Miho Kinnas and Bill Newby
Miho Kinnas is a Japanese writer and translator. Her book of poems is Today, Fish Only (Math Paper Press 2015). Her poems appeared in Quixoteca: Poems East of La Mancha (Chameleon Press 2016), The Classical Gardens of Shanghai (HKU Press 2016) and other online literary magazines. She translated haiku for Equatorial Calm (Celestial 2016). In 2017, Miho conducted haiku workshops through Shanghai International Literary Festival and Pat Conroy Literary Center. She holds an MFA from City University of Hong Kong.
The annual 3.2-mile river swim in Beaufort, South Carolina
No rope. No line. Water is water but I am home alone. With thousands of strokes, kicks and breaths, I stitch together six bright yellow balloon-buoys. Bacteria, fungi, algae, decaying spartina cling on. I count nothing but the strokes. After twenty, I look up. I survey. Before the race, I saw a dolphin swimming into the marsh. The Beaufort Memorial on my left. The complex keeps changing its shape. An optical illusion. White magic.
I finally extricate myself from its presence. All I hear are my own
splashes and a groan with every exhale. The anchored luxurious
boats are stubbornly stationary on the calm morning water.
A paisley – shaped island is hidden behind them. Numerous
piers jet out from waterfront gardens like the minute hands of
train station clocks. A green- capped swimmer catches
up with me. But, I do not let him pass
The blinding sun blurs
the terminal point.
“Open Water” © Miho Kinnas (2017), from Ebb & Flow
Bill Newby enjoys using poetry & prose to record, reshape and reflect upon daily experience. His work has appeared in Whiskey Island, Bluffton Breeze, Ohio Teachers Write, Palm Beach Poetry Festival’s Fish Tales Contest, Blue Mountain Review, Panoplyzine, Sixfold, and the Island Writers’ Network’s anthologies. He was a 2018 Pushcart Poetry Prize Nominee. His first volume, Sea Chests or a Carry-On, is available from Amazon and can be previewed at www.billnewby.net.
Reindeer have descended with the dark.
They stand on shelves,
cluster on the dining room table,
pose in white silhouettes
before green flood lights,
and leap through pine forests
on napkins and towels.
One loaned his antlers to our mailbox.
Another gave his to a red VW Beetle
driven by a bright-eyed woman
with short white hair
and a broad, broad smile.
Our lawns have gone to sleep.
The trees have shed their leaves.
But the deer hang around
in darkness, dawn and midday,
unafraid of dogs or hunters,
never asking for food or drink,
reminding us of days on the farm
where we never lived
and delivery myths before FedEx.
“Holiday Herds” © Bill Newby (2019), from Reflections