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I am a youth Surrealist Poet north of the border in Canada, and I hope I will meet them one day. The Birdwatchers on Saturn Is philosophy like supernovae faced lupines with hookahs smoking the poppy holding the sun in a fist? Like the moon’s stilettos and Lapez Lazuli wardrobe platooned with hyper-positivist Eucharists recharging the floorboards of psychonic calculus of Yang-Mills in consciousness studies At the balustrade of a purple owl’s manacles banking Toonies of Tofino as the oneirocrats are pilloried by the carburettor of the horsepower to the final moon in the Milky Way Galaxy The submarine opalescent faced whopping barnacles from floorboards and cushions of waxiest Gothics entangles its twining Garter snake face in a tuxedo - As exploding ant testicles between the Mercurial Gutenberg and the ever-glowing bathtubs Madrone that is Poeticocracy Partridge by cookie dough headed Triceratops boccie players on the moon The canyon mirage pilloried through crystalline pipes of jasmine moonstones and the covey animatronics Bugs Bunny the NASCAR Driver on Mercury flamboyantly flabbergasting with its sidereal Zastruga at the paw prints of a hijab reincarnating womankind on the playrooms of Quesnel as a Russell’s paradox of jockeying cosmos Grotto - in their horsepower of Wigwams with Jet-packs - for Wierzbiska translators of birdsong to human languages blossoming a sextillion technicolor hummingbirds through your window I Escutcheon you on that Swampland in a quillow sidereal its iridescent atonal motorcycling fauns and inukshuks that the grandmaster woman of the intergalactic boombox who sempiternally dog-sleighs wormholes with each erotic press of a coinage of artificial life in B.C. forests And who gibbous Proselytizing The birdwatchers on Saturn ice-skating to the turquoise mosque-goers From the knotted mereology holding the parading sun in its fist as atonal Venetian furniture’s bloodstream quanta the stupefaction of Quad and Qanat of Bugs Bunny kayaking crepuscular to Northwest Territories

*Promo SM* 🤩

Kinsale Wow! You are such an amazing talent. You bring Inspiration and hope Your soul amplifies A fighting spirit Soaring eagle Calling out A resonating voice That must be heard From the mountain tops You call upon knowledge From today The Astral plain And beyond I hear the heartbeat Of the ancient ones It was difficult to hear about your other project mentioned on the video. I think it was blacklist me- but it was difficult to hear the link you shared. Perhaps that could be shared here for easy access?

Promo_SM

Ae Hee's long Poem "Self Portrait as Daily Sustenance" in the new Jan, 2023 issue of Poetry Magazine, really impressed me, when I read it last night!

This little lady just won the 2022 Dorset Prize Competition at Tupelo Press.

Brief Bio: I’m Al Fogel born in 1945 and at an early age began writing poems. In 1962 I was introduced to a neighbor who just returned from Avatar Meher Baba’s “ East west” gathering and handed me a book titled “The Everything and the Nothing” that included brief but powerful passages by Meher Baba that touched me deeply and i became a “ Baba Lover” In 2010 while on Jane Reichhold’s AHA website workshopping poems I befriended a Chinese man who helped me perfect my Senryu and Haibun. I am now considered one of the nations leading authorities on Tanka , Senryu, and Haibun. Here are some examples of each of my specialties. They are all from the contemporary American format. Senryu ( senryu is the humorous human side of haiku. Usually 3 lines but can be 2 or 1 line so long as it is 17 syllables or less). It is considered the humorous human side of haiku. For example, the following two of mine are horrific and heartbreaking dealing with the Holocaust): cattle cars - between the slats human eyes ~ Stutthof - the stench of burnt smoke from the chimneys (And here are some more examples): thrift store purchase inside the leather jacket a tarnished half-heart ~ dentist chair the hygienist removes my Bluetooth ~ Internet argument all his words in CAPS hers in EMOTICONS ~ after the divorce he spends more time at the dollar store ~ damsel in distress Clarke Kent still searching for a phone booth ~ cauliflower ears once a contender now boxing vegetables ~ under the influence - moonshine ~ Audubon sale all variety of seeds. . . early birds welcome ~ Buddhist fortune cookie the unfolded paper reads “ better luck next birth!” ~ sudden downpour. . . adults run for shelter ~ sidewalk cafe birds and people tweeting ~ Crowded crosswalk the “seeing eye” dog leads the way ~ deserted train depot a long line of tracks leading nowhere ~~ return to my youth lit by the tracks of Lionel trains. ~ Tanka: (Tanka is comprised of 5 lines of 31 syllables or less. Usually there are far less syllables) Here are 3 examples: returning home from a Jackson pollock exhibition I smear my face with paint and morph into art ~ crowded bus a young lady offers me her seat it seems like only yesterday I was offering mine ~ deserted train depot a conductor shouting “ All Aboard!” now a long line of tracks leading nowhere ~ Haibun: ( the haibun consists of a prose section with one or more haiku that must in some way relate to the prose. All Haibun have titles Here are some examples: The Mathematics of Retribution “Karma is unfathomable,” I inform her It’s late and our conversation turns heavy “ Seems simple to me, “my girlfriend responds. “If I murder you, then it’s reasonable that I will be murdered in this or another life to balance the ledger.” “ Not necessarily so” I’m quick to rejoin. “What if you murdered me in this life because I murdered you in a prior life karmic debts and dues are now equalized.” “But what if I get caught and I go to jail for life. Where’s the equal payback in that?” “As I said, karma is unfathomable.” We continue discussing reincarnation and then add the possibilities of “group karma” to the mix Finally, at about midnight, we fall asleep Stutthof - the stench of burnt hair from the chimneys ~~ Mama There were days when I pretended to be too sick to go to school - - just for mamas loving embrace -her arms the heat of home Even with the onset of dementia, her cheerfulness was so contagious it was a joy being around her despite the illness. She made everyone laugh with her spontaneous unpredictable behavior. nursing home bumper wheelchair her favorite pastime Once a week I would whisk her away from the assisted-living facility and we would spend several hours together -grabbing a meal or frequenting some of her favorite second-hand stores where she loved to shop and donate clothes. When we drove to her favorite thrift in November, her dementia worsened. thrift store the dress mama donated she wants to buy On a cold December morn mama passed. The funeral was simple. There was a light drizzle as the family gathered at the gravesite. One by one, with eyes full of rain, we said our last goodbyes. autumn twilight - oh mama tuck me under hug me one more time ~ ‘Round Midnight It was a huge ballroom on the top floor of a building on Broadway --an important midtown crossroads in the heart of the Great White Way. My uncle still talks with reverence about how -in his heyday -he would travel by rail to the corner of Lenox and walk inside to the beat of jungle music. Who knew what to expect? One night you might be listening with rapt attention to Theloneous Monk and Dizzy Gillespie the godfathers of bebop in their signature beret caps, or the Nicholas Brothers flashing their wild acrobatic spins and splits, or enchanted by the sweet taste of Brown Sugar -with Bojangles out front. And when the Bird was in flight, even the moon was not high enough. But in 1940 the ballroom closed its doors to make way for a commercial housing development and another kind of night. Harlem The A-train replaced by the Bullet ~ Atlantic City New Jersey I had just graduated from high school I remember stopping for saltwater taffy -as evening journeyed slowly into night. Nearing curfew, we sat on a protruded sandy enclave--holding hands, looking out at the ocean, not saying much. In the distance the lights from an ocean liner flickered as the night kept coming on in... first “french kiss” under the boardwalk “over the moon!” ~~ All love, Al

Thank you for shring my daughter Daylesha Bickham's poem!

She is incredible

Rest In Peace Callie Gardner, beloved poet who died suddenly on July 8th, 2021 (WE MISS YOU CALLIE !

Books by all the poets available at this link: woodlandpatternbookcenter.com

Wonderful!