Take 5ive January 2026
A new year is here but the problems remain. War, injustice, division, sectarianism. Not a great start. I hope that things will improve but as I see it things are going to get worse before they get better. Not a positive intro to this new issue but I think a realistic one. May your personal life not reflect the geo-political miasma that we witness day by day. Write your words with love, kindness, compassion and empathy. To quote a 'YouTuber' that I watch regularly,
"Spend more time loving the things you love than hating the things you hate"
Peace.
"Spend more time loving the things you love than hating the things you hate"
Peace.
David He
a shepherd
collects his sheep
with a folksong...
a crow caws
at the day's end
dark clouds
roll over the temple
as a monk prays . . .
in the candlelight
lotuses glisten
sunrise paints
the glowing horizon...
magpie's song
as a light wind stirs
red maple leaves
night rain
washes my clothes...
at early morning
the neighbor's dog
wags his tail
snow falls
upon the snow
before a broken gate
the dog curls
waiting in patience
Mike Winter
the time
it takes a pine
to die
the sound of stone
striking stone
the time it takes
for the mountain
to cirrus the sky
a brumal breeze
blasting budbreak
between
the eighth and ninth lines
of the sonnet
first chill rippling umber
into the aspen leaves
Chen-ou Liu
I’ve bounced for years
through internships, contracts
and odd day gigs …
thin dust coats my testamur
in its gold-rimmed frame
the last rays
of a winter sunset
slip beyond the hills …
I’m left in silence, grieving
what’s left of my dream
moonlit icicles
dripping from the eaves ...
another night
alone with my drunken self
haunted by her absence
oh! sunset glow …
I drift, drifting through
a swirl of leaves
as the wind tears loose
my layoff notice
I pluck out
another white hair ...
in the mirror
this face of the past
now foreign to me
Debbie Strange
we slip
into drab mourning clothes
recalling how
you loved the aspens
and their mantles of gold
time
is of the essence
they say . . .
I did not know what
that meant until now
sepia hills . . .
all that remains is this
stone stairway
connecting the present
to a stranger’s past
driving by
our old homestead to see
what remains . . .
bullet-riddled windows
shatter me to the bone
softened
by bluestem grasses
the sharp edge
of this prairie bluff
where we laid you down
Curt Pawlisch
one twin born dead
the other alive:
a little engine of joy
a living relic
of unbearable loss
new roof--
inheriting
the maintenance costs
my parents died
to avoid
forces seen
only in their effects--
snow wind rushed
across the dark road
as I drive home to you
we tell the little ones
it’s going back
to the bears . . .
our Christmas tree
at curbside
Pegah Rahmati Nezhad
she turns
gingko leaves
into petals
a yellow rose
born in her hand
a chipmunk
steals a kiss
from his missus
i witness
the sweetness
winter sun furnishing
the white forest floor
a snowshoe rabbit
basks
in the magic
Tuyet Van Do
one year on
I still long to hear
from a lost friend
since
Helene made landfall
assisted suicide
patient-centred care
or are they
harvesting organs
-- a conspiracy
creative art session
my patients
sit around the table
making
their own tombstones
morning chill
a new hot water unit
now in place
in the kitchen
a sinkful of dishes
John Hawkhead
war breaking
across the earth
red and black ants
form ranks into
the dying sun
spring rains
otters play tag
with bubbles
joining up dots
in a stream
almost lost
among leaves cast
in winter winds
a creaked whisper
in the oak’s heart
where the wind turns
mourners into stone
wafts of petrichor
fill the shadows
that wrap about us
Jerome Berglund
snow of fuji
single grain pictured with
cherry blossoms
finding fault
in gandhi
devil’s night
below the bath
swishing pipes
the american
experiment
since the dawn
of time
this mantis
has been praying
to what effect
selling blood
a fool's errand —
sex work, rather,
the indigent woman
advises my mother
a gentle ticking:
will flower again
in time
if time
you have
Jon Hare
first sip of coffee
after a cold night
steel
under my boots
thinking about our kitchen
looking back
with a reassuring smile
you disappear
on the gangway
as fog rolls in from the sea
somewhere
between rain
and snow
somewhat cold
the day I left
during the war
a young gandy dancer
lean and tan
we met only once
at the dinner table
swifts circling
under thunderheads
my thoughts
turn from freedom
to struggle
Marion Alice Poirier
I rise from darkness
to breathe the hyacinths
in my garden--
children's laughter drifting
as time goes to work
the earth unfrozen,
warm wind on my back
a day to savor--
soon your words chill the sun
and winter reclaims me
in a secret place
we embrace at last
by the river...
rain falling softly,
whispers of goodbye
an old man stares
into a spotted mirror
behind the bar,
trying to find himself. . .
a fly floats in his beer
Marilyn Humbert
as twilight falls
he watches the forest
sway gently
we wait for the doctor
to bring eternal peace
across the bay
as winter sunrise
shines a bridge
my steps echo on the path
of what might have been
ploughing
through the heads
our tour boat
among seasonal travellers
on the humpback highway
after the wildfire
I wander through the forest
in every direction
blackened arms reach
skyward in supplication
up Mt Hallen
over hard packed gravel
my long climb
steadily passing by
friends, rivals, associates
Anthony Lusardi
chilly autumn winds
i hope still
it's warm enough
to be outside
and carve pumpkins
getting thinner
a cherry blossom's shadow--
that invisible nudge
with in mind
mom's advice
on furlough
for extended time;
the one day
i can't find enough
branches for the fire
november gatherings
of whitetail deer;
growing apart
is there more meaning
in our silence or chitchat?
talking to myself
asking someone big questions
asking someone for answers
i get a reply
from my alexa
Mark Gilbert
sharing a sofa
and a bottle of rosé
binge watching
while northern lights
shine outside
face to face
on a butt-shaped slab
of basalt
the two of us
enjoying our views
my first bike
skidding to a stop
in the dusty dirt --
how steep the climb
back to Hickory Lane
Sherwood Forest
trudging
from tree to tree
providing content
for free
men with guns
men with beards
men with SUVs
men with shooting jackets
men with time to kill
Cynthia Bale
Sudoku claims
there's only one solution
I dissent
but skip philosophy
and solve the puzzle
limbs slack
but his little face taut
as fingers curl in
I tuck my thumb inside them
tether to the waking world
sunlit waves
sluice through the pebbles
lifting them up
with every rush ...
what am I searching for?
James Penha
Lyrical
mother in autumn
cannot remember my name
but sings all the lines
out loud quite perfectly:
as time goes by
Bonnie J Scherer
threads of life
stitched in
bits and pieces
the stories of our past
unraveling
springtime …
children at play
in pappy’s orchard
the buds that fruit
the ones that don’t
Timothy Daly
sprawled over your sofa,
fondling the Bhagavad Gita:
"those who indulge their senses
for their own pleasure
have wasted their life..."
you count the days
since your last cigarette.
when you came to Paris,
I wanted to tell you about
all the beds I've hidden in.
last summer I nearly died
in a house near
where you grew up
and you would have
had no idea
do you remember
how time stopped
in that embrace?
the years run away
from both of us
the purple sky
stares down at me
the same way
your lips
used to.
Bryan Rickert
while she sleeps
a kiss goodbye
on her forehead
this love language
of small things
another sunrise
hidden by clouds
the doubt
there could be redemption
of all my dark days
not knowing where
I fit anymore
my children
and my parents
growing so old
buying fruit
before it’s ripe
the time it takes
for her to realize
I am damaged goods
a small screw
on the factory floor
I dream of a day
when things aren’t
falling apart
Steve Wilkinson
A new year dawns
but the same misery prevails.
The temperature drops
degree by degree.
Happy New Year.
Moon
and stars
and snow covered ground.
Nostalgia rises
with the moon.
Geese
in the winter sky.
Ripples shake on the pond.
I allow my thoughts to float
somewhere in between.
a shepherd
collects his sheep
with a folksong...
a crow caws
at the day's end
dark clouds
roll over the temple
as a monk prays . . .
in the candlelight
lotuses glisten
sunrise paints
the glowing horizon...
magpie's song
as a light wind stirs
red maple leaves
night rain
washes my clothes...
at early morning
the neighbor's dog
wags his tail
snow falls
upon the snow
before a broken gate
the dog curls
waiting in patience
Mike Winter
the time
it takes a pine
to die
the sound of stone
striking stone
the time it takes
for the mountain
to cirrus the sky
a brumal breeze
blasting budbreak
between
the eighth and ninth lines
of the sonnet
first chill rippling umber
into the aspen leaves
Chen-ou Liu
I’ve bounced for years
through internships, contracts
and odd day gigs …
thin dust coats my testamur
in its gold-rimmed frame
the last rays
of a winter sunset
slip beyond the hills …
I’m left in silence, grieving
what’s left of my dream
moonlit icicles
dripping from the eaves ...
another night
alone with my drunken self
haunted by her absence
oh! sunset glow …
I drift, drifting through
a swirl of leaves
as the wind tears loose
my layoff notice
I pluck out
another white hair ...
in the mirror
this face of the past
now foreign to me
Debbie Strange
we slip
into drab mourning clothes
recalling how
you loved the aspens
and their mantles of gold
time
is of the essence
they say . . .
I did not know what
that meant until now
sepia hills . . .
all that remains is this
stone stairway
connecting the present
to a stranger’s past
driving by
our old homestead to see
what remains . . .
bullet-riddled windows
shatter me to the bone
softened
by bluestem grasses
the sharp edge
of this prairie bluff
where we laid you down
Curt Pawlisch
one twin born dead
the other alive:
a little engine of joy
a living relic
of unbearable loss
new roof--
inheriting
the maintenance costs
my parents died
to avoid
forces seen
only in their effects--
snow wind rushed
across the dark road
as I drive home to you
we tell the little ones
it’s going back
to the bears . . .
our Christmas tree
at curbside
Pegah Rahmati Nezhad
she turns
gingko leaves
into petals
a yellow rose
born in her hand
a chipmunk
steals a kiss
from his missus
i witness
the sweetness
winter sun furnishing
the white forest floor
a snowshoe rabbit
basks
in the magic
Tuyet Van Do
one year on
I still long to hear
from a lost friend
since
Helene made landfall
assisted suicide
patient-centred care
or are they
harvesting organs
-- a conspiracy
creative art session
my patients
sit around the table
making
their own tombstones
morning chill
a new hot water unit
now in place
in the kitchen
a sinkful of dishes
John Hawkhead
war breaking
across the earth
red and black ants
form ranks into
the dying sun
spring rains
otters play tag
with bubbles
joining up dots
in a stream
almost lost
among leaves cast
in winter winds
a creaked whisper
in the oak’s heart
where the wind turns
mourners into stone
wafts of petrichor
fill the shadows
that wrap about us
Jerome Berglund
snow of fuji
single grain pictured with
cherry blossoms
finding fault
in gandhi
devil’s night
below the bath
swishing pipes
the american
experiment
since the dawn
of time
this mantis
has been praying
to what effect
selling blood
a fool's errand —
sex work, rather,
the indigent woman
advises my mother
a gentle ticking:
will flower again
in time
if time
you have
Jon Hare
first sip of coffee
after a cold night
steel
under my boots
thinking about our kitchen
looking back
with a reassuring smile
you disappear
on the gangway
as fog rolls in from the sea
somewhere
between rain
and snow
somewhat cold
the day I left
during the war
a young gandy dancer
lean and tan
we met only once
at the dinner table
swifts circling
under thunderheads
my thoughts
turn from freedom
to struggle
Marion Alice Poirier
I rise from darkness
to breathe the hyacinths
in my garden--
children's laughter drifting
as time goes to work
the earth unfrozen,
warm wind on my back
a day to savor--
soon your words chill the sun
and winter reclaims me
in a secret place
we embrace at last
by the river...
rain falling softly,
whispers of goodbye
an old man stares
into a spotted mirror
behind the bar,
trying to find himself. . .
a fly floats in his beer
Marilyn Humbert
as twilight falls
he watches the forest
sway gently
we wait for the doctor
to bring eternal peace
across the bay
as winter sunrise
shines a bridge
my steps echo on the path
of what might have been
ploughing
through the heads
our tour boat
among seasonal travellers
on the humpback highway
after the wildfire
I wander through the forest
in every direction
blackened arms reach
skyward in supplication
up Mt Hallen
over hard packed gravel
my long climb
steadily passing by
friends, rivals, associates
Anthony Lusardi
chilly autumn winds
i hope still
it's warm enough
to be outside
and carve pumpkins
getting thinner
a cherry blossom's shadow--
that invisible nudge
with in mind
mom's advice
on furlough
for extended time;
the one day
i can't find enough
branches for the fire
november gatherings
of whitetail deer;
growing apart
is there more meaning
in our silence or chitchat?
talking to myself
asking someone big questions
asking someone for answers
i get a reply
from my alexa
Mark Gilbert
sharing a sofa
and a bottle of rosé
binge watching
while northern lights
shine outside
face to face
on a butt-shaped slab
of basalt
the two of us
enjoying our views
my first bike
skidding to a stop
in the dusty dirt --
how steep the climb
back to Hickory Lane
Sherwood Forest
trudging
from tree to tree
providing content
for free
men with guns
men with beards
men with SUVs
men with shooting jackets
men with time to kill
Cynthia Bale
Sudoku claims
there's only one solution
I dissent
but skip philosophy
and solve the puzzle
limbs slack
but his little face taut
as fingers curl in
I tuck my thumb inside them
tether to the waking world
sunlit waves
sluice through the pebbles
lifting them up
with every rush ...
what am I searching for?
James Penha
Lyrical
mother in autumn
cannot remember my name
but sings all the lines
out loud quite perfectly:
as time goes by
Bonnie J Scherer
threads of life
stitched in
bits and pieces
the stories of our past
unraveling
springtime …
children at play
in pappy’s orchard
the buds that fruit
the ones that don’t
Timothy Daly
sprawled over your sofa,
fondling the Bhagavad Gita:
"those who indulge their senses
for their own pleasure
have wasted their life..."
you count the days
since your last cigarette.
when you came to Paris,
I wanted to tell you about
all the beds I've hidden in.
last summer I nearly died
in a house near
where you grew up
and you would have
had no idea
do you remember
how time stopped
in that embrace?
the years run away
from both of us
the purple sky
stares down at me
the same way
your lips
used to.
Bryan Rickert
while she sleeps
a kiss goodbye
on her forehead
this love language
of small things
another sunrise
hidden by clouds
the doubt
there could be redemption
of all my dark days
not knowing where
I fit anymore
my children
and my parents
growing so old
buying fruit
before it’s ripe
the time it takes
for her to realize
I am damaged goods
a small screw
on the factory floor
I dream of a day
when things aren’t
falling apart
Steve Wilkinson
A new year dawns
but the same misery prevails.
The temperature drops
degree by degree.
Happy New Year.
Moon
and stars
and snow covered ground.
Nostalgia rises
with the moon.
Geese
in the winter sky.
Ripples shake on the pond.
I allow my thoughts to float
somewhere in between.
