The Chrysanthemum Literary Society     Presents:  

 

The Betty Irene Priebe Poetry Prize:

 

$500 or $1,000 plus publication

 

of a chapbook or a full-length book of poetry that promotes human warmth, kindness, and literary excellence. The judge is 

Linda Aschbrenner.

https://www.wisconsinacademy.org/contributor/linda-aschbrenner

No Entry Fee. Write to Goldfish Press, Seattle koonwoon@gmail.com

 

The Chrysanthemum Literary Society, a

501(c)3 nonprofit organization in Seattle, WA. is proud to present the first

 

Betty Irene Priebe Poetry Prize

 

a chapbook or a full-length book of poetry

that exhibits human warmth, kindness, and literary excellence.

 

More details will be announced shortly. Please go to

 

https://www.goldfishpressseattle.com/ 

 

for future notices.

 

Lakshman Bulusu ----------------------------- poem

SPECIALLY CHALLENGED

By Lakshman Bulusu

I am specially challenged—

The experts call it OCD, BPD, depression—

The words ‘mental illness’ resonate in my mind,

my life shattered like a well-crafted antique,

splintered to pieces.

Moment by moment, this thought eclipses me.

Until one day, I realize I have to come out of this darkness.

Even the night has the moon and the stars

and the day has its light.

I thrill in gardening:

plant seeds of marigold and sunflowers,

till the soil in furrows with a cultivator or a garden hoe,

water daily using a green watering can

with patience as far as my passion can hold.

Behold each blossom, a newborn seasonal beauty.

I take to painting, try to imitate Jean-Michel,

create faces with expressions of 

joy, gloom, anger, despair—

in ages of a child, aged, blonde, and old-aged—

in ranges of white, black, brown, and 

the versatility of light.

I resort to basketball. In a court set up in my backyard

practice shooting the ball into the hoop.

Sometimes I play alone yet overcome the solitude 

by living in the next throw, this time to make it a better one.

The music of the Beatles’ Come Together and Michael Jackson’s Thriller—

the song and beat rocking through the speakers

overwhelm me as I drive through the countryside flanked by green fields. 

I recite hymns of Lord Ram at an ancient temple,

sometimes so immersed it becomes a soliloquy.

Every chant of it chases the blues away that kept chasing me.

I engage in literature, sonnet to free verse,

a monologue or a dialogue, as an inspiration 

to those sharing my space.

I write poems to characterize myself in a comic vein.

I venture out in the open, take a sojourn at the beach.

I find solace in that I can challenge my challenge.

A signal of mental wellness:

At the end of the evening, relaxing in a chair, 

sipping tea, and acknowledging passers by.

Two poems ----------- by Wendy Beamish

LOST

When I was young

And wild and joyful,

I met a mystic sage

She had a dark and golden heart

And promised me endless light

Being greedy and wanting

more happiness

I barely listened to her

song

And blithely followed her

As she spiraled down

To uplift you,

She told me,

I will take you

through the

Deepest darkness

Blackest blight

Searing sadness

And when you rise

you will break the

Surface

Like a swimmer

Bursting into the light

Following her down,

I became lost

in infinite night

in piercing pain

in tireless tragedy

Without the sage,

Doubt and Panic

overtook me

knowing I would

never be the same

But I fought,

lost

Going up

Going down

And up and down

Again and again

And years passed

this way

As I fought to break

the surface

And sometimes I thought

I saw the light

Other times

I was soaked in darkness

And each time

I was near

The light

I healed a little

And then I

realized

The light was not

Joy

But

Wisdom

Inspiration Lost

Perfectionism is

spotless white gloves,

freshly fallen snow,

unblemished porcelain skin.

But perfectionism

is parallelizing

when you're in

its grip

And inspiration

becomes mere

Respiration

Perfectionism is

the hammer that comes down

on the nail,

the noose that hangs,

the seal on the coffin,

Perfectionism is

drowning in your

own idealism

Unable to

reach my ideals

Inspiration

becomes mere

Respiration

Perfectionism

has stopped me,

death by asphyxiation 

by a Tyrant

of my own making

And when can I breathe

just a ... little

I wonder

Who decides what perfect is?

For if beauty is in the eye of the beholder,

perfect can take on many forms,

leaving it amorphous

The answer cannot

be

stopping

or

Holding tight to harrowing idealism

but

finding away

to

Exist between the lines

To allow mere respiration

To become inspiration

Podcast featuring Koon Woon

Hello folks,

If you have wondered about your editor for this venue, here is a podcast (Town Hall presentation, Seattle) featuring me with a bit about where I am coming from.

https://inthemoment.libsyn.com/67-shin-yu-pai-koon-woon-lyric-world

Peace

Koon

John Grey ..................... three poems

ON A MOUNTAIN ROAD, YOU’RE DRIVING, I’M WATCHING

As I immerse myself

in the scenery,

you grip tight

to the steering wheel,

concentrate on winding

with the winding road,

not against it.

What do I care

if there’s a deep ravine

on one side,

a towering cliff on the other.

I’m part of the mountains.

You’re maneuvering

the turns, the twists,

of the one part

of this spectacular landscape

that is indisputably human.

My reverie

takes me to the very top

of the highest peak.

Your close attention

has you where you are

at any given moment.

That last thing you want

is for is to both go over the side.

That’d be a thousand feet drop for you.

Six thousand for me.

GALE

An indifferent waking,

she invokes a comedy,

her thumb-twiddle

taking on great importance,

her twisted mouth

more for balance than effect.

And then out pop her toes

from the end of the sheets,

flaked with red paint,

wiggling like piglets

sucking on the teats of the morning.

 

Her arms stretch wide

as lungs retrieve some of the oxygen

gone missing in the night,

then knuckles rub eyes

so vision can move forward.

She lifts herself up on her elbows,

swings legs around,

touches the floor gingerly

like dipping feet in cold water.

Seated side-saddle on the bed,

this is her first portrait sitting

for the day.

Sun warms to the task.

Light is eager to begin.

First, a masterpiece.

Then coffee.

TRASH ON THE SIDEWALK

The battered rusty truck stops.

Old furniture left out on a sidewalk

is loaded onto the back.

Maybe a table with one misshapen leg.

Or a television that needs a thump on the side

to get a picture.

Or a bookcase that’s missing a shelf.

Someone inside the house

glimpses a broken chair being lifted

and they may see the hands

but never the face

of the one taking it.

And the guy doing that lifting

can see something move in the window

out of the corner of his eye

but he turns his head away.

It’s enough they know that

their trash is being taken away.

No need for them to see the one

for whom all this is treasure.

The truck drives off.

The sidewalk is clear.

The castoffs will go

to make his apartment more livable.

The family is relieved

that the junk is off their hands.

He’s anonymous

until his truck gets it to its destination.

Chrysanthemum 2020 anthology

  

Order from Goldfish Press 

koonwoon@gmail.com

Lenora Rain-Lee Good ---------------- three poems

This While

            --by Lenora Rain-Lee Good

I lie next to you this night

listen to your soft snores

feel your chest move up

move down, enjoy your

body so close to mine

and fear this is

our last time together.

A thousand miles and more

separate our homes; I fear

you won't return,

and I cannot come to you.

Age holds us both

in its iron grip; only one way

for us to break free.

I so want to share

with you the years we have left

to treasure you,

to hold you close and tell you

I love you—

but your heart belongs

to the Salish Sea.

If you ask, will the Sea call me,

allow me to be with you?

You and she have years

together; a history you and I

can never share.

I swing between happiness

you have her to love

and tears it is not me.

I do not sleep while we are

together; I lie awake

listen to  your soft breaths

feel your chest move up,

move down

                    keep you

covered so you don't chill

as you dream of that distant sea

and marvel

you chose me

for at least this while.

Without End

            --by Lenora Rain-Lee Good

i

The clock measures time with

the monotony of a well-made quartz

movement. Barely audible, ticks and tocks

count the minutes of my life;

the pendulum no longer swings

with youthful abandon of self-

absorbed lovers walking through

the park swinging entwined hands

with each step into their future--

a pastel colored dream.

With inexorable precision the

metronome keeps perfect time,

measures the beat of heart,

of song, of life, of death.

The sky grays with predawn light

birds chirp and call the sun.

They live, they sing, they eat,

they die. Where do they bury their dead?

ii

I miss you, I tell my son.

Why? He asks, somewhat surprised

and maybe a little embarrassed.

Oh, I reply, no reason—

maybe the garbage needs taking out.

He laughs, and says

he's going to die. Not soon

I quickly say. No, he laughs

at least not to my knowledge—

but I don't control that.

We all will die. Our bodies

no longer home to our souls.

In his youth, he pictures himself

worldly wise, accepting.

I wonder his reaction when I die

when I can no longer laugh with him

comfort him. How, then will he think

on death's inevitability?

iii

Reiki music softly

repeats on my stereo.

The wind sneaks

a chill into the house.

Birds squabble for

seed and territory.

El Niño disrupts

our weather pattern.

I smile. The

butterfly beats wings

near a mulberry bush

in a land far away.

Kubota-sama Dreams in Silk

            --by Lenora Rain-Lee Good

His hand, steady, gentle

takes narrow bands of silk

places tiny stitches

silk puckers

mini hills, mini canyons

dyes of love.

Vibrant colors emerge

purple     blue     pink     golden

the four seasons

in kimono to grace a wall

to grace a body.

Dreams of silk

flare when the wearer

turns in unAsian haste

to betray western clothes

beneath

garish     loud.

Kimono evoke

samurai

chivalry

gentility of sword

and seppuku.

Poetry interwoven with pain

shimmer together

in narrow

bands of silk

simple

elegant

regal

dreams of Kubota-sama

become kimono.

Inspired by the book Opulence, The Kimonos and Robes of Itchiku Kubota