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Series of poems exchanged between poets via e-mail

seven haiku


social contagion of fear

time to sit, listen

toilet paper rolls

the currency of worry

in select-a-size

as roman hellos

elbow around in the world

six-foot masked man waits

tv teaching us

world geography of loss

tally of denial

cardinal singing

sweetly on the outstretched wing

of double parked plane

daffodil joy left

in pickle jar on back step

brings smile and deep sigh

my zen friend, ruben

ringing transformation bells

whom will they wake up?

- J. T. Knoll

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Series of poems exchanged between poets via e-mail

an errand from Gaia, my keep or so it seems, blue notes a musical with Fred and you'd think Ginger but Rita moves instead tippy taps us a new life over the old tells us that creams our new beginnings in the death of black and white and its dearth of color coordination balloons let go in Hollywood(land) old-school dance to rest upon our oceans would breathe us all in (and has) dances us across our currently fiat fling for non-existent gold (as it does) giving us gardens to hold dear as if we had it really for keeping, for believing as if big rocks never fell from the sky from the nevermind nor ever could be our baskets of Truth whatever seems to make us soil ourselves - Dave Ashmore

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Series of poems exchanged between poets via e-mail

Imaginary Dolphins of Venice The wishful thinking of dolphins swimming in the canals of Venice lousy panacea, beautiful hallucination not to mention serendipitous swans, the color of no more war. Social distancing is six feet to a thousand miles depending on the color of your eyes. This light breeze- spiked chime sounds either resigned or aloof, I can’t tell which, and the thrashers emote as though nothing is as communicable as music. The space between myself and everyone else advances with age and I’m aging by the speed of sound. This morning there was chicken sausage sizzling and scrambled eggs, scents filled the kitchen. Empire is now sharing a cup of coffee with the rest of humanity. I don’t even know their names! Empire is her holding me like I was the last hermitage on earth. Our berserk dogs need their Sunday hike, bereft of parishioners and sometimes I don’t think the desert will summer us out of this any more than dolphins will carry our grey ashes out to sea. ###

- John Macker

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