CHRYSANTHEMUM / FIVE WILLOWS LITERARY REVIEW is an Online literary review of the Chrysanthemum Literary Society for selected works that fit the spirit of Mr. Five Willows. Send your work via email to koonwoon@gmail.com both in the body of the email and as an attached Word file. Response time is immediate to 2 weeks. Thank you. All donations are tax-deductible.
Friday, May 6, 2022
Heather Sager ______________________ poem
Friday, April 22, 2022
John Grey _____________________ three poems
CONFINED TO BED WITH BOOKS A-PLENTY
The heroes, the heroines,
the casts of thousands,
made themselves comfortable
on the blanket top.
Then they went to work.
It was December.
The trees outside were stripped bare.
Head cocked on my elbow,
I reported to the protagonist
as he scampered across the hillside,
pursued by soldiers.
Shots rang out.
He tumbled down the side of a hill,
Thankfully, the bullets missed.
Wind picked up,
rattled the windows.
It began to snow,
even in in my room,
but only for a page or two.
I KNOW IT’S STILL FEBRUARY BUT…
Another fake spring.
Some melting.
A bud here and there.
A sun worthy of the name.
But then temperature drops.
More snow falls.
Thawed liquid freezes into ice.
Buds retreat.
Old Sol is more trickster
than benefactor.
The calendar givers orders.
Eventually, weather does what it is told.
APRIL-TUDE
Wild rain and better things to come.
Bird calls from all over the globe
not just the wintry residents.
Inspired by wind,
I'm whirling and twirling again.
I can still be cold
but not the kind of bitterness
that moves in for the kill.
The nights don't smother the day any longer,
fit neatly into their appropriate hours.
The full moon is fuller.
The new moon is newer.
The half-moon ignores the other half.
From meadow to forest,
wilderness is wildness once again.
Soon enough, pollen invades my nostrils.
Long, languid days drag me sunward.
An old song sings in my mouth and my skin ripens.
Wednesday, April 20, 2022
Three poems ____________________ Julie A. Dickson
Not
like the Classics
[nods to Catcher in the Rye, The
Member
of the Wedding and The Fox]
I
don’t remember Holden Caulfield,
never
read of his disillusionment, dead
brother,
phony adults and failed schools
until
I met a real life Holden, nothing
like
the classic novel, full of wonder, I
was
a member of a wedding, a bridesmaid
twice,
never felt part of a group as a teen,
indeed
struggled for a place among adults,
not
like the classic, runaway begging to
be
accepted, sat on the wooded edges like
a
fox, observing life, no jealousy, just
marched
on, few women friends, men
entered
and left, some without incident,
others
leaving heartache, not like them -
classics
where a tree falls atop a friendship
Julie
A. Dickson
Exeter,
New Hampshire
Role
Reversal
She
suddenly had the feeling that she
was
somehow older than her mother
Gram
died only weeks before, not even
time
enough to grieve for herself, but
mom
was obviously lost, after months
of
hospital visits, time was empty now,
a
hole where her vigil used to be, daily
phone
calls from mom to gram, gone.
She
naturally stepped into a new role,
checking
on mom often, welcome calls
filling
a void also allowed them to bond,
a
new relationship was forming, a kind
of
role reversal; now she felt as mother
Julie
A. Dickson
Exeter,
New Hampshire
waiting to die
foot
turned in
stroked
out look
on
her pallid face
holds
the same book
for
hours
blank
expression stare,
without
seeing words
going
through motions
familiar
yet absurd
stumbles
through
endless day
even
longer night
sits
weary
no
more does she fight
to
speak
no
one hears
her
strained voice
barely
a whisper
given
no choice
waiting
to die
Julie
A. Dickson
Exeter,
New Hampshire
Monday, April 11, 2022
Poem _______________ David Gilmour
DEPTH GAUGE
Standing on the
sunlit bank
Throw yourself into
the stream, shadow and all
If you are in
substance ready to plumb the depth.
The experience you
suffer daily is enough to appall;
Immersion in that
material swamp—contents not forms.
Viewing the
off-season family theatre from the crack
In the stage door;
star-struck neighbors hanging round,
Stiff with drink,
animated bags, stalking before the flood-
Lights and
backtracking into the barren set.
There’s furniture,
sure, the place is packed,
Furniture and
pictures just for the sake of mood.
You are seeking
contact with the wild world,
Aren’t you? I mean
beyond the daily tragedy,
Where unnerved Furies
can be temporarily tamed
By gutbusting
laughter, or where a saint, crowned
By an atom-bomb
blast, stands as an icon on a knoll,
Glowing like the
beaming Dalai Lama in Dharamshala.
Hey! Forget those
black-light dashboard skeletons.
In this scene The
Presence smiles a happy refugee.
Do you really need
the wisdom of bombastic Agamemnon?
Foreverafter fearful
of the backyard bathroom?
That cannot help
much. Noooooooo!
For the scientist and
the poet,
Creative data abounds
To study humankind in
ways beyond the norm:
You know, fragrant
thoughts of forests in Borneo;
An FM-band humming B.
B. King, the blues bard,
Singing “Hummingbird”
just on the verge of twilight
Greening.
Come on then! The horned Bull has been sacrificed,
The Ram has run,
The Fish have played
upon the horizon
In spring morning’s
celestial stream.
If you are going to
enjoy the Waters,
Fall, sun at your
back,
Throw yourself in,
shadow and all.
David Gilmour
Friday, February 25, 2022
Koon Woon in Quail Bell Journal: http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal-20/poetry-seattle-3-poems-by-koon-woon
Tuesday, February 1, 2022
Julie Dickson ________________________ three poems
Earth
sadly
I
am the earth sadly waiting to die
below
a vast canopy of green leaves;
flee
from here into expansive blue,
revel
in the view, expanse of kestrel
wings,
shimmer of sun in knowing eyes;
he
sends me back, time not yet over.
Sit
upon my rocks far out on sea
island,
jagged edges biting flesh, raw
memories
run marathon, overlap,
collide,
reality crashes - the past
cannot
separate until a whale breach
sends
spray, sea mist awakens; stand
high
on melting glacier, feet frozen, boots
rated
for below zero don’t cut it, won’t
feel
toes nor fingers, numb like each time
gunshots
heard, screams of children, knives
slice
silent shouts of protest, unappeased
masses,
more weapons amassed to destroy
what
semblance of calm remains as blood
drains,
rivulets careen down streets, footprints
mark
path of humanity, destined to
destroy
species without habitats, elephants
perform
under duress, bears feast as birds
peer
down from canopy of leaves, I expire
slowly,
painful floating waves of plastic,
discarded
refuse in belly of sharks, oil
slick
pelicans suffocate, death on sand –
no
matter ancient commands of worship,
humans
once knew my worth; still progress
into
state of ruination, await my demise.
Julie
A. Dickson
Exeter,
New Hampshire
freezing to death
if i lie down in snow
will fire still burn,
harsh embers
igniting
a frightening
explosion, white flames
erupting, disrupting
coherence
will fire still burn
if i lie down in snow?
Julie A. Dickson
Vigil
Barren the dunes,
landscape of emptiness,
devoid of humanity,
lighthouse keeps vigil,
watchful over ships and sea birds,
blue horizon meets sea of hopefulness,
lighthouse calls out, answering the waves
Julie A. Dickson
Thursday, January 27, 2022
Poem __________________ David Mason
A Mathematical Abecedarian Poem
A problem is to calculate the
Beta function at alpha = 1/2, where it is
Continuous, has a transcendental value and is
Divisible by Beta at 3/2.
Easy enough using
Familiar properties of this function.
Galois theory does not come into play nor do
Hilbert spaces and their special properties.
Indivisible numbers, as well as,
Jordan curves should be avoided. You might get sucked into a
Klein bottle and never get out.
Latin squares may befuddle you or
Manifolds on Lie groups.
Never try to understand
Ordinary differential equations without
Practice in Fourier analysis and knowledge of
Quaternion valued matrices.
Riemannian metrics are essential in talking about
Space that is very curvy.
Time and time again they are
Useful in describing unexpected worlds.
Vector spaces are helpful too
When defining one’s place in space.
Xeno did not know about them when he fashioned his paradox.
Yet it confused philosophers long ago. By the way,
Zeno came up with the famous paradox, not Xeno.
Saturday, January 22, 2022
Poem _____________________ Koon Woon
When
you, when I …
When
you catch me writing,
when
you catch the wind,
a
warm breath is blowing, &
birds
flock over the land.
Though
the political is absurd
and
men often pitch dirt,
a
raindrop of the good
portends
a brotherhood.
Take
this feather, my friend,
it’s
preserved from childhood.
Recall
fondly the days and nights
in
this undertaking we call life.
When
you, when I are far awake,
an
opulent music we shall make.
And
we will laugh and dance, as
Providence
bestows another chance.
Koon
Woon
Tuesday, January 18, 2022
E. Martin Pederson _______________ four poems
The Beauty of
Books on a Shelf
pinetrees
at the edge of the forest
ready
to be felled
pickets
in a fence
always
white
dandelions in the grass
in
a seaside town
in
salty Maine
creases
in a thick curtain
in
the projection room (industrial marketing shorts)
the
bored room
junior
& senior yes women & men yesyesyes
coats
on a rack
in
the room in the back
where
I am sent
for
snickering
during
story-time
in
Miss Soite's fifth grade
and
in the scoutmaster's mind
boy
scouts ideally rigid
baseball
bats leaning on a cyclone fence
then
tall glasses on the bar
bottles
in a supermarket with cartoon labels
in
alphabetical order
one
by one.
The Chill of
the Sierra
is
not cold
the
sun's out
the
night was damp
and
the night was cold
the
frost is cold
but
now there's only a chill
the
brisk air
the
smell of granite
floor
of duff
air
you'd want
to
share
in
advertising
I
can feel that fresh air
anywhere
everywhere
any
and everywhere
Curse
Immortality
There’s
a sad sigh of relief at the end of every job
Like
summer
Like
a sealed vault at the end of a hallway
I’m
glad to move the train, leaving another station behind
I
only wish it would never end
This
curse of immortality.
A Life Saved
is a Life Earned
Everything
around us is dust
we’ve
only got each other
I
will never let you out of my sight
ever
again, all my days.
You
are mine or I yours
proper
and appropriate
went
down with the cathedral
on
the believers’ heads.
Never
to separate, claustrophobic
two
as one inside the other
I
will never break my promise
you
wear yellow rubber boots.
Sunday, January 16, 2022
Thursday, January 13, 2022
Poem _____________________ Deanna Scott
Changing Seasons
Trampling on shining
sumac
Sitting at the edge of
the meadow
The
trees hummed a soft melody at the end of fall
Winter responded by
grabbing the baton
I didn’t know I was ready
The last of the shrubs
forming a colony with shiny leaves Resembling the birds flying
Stop worrying
I will always protect your
gentle footsteps
A cluster of red
berries fell on my head
Silly girl
This is the easiest
transition
Fall leaves turn scarlet
red
Allow things to come
Accept the universe’s treasure
As nature rotates
The gift of seasons.
Tuesday, January 11, 2022
David Gilmour __________________ two poems
DREAM-DOG
Say, it
was vivid! -- akin to something --
Someone
alive and kicking.
I know I
should have caught that 4:11 am
Dream
lingering at the empty platform,
When I sat
bolt upright, I saw myself
As if
myself saw me in the high-
Density reflective
mirror of that world.
A crisis
whether to arise,
Dress,
eat, and climb aboard the blank page;
Whether to
drop back down the rabbit's hole to sleep.
Had it,
fed it, bled it, died!
Alas, that
frisky puppy of a dream-dog
Up and
abandoned me. Carried on a carriage,
Taken on
the brain-train,
Chuffing
on down those serpentine tracks
Until the
rails went skew,
Now's
blowing smoke in distant fields
Where
poetic frogs used to croak.
Through
channels reamed by rumination,
The barge
hangs by some mooring post,
Along by
now a narrow ditch, a psychic lair
Where
something more than frog was spawned,
Where it's
at home,
Like
simple souls a while ago,
Who
chattered, smoked, and sipped green tea
Over
yellow formica breakfast tables,
Morning
sun in streams of gold,
Through
the hazy kitchen windows.
TRANCE FORMATION
The cosmic
picture or the uncosmetic chaos
Is pressed
by the spirit of Life
Upon the
walls of its own awareness.
Rainbow
arcs, moon above the pyramids,
Cliff faces,
glassy mountain ribs.
The listener
might see a spectral fragment,
The large
red,
A lamp
glowing upon a triangular plane,
A rough
stone, tragic ledges,
A dead drop
into blue chasms.
Nature’s
mass can be reordered:
Coherent
line, measure, form, and word.
The singer’s
synesthetic eye,
A wild iris,
savage thought.
A maelstrom
of meanings:
Pristine is
white,
Black is
pure, men are wheat,
Women
violets with a deep, deep core.
Raven, a
nightjar,
And a sign
of spring—cuckoo!
All
concocted transformations,
Laden
galleons sailing across classifications
To an
unknown shore,
The blades
from bristling pines
Palming the
foaming eddies,
Skimming
across orders
To an
ineffable shore,
Down to
earth experience,
Amber and
frankincense.
Out they fly
from the cave of dreams,
Carlsbad-like
gusts of plumage,
Beauties
once worn by cargo cultists
Now extinct
in paradise
In faraway
Sarawak.
Soaring,
Focusing on
all divine planes,
Swift
squadrons,
Drawing
evening in,
Heather Sager ______________________ poem
Bring the night I, the poet, did walk around that day living like I was actually alive. And the next day, I the poet lived rather like I wa...
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Click on Poetry above to view Thomas Hubbard's two poems
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Bring the night I, the poet, did walk around that day living like I was actually alive. And the next day, I the poet lived rather like I wa...
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Koon Woon in Quail Bell Journal: http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal-20/poetry-seattle-3-poems-by-koon-woon