$1,200 Grant from the WA State Arts Commission

The WA State Arts Commission has just granted the Chrysanthemum Literary Society $1,200 for its Chrysanthemum 2020 Poetry Anthology and a public reading at the C & P Coffee in West Seattle. We deeply thank the WA State Arts Commission for its clear vision in meaningful and necessary poetry for the times we are coping with. 

Koon Woon ----------- nonfiction

TOO LONG A STORY by koon woon (draft)

Julie A.Dickson ---- four poems

Rejoice

Single bird perched upon snow covered tree

he huddles, head nestled out of the wind

swaying his thin frame ‘mong branches blown free,

desolate landscape, lone bird wonders when

this storm will subside, the sun to emerge.

Snow covers feathers, his beak under wing.

Lifts up his head, storm seems on the verge;

sun breaks through snow sky, he’s ready to sing.

Flies over meadow now coated with snow,

straight to a farmhouse with silos of corn,

scattered, the seeds, they call from below,

landing to feast on this cold sun-filled morn.

Recalls the chill night he spent in the tree,

rejoice the morning, when storm set him free.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Survival

When words escape me like so many dreams

everything changes, different it seems.

Travel upon memory buried in snow,

while drifts blow over wherever I go.

I trip over roots, hidden -- I fall

on my knees but I realize that overall

the whole point of a journey varies;

some may stumble while others tarry,

confused, might wander among the rubble,

pick through detritus that caused this trouble,

reminisce smiling past times when I knew

a trembling voice, from one of a fool.

Isolated, alone in a din,

Ignored or passed over -- turn myself in-

to the fray, if I  write about life,

will they recognize, imagine my strife?

Yes, overcome, I’ve lived onto this age,

earned the right to own all of my rage.

A pass is issued, somewhat of a badge,

a ticket, an entry to lift up this latch.

Open a new door, within my own time –

appreciate brilliance, begin to unwind,

unravel the voices beneath the snow,

whisper survival through words I now know.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Secret Melon

Lying on the floor in the hallway

unseen

I saw grownups in black slacks,

lace collars

a party in my parent’s house

hidden

I wanted sweet cantaloupe melon,

watching

mother cut fruit all afternoon

fruit salad

for guests she said and only smiled

at my request

for a bite of melon, ripe and delicious

wait, she said,

the leftovers, you can have breakfast

I frowned

I crept into the dining room, under the table

reached up

quickly grabbed a piece of melon,

juicy cantaloupe

I popped it quickly into my mouth,

so delicious.

I crawled back to my bed, still tasting,

happily

I went back to sleep now, waiting

for breakfast

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Ashes

I know just where my father’s ashes are interred,

but I wonder if I really knew him.

My mother’s ashes were buried next to his,

but while his were in a faux-granite urn,

hers had been dumped, unceremoniously

from a cardboard box directly into the ground,

by my father ten years earlier.

I thought of this atrocity, this role-reversal,

how much my mother hated dirt,

would have preferred the clean sealed urn.

It was he, who would have wanted to be dumped

into the ground or over the lake he loved,

but instead he was locked inside an urn.

Sometimes I wish I could have torn open his urn,

thrusting him to the wind, scooping up the memory

of my mother, to capture her essence

but then I realize that she is more free

than my father will ever be.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Jackie Anderson ----- four Cinquains

DAYBREAK

Daybreak

Sipping warm mug

Silent awakening

Newborn day shining pure white light

Clean slate

---------------------------------------------------------

JOLTED

Jolted

Shocked and shaken

Cruel attack rends my heart

Healing faith revives, I will rise

Stronger

--------------------------------------------------------------

MOVED ON

Moved on

Went your own way

Voice smiling through my phone

Like a visit at home today

My son

BROTHER

Brother

Charms, aggravates

My reaching out falls short

In deep abyss of chasm wide

Love hides

George Held -------- poem

No Light

   “To Hell in a hand basket”

   “This is the end, my friend”

1.

Only clichés and other folks’ words

come to mind in the lowering dark

of a world gone to pot or to black,

as the pot calls the kettle,

but what are clichés for if not to bring

succor to us suckers who long for light,

not necessarily at the end of the tunnel?

But there’s no light in sight, none.

2.

We who are doomed to die salute you

who motor on in the face of bomb

threats, mass shootings, frightening

policies drawn up by crooked governments,

you who warmly welcome a new child,

you who go to church, synagogue, or mosque

to pray, to receive succor, you who feel divine

peace in the presence of God, a god.

3.

But no god’s in sight, none. So what

if I can’t pray or find peace without,

only rarely within, where there’s no

light, just a reptile response to life?

That’s no question for a lyric;

save it for an ode or an epic

or a drama; stow it away

from the gray light of a new day.

Mary Anna Kruch ------------- poem

Angels in the Evening Woods

Far from the city noise,

I walk the woods,

try to block out a president

who has made life hell

for the least among us --

allowing my imagination to wander

Night approaches; I do not fear the dark.

At twilight, the evening woods

create profound silhouettes,

they rise, a line of stiff, solemn soldiers,

heads touching the navy blue of sunset.

I study how the towering red pines

shelter families of deer who live

beneath their fine-scented branches –

how the trees supply sanctuary

for even the least among them.

It is night, but I cannot close my eyes.

Even during the hunt,

deer, owls, and rabbits

will sleep in the shelter of my soldiers,

angels in the evening woods.

It is night, but I cannot close my eyes.

I think how differently guards

at the border view themselves --

follow orders blindly

strike fear in the hearts

of families with no place to hide in the night.

Where are humanity’s protectors?

Who supports and defends families

 who flee violence and death?

Those families are hunted; they fear the dark.

They may be moved out of sight,

but they cannot be erased.

The woods cannot shelter them.

Where are the protective arms

of civilized duty?

Who supplies sanctuary

for even the least among them?

Even as I walk far from the noise

my eyes remain open.

We must learn

from the angels in the evening woods.

Editorial by Koon Woon on Contradictions by Mao

If I can remember well, Chairman Mao said many years ago, there are two kinds of contradictions in the world -- Contradiction between the people and contradiction amongst the people.

Sometimes if a murderer is at your front door, you need to stop arguments inside the house and deal with the murderer at the front door first.

Lew Jones paper on Ishtar film theory

Lew Jones Ishtar film theory

Haiku --- Lenora Good

Like thin chocolate

the Rio Grande pours past me

            I thirst.

Dragonflies

tango above the water

            tiny scarlet flames.

Thor's hammer bounces

across the clouds—

            puppy shakes in fear.

Why is it easier

to accept my death

            than yours?

Three Haiku ----- James Roderick Burns

How dear

the small, lit window!

How distant!

*

Mossy cobbles

flatten and shine under

the wash of tyres

*

Stillness –

the night-bird’s cry flits

from wall to wall

Julie A. Dickson --- three new poems

The Brand for Real Change

The brand I wear is for freedom

with elephants roaming wild

of dolphins and whales breeching,

living in family pods at sea.

I can’t abide a captive life for them,

behind logos of SeaWorld or zoos,

circus tents with hook-handed handlers

dishing out abuse among rings of fire.

The brand I wear is for fairness for all

gender identities and persons of color,

to live without fear, to gain and maintain rights,

to move forward instead of losing ground.

I can’t abide the fork-tongues of leaders,

daily barrage of violence and hatred;

people yelling across widening chasms

disregarding beckoning hands of friendship.

The brand I wear is a barren beach,

clean sand with pink shells and pebbles,

free from decaying fish and sharks,

dead sea turtles that ingested debris.

I can’t abide the sight of trash,

plastic washing up on the shore,

sea water a floating raft of death,

collateral damage of human waste.

The brand I wear is for real change

for enough people to care and listen,

to stop environmental destruction,

abandon cruelty, protect the earth.

I can’t abide the human apathy,

silence condoning their behavior

to appear deaf and blind to the chaos;

isn’t it time to wake up and change?

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Gray

Gray skin sags over a large frame,

skin and bones you might say

I’m not allowed to graze, forage

as nature intends – I wait.

They throw dried grass, sticks.

I amble over to the pile slowly

as my feet are sore and cracked,

pavement hard; it’s been so long

since I felt dirt and grass beneath.

Where are the trees for my itchy hide,

branches to pull on, pungent leaves?

I crave to wander; my eyes close.

I see my herd, ears flapping, rumbles

through the ground, joyous voices,

but when I look again, I am alone -

lonely and penned in, no herd here

just the loud voices of my captors.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Song of Mother Earth   

              

A wonderland of nature

sings a song of mother earth

plants and animals grow

celebrating every birth

Listen to the river

flowing out to sea

rustle in the tree tops

birds call out to me

Hear the cattle lowing

and dogs up on a hill

footsteps in the forest

beneath the walk until

whispers from the cloudy sky

cool breeze blows my hair

scan the distant mountain range

across lakes and valleys there

Like ancestors from our past

worship moon and father sky

cherish earth our mother

don’t let her beauty pass you by

Sit upon the granite rock

contemplate the far off plains

sing a song of mother earth

in this land where nature reigns

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

WIN 20191011 00 55 38 Pro

WIN 20191011 00 55 38 Pro

Chrysanthemum Poetry Anthology 2020

Submit poems to Chrysanthemum Poetry Anthology 2020 by directly sending Word file to:

koonwoon@gmail.com

You can send up to five poems (under 60 lines each). 

There are no required themes, just send the best poems you have now, sort of reluctant to see them go like your child going away to attend college. You and they will be the better for it. 

Payment is one copy upon publication and extra copies at a discount. 

New book by Ivan Arguelles

New release from Goldfish Press

Ivan Arguelles is the winner of the William Carlos Williams Award and the American Book Award.

with an introduction by Jack Foley

Resurrecting Chrysanthemum Anthology

We are resurrecting Chrysanthemum poetry anthology. Please send poems to or inquire at  koonwoon@gmail.com

Chrysanthemum 2020 anthology

Please send 3 - 5 unpublished poems to koonwoon@gmail.com
Deadline 12/31/2019   Please no multiple submissions
Reading time is less than 30 days. 
Payment will be one copy and additional at discount.

Sherry Rabbino Lewis ------------------ five poems

Click on "Poetry" in above menu for poems by Sherry Rabbino Lewis

Five new poems by Simon Perchik

Click on Poetry in the above bar to view Simon Perchik's five new poems

Long war of attrition with China

Click on nonfiction on the menu above

Among the dead and the living ---- story by George Held

Go view the story on the Fiction tab above

David Fewster ----- poem

REDISCOVERED MAUDLIN POEM DATED “FREMONT FAIR SUNDAY SUMMER SOLSTICE SALMON BAY PARK 2000” WRITTEN IN THE MARGINS OF A TORN-OUT STRANGER COVER AND FOUND IN A PAPERBACK EDITION OF LI PO THAT I STOLE FROM THE VASHON LIBRARY AROUND THE SAME TIME  

by David Fewster

Saw them get out of their Lexus

to pick up their 10 and 11 year-old daughters

fat, affluent, they were out of

a George Grosz painting,

hands on porcine hips, obviously giving the girls

a lecture on the American Way.

Disgusted, I bent back over my book,

a biography of the Marquis de Sade,

and surreptitiously took a slug

from my bottle of Hakusan saki,

fermented in the lovely Napa Valley,

and wouldn’t you like to try it

chilled?

I was interrupted by the sound

of elephants stampeding up a

mountain.

It was the couple,

each with a happy, childlike glint

in their eyes,

running toward the park restrooms.

“Geez, they must have to go

really bad,” I thought,

having been in that situation

15 minutes ago, but the bastards

in the Ballard Parks Dept.

had the damned thing locked,

even if it was Sunday at noon,

so I pissed in the bushes myself.

But no, they weren’t

there to piss—

their daughters soon

came up, and it was

obviously a game of

hide & seek, and the

look of joy had been from

the game and their love of it.

And I was abashed.

Where I had been

trying to find evil,

when the surface was scratched,

I only discovered

old hippies who

had not lost the

capacity for

having fun.

What the fuck’s

Wrong with me?

nonfiction piece by Julie A. Dickson

https://fivewillowsnonfiction.blogspot.com/