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.
Sunday, June 6, 2021
Monday, May 24, 2021
Kelley Jean White --- three poems
Parable
There was thunder, and a mountain
shattered, falling—
There was a single tree still standing in this city,
one tree beside a
noisy street. (‘noise’ does not begin
to speak for all
that sound.) And now that I have come back
even this last tree
has fallen, unnoticed, with a silent swish
of still green leaves.
Oddly, it struck no building, just
cobblestones and
tar, trolley tracks, the cracked sidewalk
beneath its trunk
and branches No lightning struck, no wind
sent it sprawling.
It seems its roots simply released,
its little soil outgrown.
It was my only tree here, and I
have left northern
white mountains, racing rivers, torrents
of snow melt
carving glacial caverns out of granite.
I had thought to
see it, this one tree bloom into autumn, shade
into snow. Now
there is nothing to see. But dirty glass and
crumbling
buildings. Scars.
These are my woods
head past pumpkin plants
cross the brook onto the thick mat
of leaves and sticks and over
fallen trees. So many fallen trees.
There is the owl tree on the left,
empty of owls these past two years
below and above vernal pools
filled before dawn by last night’s rains
light slants through woods ahead
silence, broken for a moment
by what might have been a deer
not glimpsed, sensed; turn, look back
see the brilliant white birch trunks
let them draw your eye to peace
Tonglen
Tonglen practice, also known as “taking and sending,” reverses our usual logic of avoiding suffering and seeking pleasure. In tonglen practice, we visualize taking in the pain of others with every in-breath and sending out whatever will benefit them on the out-breath.
How many years
have we counted
each other’s
breath? Tonight I have
barefoot tiptoed
from bed to desk
from your curled
back to a stone cold
floor. When I
return you may wake
and roam the
ticking quiet house.
But how many hours
have we shared
with breath
matched, dreams matched,
snores, sighs,
stretches. Even the cats
stay attuned.
Curved into the spaces
between us. The
space made behind
our fitted knees,
our pillowed necks.
Their purrs, their
tiny sneezes. Their
paws. So I breathe
in your pain as
my pain. Breathe
out my hope for you,
breathe in your
hope as mine. The cats?
Their dreams are
soft and timeless.
Yours and mine?
Carry a little fear.
Tuesday, February 9, 2021
John Grey ---------------- three poems
COMING UPON A DEER
Her eyes are transfixed
on my intrusion.
Mine are drawn
to the morning air ruffle
through her brown flanks.
She’s appraising me.
What is this creature?
Why does it stare at me?
Does it mean me harm?
She doesn’t suspect
the true reason.
I don’t move,
speak in hushed tones
like a predator would never do.
“It’s okay. It’s okay”
I know the deer is fearful
but I need this moment.
No other presence
can come so close to holy.
Suddenly,
the doe darts off into the thicket.
I remain there a while
but she doesn’t return.
That is all I’m going to get
My eyes are back on me for now.
ACCIDENTALLY DISTURBING A FINCH
fly away from me
thank you
little bird,
to unnecessary safety
but with freedom
you so desperately
WHAT BEES DO
I get up close to the bees
that dart from one small yellow flower
to the next
though I know one
small buzzing critter
cold land on my bare arm at any moment,
deliver a jab of pain.
I envy a life
that small, so concentrated,
with one thing in mind
that’s not even a thought,
just instinct,
to fly in and out,
to feast on the buds,
pollinate, provide for the hive,
to not waste their lives,
watching what men do.
Wednesday, January 20, 2021
Tuesday, December 22, 2020
Julie A. Dickson
Homage to Fear
Cadralor poem
1.
Darkness descends,
ebony blanketed sky
skeletal branches
loom, arms outstretched
provoked terror
mounts to crescendo,
perspiration
soaked skin beneath hooded
jacket, eyes
wildly searching path.
2.
Rope swing sways, empty
now.
Swimmer dropped
into unknown depths,
awaits his
brother, bubbles - breath
to break swirling
water, clouded
with silt, no sign
yet.
3.
Voice of anger
permeates silence,
cringe into the
nearest retreat,
caustic cacophony,
sadistic screeches rise
in volume while
madness beckons
from every
perceived safe corner.
4.
Dog lurches
against his chain,
pass by quietly,
ignore barking,
jaws clenched
watching foam appear,
strangled growls,
front paws grapple
rough ground, walk
away quickly.
5.
Empty water
bottle, lips cracked
parched swollen
throat feels raw,
heavy leaden
footsteps through sand,
dry desert floor,
sparse saguaros,
phantom shadow
feigns cool oasis.
Julie A. Dickson
---
Trees
Walk
In
the woods
Leave
yourself behind
Peaceful
pines surround you
Sun
set
Julie
A. Dickson
---
Hold on Tight
1.
They told her she
was barren,
her damaged womb
felt as sad
as her empty
heart, no baby
to love - until work from home;
quietly allowed
fetus to implant, calling
to her, I will be born.
2.
My father was
replaced, with this
stranger, peering
out through blank eyes,
not the volatile
man he was,
firmly planted in
an orthopedic wheelchair;
dementia stole my
father, but I
admit I sometimes
prefer this substitute.
3.
A young tabby,
alone in the city,
tail broken and
flattened, thin, starving,
trapped, sent to a
stark crowded garage;
she fears humans,
but accepts food,
finally placed in
a forever home,
languishes sated
in a sunny window.
4.
Dark blue eyes not
open much
at first, so
sleepy and hungry,
arms stretched out
over his head,
emerged from my
daughter, already loved,
held close to
hearts, swaddled tight;
cannot stop
touching his soft head.
5.
A stroke left her
weak, feeling
helpless, lonely.
No more will she
create her lovely
hand knitted sweaters,
we talk of
Ireland; she smiles
at memories held,
gardening and plants,
hand clasped
softly in mine, remembering.
Julie A. Dickson
---
Untitled
Cherita Poem
I shouldn’t have
tried to look inside
The abandoned
house boarded up
but for this
single window
Dog and I
approached to peek in,
disturbed hornet’s
nest, sentries
reminded me of our
lapse in decorum
Julie A. Dickson
---
Rope Swing
Grab ahold
tightly, don’t lose your grip.
It’s important to
look beneath as the rope
swings left and
then right.
Over dark veiled
water, you cannot see anything;
could be rocks or
soft sand below;
don’t let go too
soon unless you feel safe
but if you sway
with the rope, back up the hill,
there are surely
rocks, boulders even;
you’ve hit your
heels before and it hurts.
The gnarled rope
shows signs of age, knots frayed
with the years,
but its still strong enough to hold
your weight until
you decide whether to jump in.
Julie A. Dickson
Monday, December 21, 2020
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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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
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Not like the Classics [nods to Catcher in the Rye, The Member of the Wedding and The Fox] I don’t remember Holden Caulfield , ...