
a patch of sunlight
brightens the fence

and now it’s really over really over do you take sugar and would you prefer…

the bliss
after so many hours
a sip of tea

Diana Webb

Over Troubled Waters

The Veil

The desert in June. It bedevils me:
an approaching paper cut. A singing stone.
Dry riverbed where quotation marks
lie down to dry. Where I escape.
Hot breeze on the back of my neck,
dogjaw dropping from the sky.
The van of paper cuts heaving.

the hour of slumber
mumbling the nights
of great proportion

Keith Polette

The Veil

Song of the Vanara*

While memory still proffers
While faded parchments still offer hints
As old laments still haunt the hallows
Each twilight slowly fading
Hear my song and know
That I am in you

I hid in Himalayan heights
Emerged from the depths
Lingered in jungle shadows
Passed from darkness into light
I am in you

As histories converge
I, too, am part of everything
Not as wild as you thought
Bards wove me into melody
You joined me in cosmic harmony
See me again

I hid in Himalayan heights
Emerged from the depths
Lingered in jungle shadows
Passed from darkness into light
I played my part
I am in you

rawhide silhouette
Sirius burning down
the wolf’s howl

*The “monkey people” of Hindu mythology

Anna Cates

Song of the Vanara*


Martin had a discussion about cars with a friend the other day. It seems Martin’s in the luxury bracket with his Audi A6. People are variously aghast, outraged or envious.

– How can you afford it?

The fact of the matter is, Martin’s car has an 06 registration making it sixteen years old. He bought it for two thousand euros and spent another thousand or so on repairs.

– Why don’t you buy a smaller car? Cheaper tax and insurance! There’s a fellah down in Eastwall who sells Japanese imports. You could buy a Honda Jazz or a Nissan Micra. Great cars!

– I wouldn’t be found dead in one. Old dears’ cars!

– I bought one.

– Sorry, I don’t mean to offend.

– You should be more down to earth, Martin.

– Funny, I could never achieve that.

– What???

a full moon
in the winter sky –
black ice

Gerry McDonell


The Poet

You ping-pong your lullabied charm into my life. Each thought you catharsis a blow to my psyche. You cross stitch, embroider your ideologies, your threads too intricate to undo.

writer’s block
my brain a dark canvas
of wordless thoughts

Jackie Chou

The Poet

last bucolic moment

downwind from the cattle ranch, cooking hash on a campfire, smells like nuclear fallout, the time for mourning the cows—over and done—we milked the last one before slicing her throat yesterday, moo-town blues, harmonica melted in the blast, no lips anyway, half the world gone, the other half going, better for the cow, no slow slow death by rad poisoning, snow and rotten apples on the trees, up to my knees in shit

stock market plunge
the rising cost
of a cheese sandwich

Richard Grahn

last bucolic moment

Uncalled Poem

What even is a poem
if not a word sculpture
of carved absences
you assemble yourself
a commentary
on the loss of white space
a hand-hewn quiet
made visible
a sight for sore ears
a hush that keeps
months in the root cellar
a hush

year’s end
starting a new glow
of honey jars

Peter Newton

Uncalled Poem