Some Uses for a rusty tea kettle
1. A cap for drunk sailors who must walk home in the rain.
2. A pot in which to start a forest of wild leeks.
3. An Appalacian percussion instrument.
4. A boxing glove for those who constantly fight themselves.
5. The humblest of urns.
Please note that Rusty Tea Kettle will now be featuring previously
published poems by invitation only. General submissions may still
be sent to rustyteakettle@yahoo.com
Andrew Riutta
January, 2009 Issue
This blog/online journal, like my life, is a work in progress. I'm still trying to figure out
how all the different bells and whistles best function. However, I believe you will find
the poems themselves, thanks to the contributors, are solid.
Beverley George
after he mends
the five bar gate
the old man
rides it . . . once
across the puddle
Michael McClintock
reading the poem
about the cherry trees
in Yoshino
I'm thinking where to go
for a beer and a smoke
most days
writing poetry
goes nowhere
imagined by men
as a beautiful place
Kirsty Karkow
dark of night
moonless, starless
in steady rain
she walks a black dog
toward an empty house
HM The Saigyo Awards 2008
could be
she is a saint
this quiet woman
who washes dishes
all and every day
Eucalypt
a solitary
at rest along the Way
he is becoming
one with the deer
and the rough brown bark
Eucalypt
Pamela A. Babusci
autumn winds
dumpster seagulls
circling
homeless
children
the truth sometimes
must be uttered
even if it hurts . . .
I practice the tango
until dawn
Karen Cesar
summer lightning and cheap wine---
babydaughtermotherwife
in a flash
all my lives pass
before me
I close my eyes
for five minutes more
breaking waves
and Hemingway's lions
asleep on the beach
H. Gene Murtha
people change
like the color of
a bunting
I feel at peace
when I'm alone
Sunday morning
reading the obituaries
calling daddy
the same name
Sylvia Plath does
sober
she asks me to
come home
I pierce a badger's claw
then hang it from my ear
Liam Wilkinson
numbed
by drink.
not even
hurting you
can hurt me
so many wasted days
strewn behind us.
the told-you-so
expressions on faces
of clocks
Janet Lynn Davis
too often
I'm not like that man
wandering
at the edge of the lot,
hospital gown barely closed
none of us
wanting our windshields cleaned
by the stranger
at this intersection—
the haze of a new year
Ron Moss
almost fifty years
in a dying bag of skin
I make my bed
counting new moons
under southern stars
Sanford Goldstein
now I write tanka
in the non-smoking sections
of coffee shops;
when the dead one smoked,
we talked miles and miles
tired of midnight fists
against my battered pillow--
I want a reach-over
even for a glass of water
even for tea in a chipped cup
my corridor pace
to pick up today’s junk-mail,
a smile to the clerk
and all the rest---I kick
my shadow in the walk-home sun
Tom Clausen
years of thinking
I'll really change
and become a family man
but some little wild weed
keeps growing in me . . .
wind outside the mall
and as I wait
with my eyes closed
a killdeer calls
from another life
Colin Jones
still
trying to catch snow
on my tongue . . .
the bittersweet names
of my aborted child
Angela Leuck
after nearly buying
the warm woolen shawl
I go in search
of the slinkiest lingerie
I can find
M. Kei
shaking the bats
out of the mainsail
a cloud of night
made homeless
by my hands
Ribbons : 2:4. Winter, 2006
Not being Amish,
I can flip the bird
at motorists
who cut off buggies
and frighten the horses
Simply Haiku: 5:1, Spring, 2007
potato soup
a little too thin,
autumn creeps
silently among
the pine trees
Simply Haiku: 5:1, Spring, 2007
Bob Lucky
more and more
I live up here, he says
pointing to his head--
his gaze and mine fall
to where his legs used to be
in a box
in my mother's attic
a worn journal
in the beam of a flashlight
an old darkness comes to light
Paul Cordeiro
seems we're broke
and it rains most days
most months
yet the beagles find the joy
at their nose tips
C.W. Hawes
there is nothing
left to talk about or ponder
there's nothing at all
just the sighs, the longs sighs and
the little white pill we take
Kala Ramesh
the red dot
on my forehead
binds me
to a man
who's in his own orbit
Simply Haiku - Autumn issue - v5n3
1. A cap for drunk sailors who must walk home in the rain.
2. A pot in which to start a forest of wild leeks.
3. An Appalacian percussion instrument.
4. A boxing glove for those who constantly fight themselves.
5. The humblest of urns.
Please note that Rusty Tea Kettle will now be featuring previously
published poems by invitation only. General submissions may still
be sent to rustyteakettle@yahoo.com
Andrew Riutta
January, 2009 Issue
This blog/online journal, like my life, is a work in progress. I'm still trying to figure out
how all the different bells and whistles best function. However, I believe you will find
the poems themselves, thanks to the contributors, are solid.
Beverley George
after he mends
the five bar gate
the old man
rides it . . . once
across the puddle
Michael McClintock
reading the poem
about the cherry trees
in Yoshino
I'm thinking where to go
for a beer and a smoke
most days
writing poetry
goes nowhere
imagined by men
as a beautiful place
Kirsty Karkow
dark of night
moonless, starless
in steady rain
she walks a black dog
toward an empty house
HM The Saigyo Awards 2008
could be
she is a saint
this quiet woman
who washes dishes
all and every day
Eucalypt
a solitary
at rest along the Way
he is becoming
one with the deer
and the rough brown bark
Eucalypt
Pamela A. Babusci
autumn winds
dumpster seagulls
circling
homeless
children
the truth sometimes
must be uttered
even if it hurts . . .
I practice the tango
until dawn
Karen Cesar
summer lightning and cheap wine---
babydaughtermotherwife
in a flash
all my lives pass
before me
I close my eyes
for five minutes more
breaking waves
and Hemingway's lions
asleep on the beach
H. Gene Murtha
people change
like the color of
a bunting
I feel at peace
when I'm alone
Sunday morning
reading the obituaries
calling daddy
the same name
Sylvia Plath does
sober
she asks me to
come home
I pierce a badger's claw
then hang it from my ear
Liam Wilkinson
numbed
by drink.
not even
hurting you
can hurt me
so many wasted days
strewn behind us.
the told-you-so
expressions on faces
of clocks
Janet Lynn Davis
too often
I'm not like that man
wandering
at the edge of the lot,
hospital gown barely closed
none of us
wanting our windshields cleaned
by the stranger
at this intersection—
the haze of a new year
Ron Moss
almost fifty years
in a dying bag of skin
I make my bed
counting new moons
under southern stars
Sanford Goldstein
now I write tanka
in the non-smoking sections
of coffee shops;
when the dead one smoked,
we talked miles and miles
tired of midnight fists
against my battered pillow--
I want a reach-over
even for a glass of water
even for tea in a chipped cup
my corridor pace
to pick up today’s junk-mail,
a smile to the clerk
and all the rest---I kick
my shadow in the walk-home sun
Tom Clausen
years of thinking
I'll really change
and become a family man
but some little wild weed
keeps growing in me . . .
wind outside the mall
and as I wait
with my eyes closed
a killdeer calls
from another life
Growing Late
Colin Jones
still
trying to catch snow
on my tongue . . .
the bittersweet names
of my aborted child
Angela Leuck
after nearly buying
the warm woolen shawl
I go in search
of the slinkiest lingerie
I can find
M. Kei
shaking the bats
out of the mainsail
a cloud of night
made homeless
by my hands
Ribbons : 2:4. Winter, 2006
Not being Amish,
I can flip the bird
at motorists
who cut off buggies
and frighten the horses
Simply Haiku: 5:1, Spring, 2007
potato soup
a little too thin,
autumn creeps
silently among
the pine trees
Simply Haiku: 5:1, Spring, 2007
Bob Lucky
more and more
I live up here, he says
pointing to his head--
his gaze and mine fall
to where his legs used to be
in a box
in my mother's attic
a worn journal
in the beam of a flashlight
an old darkness comes to light
Paul Cordeiro
seems we're broke
and it rains most days
most months
yet the beagles find the joy
at their nose tips
C.W. Hawes
there is nothing
left to talk about or ponder
there's nothing at all
just the sighs, the longs sighs and
the little white pill we take
Kala Ramesh
the red dot
on my forehead
binds me
to a man
who's in his own orbit
Simply Haiku - Autumn issue - v5n3
Denis M. Garrison
hours before dawn
drinking vodka on the porch
while others sleep
I turn off the light
and give the moth a break
MET 1, Autumn 2006
