poetry

Five by David Henson

(Today we are pleased to run a collection of five poems by our friend David Henson. We have decided to depart from the one poem a day format, but instead of just shoving them out all together we have included images and the end result is quite nice. but always, it is the words that rule the day.–The Ed’s.)

Death Everlasting

A man rubs ointment 

on the stub

of a new arm he’s growing. 

A woman dons her levitation cloak

and goes for a ride.

Massive seawalls

gird coastal cities.

Robots do the dirty work.

Human brains braid with AI

and each other.

People live for centuries,

a boat I miss. 

Polar bears prowl 

the tropics after ice 

reclaims the earth.

The planet regreens.

The continents touch. 

A boy and girl cartwheel 

on thick grass

outside their home on Europa. 

Their descendants, 

part human, beast, mechanical,

will live on ships 

that sail deep space.

The sun burns red,

obliterates its kingdom,

my atoms chasing space and time.

The universe turns cold

or crunch.

So many things that will be,

and my death will survive them all.

(end)

The Man Who Quit Trying To Understand

My new approach 

begins during a movie

when I ask myself

Why did the guy with the beard do that? 

Who is the guy with the beard? 

I find the film more enjoyable 

when I accept

there’s a guy with a beard,

and he did what he did. 

My mindset expands

to everything and everyone. 

What do they think they’re doing?

Don’t care.

How could anyone believe that?

Who knows.

Are these people for real? 

Apparently. 

Friends caution me 

ignorance is no way 

to go through life.

Without my asking why,

they give me reasons.

I nod.

(end)

Jack’s Song

This here’s a little ditty

‘bout Jack, a fellow with wings.

Adriane has none,

but does have a big ol’ gun.

She tries to rob the bank

where Jack works nine to five.

When he pushes the hidden button,

cops swarm like bees at a hive.

Adriane’s trapped 

and makes a hostage of Jack.

The standoff goes days,

puts Jack in a Stockholm haze.

He visits his new dearest 

in her prison for the unwinged,

leaves his wife, sweet Betty Lou—

a flyer, born like Jack.

His feathers itch like crazy

when apart from Adriane,

who one day admits

she’s fallen for a woman named Pam.

Jack hatches a plan,

and gets his wings removed,

shoots a guy and gets locked up

with his darling Adriane.

Jack woos Adriane away 

from that hated Pam

and plans a fairy tale life

with Adriane in the slam.

But Pam goes all If I can’t have her,

no one else can

and shivs poor Adriane in the shower

where she bleeds out down the drain.

Oh yeah, Jack’s shattered,

but life goes on,

and he starts regretting 

his leaving sweet Betty Lou.

Jack knows she’ll shun a man 

bound to ground like him 

so he tells the warden he wants 

to be winged again.

The warden says Jack, make Big Shirley 

confess the murder we could never pin,

and we’ll sew some wings 

back on you again.

Well, Jack charms himself

into Big Shirley’s arms,

and when she says Don’t stop, 

he does—until she says I did.

Jack’s re-winged and transferred

to a flyer’s cage,

writes Betty Lou: Please visit.

We’ll flutter as best we can.

But Betty Lou is soaring

with another fellow by then.

Oh yeah, life goes on

So Jack spends the rest of his

flying alone

in a pen.

(end)

Splinters

Dreams splintered 

in my father’s hand.

Those just under

the calluses.

he needled to the surface,

drew between his teeth,

spat out. 

Those worked deep 

into his palms,

he ignored,

carried to the factory 

thirty-eight years. 

(end)

(image of Da Blues, who likes a good poem)

Mary’s Lullaby

Mary arrives at the human 

resource center workshop, 

announces she’s pregnant 

and high-fives Big Bob. 

They roar with laughter. 

I contact the nurse, 

who takes Mary 

to the center’s clinic. 

When they return, 

Mary goes to her station. 

The nurse confirms 

Mary’s pregnancy — shocking, 

he says in hushed tones, 

because she’d undergone 

a somewhat voluntary procedure. 

When I ask what 

he means by “somewhat voluntary,”

he turns heel and hurries away. 

I can’t help staring at Mary. 

She notices me, 

makes several pelvic thrusts, 

rocks cradle arms, 

and begins singing. 

(end)

All poems by David Henson

(images all taken in the Charleston District of Bremerton, WA)

Altamira by Tony Dawson

The cave of Altamira is one of the Palaeolithic

wonders of the world, a prehistoric art gallery

where Stone Age fauna can be found depicted

in careful detail by the cave-dwelling artisans.

The vivid colours and charcoal were preserved

by a landslide that sealed the opening for millennia

until discovered in 1868 when during a hunt,

a gun dog scrambled its way inside the cave.

Once discovered, access was unrestricted.

I visited the cave almost a century later

in 1966 and still remember marvelling

open-mouthed at how bright the paintings

of the polychromatic bison and aurochs looked

and how the bulges in the rock were used

to make the beasts appear three-dimensional.

For the last twenty-four years, to preserve it

from the damaging effect of visitors’ breath

on the ochres and charcoal of the murals,

the cave has been closed to tourists.

To prevent the paintings from deteriorating,

the cave is now open only to researchers

so that they can determine the techniques

employed by cave dwellers of the Palaeolithic.

They have revealed that the shapes of the animals

were first outlined with a flint tool, and then painted

over a period that lasted some twenty thousand years.

It’s as if the themes of an artist like Rosa Bonheur

had magically stretched all the way back for millenia,

to be suggested by those gifted Palaeolithic artisans.

Tony Dawson, 7 August 2026

El Sueño del Caballero (The Dreaming Gentleman)

The nominal subject of the canvas is the richly dressed

unknown gentleman on the left, who is sleeping,

perchance to dream, just as Hamlet had mused

in his monologue, for sleep is like a rehearsal for death.

Maybe he reflects the state of the Spanish Empire.

Yet the focal point of the painting is the angel

holding a banner telling us what damage

time can do: “maiming eternally, flying by at speed

and killing.” Presumably, this is his dream.

The imagined is shown merging here with life

in this world as it did in the play “Life’s a Dream”

by the seventeenth-century playwright Calderón.

The vanity of earthly reality is represented

by the myriad artefacts strewn across the table:

a clock placed precariously on the table’s edge

could easily fall off, the box overflowing with jewels

are riches that are meaningless in the afterlife to come.

The skull on top of the bible evokes Corinthians 4:18,

which reminds the reader that what is seen is temporary

whereas what is unseen, in other words divine, is eternal.

This image underlines the brevity of our time on earth,

further reinforced by the sight of an extinguished candle.

The coins, the playing cards and the mask of hypocrisy

hint at the gentleman’s louche form of existence.

The firearm might suggest a way of putting an end to it all

or that he wastes much of his time hunting in the woods.

The work emphasizes that life is both paltry and fleeting,

the gentleman exemplifies vanitas that others might learn.

Even the globe itself appears to be covered by a shroud.

In true Baroque style, the artist holds out no hope,

perhaps because the recent successful Portuguese revolt

was the tipping point that began the terminal decline

of the once invincible, far-flung Spanish Empire.

Tony Dawson, 24 May 2026

Aerialist by Bart Edelman

(Today and tomorrow we are pleased to present the poetry of Bart Edelman)

Troublesome as it may be,

You need to hook the reader

At the very outset, my friend.

Connect on such a level,

The poor soul can’t avoid

Advancing to the next line,

And, hopefully, well beyond that.

Throw in a clever serpent,

Four blind cows on a couch,

Perhaps, a darling damsel,

Dressed in a turquoise smock.

Now you’ve hit your stride.

Take a break, if warranted.

Stroll around the block.

Gaze at the high tension wire.

Juggle all the possibilities.

Then return to reality—

You silly, little aerialist.

Here’s where the fun begins.

Consider the options available.

Connect each dot accordingly.

Breathe a magical sigh.

Put your puppy to bed.

Do what this poem hasn’t done.

Bart Edelman

The Eyes Have It by Dale Williams Barrigar

This here shaggy dog is headed to Jensens Island in the middle of Big Bearskin Lake in far northern Wisconsin.

I am not aware of whether he knows the details of all that, but he isn’t used to being on boats and one thing is certain from looking at these photos: even though he isn’t used to them, he isn’t scared, either.

That’s because he has a fearless and bold nature that makes him plunge into situations such as these almost (not quite) without thinking twice.

He’s also jumpy and paranoid in certain ways, hyper-aware of what’s going on around him and the best guard dog, when it comes to people, you could ever hope to meet.

He doesn’t care about material objects or possessions or probably even money, near as I can tell, as long as he usually has a full belly when needed and somewhere to lay his head, also when needed.

But the people in his life – he would die for them if he had to, without thinking twice.

There are many people in this world who would say, and do say, that a Dog is just a dog.

Anyone who attributes spiritual properties to their animals, like I do to mine, and like the Chippewa of northern Wisconsin used to do (and some still do) to theirs, will think that such people as that are lacking something in their nature. Not that they aren’t fully human, but yes that they are humans with cold (or at least colder than they should be) hearts.

For me, one look in his eyes tells you instantly that there is a lot more going on in there than some people give him credit for.

In some ways I even believe that he’s much smarter than your average, run-of-the-mill, boring, materialistic human – and very much so, at a level that cannot be scientifically tested or verified at all – and is even more true for all of that.

Words and pictures by Dale Williams Barrigar and, of course, Boo

I Finally Said Goodbye to All Those Years by Dale Williams Barrigar

(Images by DWB)

You’ve been there since then

since when

the last time I saw you

and you were

standing

there

in out of the rain

under the eaves

with the dead flowers

in your arms

waiting for a train.

It’s been

seven years

since then

and today

was the first day I

finally said goodbye

inside my mind.

You were the start of it all

and I owe you for that

but I looked up today and saw

that time has now flown.

And now I’m going to have to

forget you and now you’re

going to have to

make it

like I always knew you could

all on your own.

Dale Williams Barrigar

(Bonus Image by DWB, Boo on Vacation is Wisconsin)

The Trauma of Money by Dale Williams Barrigar

(I am pleased to inform the readership that DWB will be presenting new works for the next several days!-Leila)

If you’re not good at

getting money

and keeping

money

or if you

don’t have money

or if you’re

out of it

right now, or

hard up today you are

pushed to the side

way to the side

almost off the side

or maybe right off the side

of everyone’s mind

and you are thought

way, way, way,

WAY

less of

by

almost everybody,

indeed…

In fact, if you

are not good at

getting money,

or keeping money,

or don’t have money

right now

or if you just cannot hold

onto it very well

once you do

finally

get it

(and, sometimes, you do

finally get it

out of the blue)

because you

gave it all away

to someone else

who told you they needed

it more –

you are

pushed

way, way, way,

way

off to the side

marginalized and alienated

and looked down

upon

spat upon even

thought less of for sure

and frowned upon

by almost everyone

in the good old

USA, today

(or,

almost

everywhere

(but not

everywhere),

globally).

Dale Williams Barrigar

(Images courtesy of DWB)

The Ghost and I by Simon Collinson

(One more by Mr. Collinson.  We look forward to his next visit–LA)

How long do you mourn a ghost?

Is a year or two too long?

Try three, for it was three years ago,

she left me and disappeared,

and now she’s become a ghost that fills the silence,

they say I should move on, forget the past,

and let go of the ghost,

that’s easier said than done, when you’re clinging to a ghost,

it’s like I’m going out with a ghost,

a ghost that’s with me every day,

any where I go I see her, waving and smiling,

she’s present in the laughter and scent of every room i enter,

always there in my memory, the past is real and alive,

the present is an illusion, like a dream of the dead,

they say I need to focus on the present,

but the ghost, you see, she won’t let me,

I won’t let me,

the ghost and I won’t let go of one another,

she’s my shadow,

becoming inseparable,

always the ghost and I,

wherever I go, the ghost goes as well,

together walking through the past,

I hesitate to walk on without her,

I won’t let go of the ghost,

can’t move on, like I’m trapped,

a million times they say it cannot be, it cannot be,

yet the ghost is still here with me,

like I’m shackled to a ghost,

blocking everything, but the past and the ghost,

today I’m here, still with the ghost,

you see there are some ghosts,

you can’t simply shake off and send away,

like the ghost that I haunt everyday.

Simon Collinson