The Bamboo Hut, Number 1, February 2025

Thrilled to have the following artworks selected for this issue. My thanks to the editor, Steve Wilkinson!

The Bamboo Hut, Number 2, September 2024

Thrilled to have the following artworks selected for this issue. My thanks to the editor, Steve Wilkinson!

The Bamboo Hut, Number 1, February 2024

Delighted to have the following artworks selected for this issue. My thanks to the editor, Steve Wilkinson!

 

The Bamboo Hut, Number 2, September 2023

Happy to have the following artworks featuring topical one line poems included in this issue:

 

The Bamboo Hut, Number 1, January 2023

Scorched

ash-speckled,

ghost horses emerge

from the haze . . .

we offer them water

and sanctuary

    rescue workers . . .

    a missing dog wags

    his tail

charred bones

of houses and cars . . .

all is lost,

except for the loving

kindness of strangers

    homeless . . .

    someone else's jacket

    warms my heart

shell-shocked,

I sift through the rubble

of my life . . .

neighbours bring me cups

of tea and sympathy

The Bamboo Hut, Number 2, October 2022

My thanks to the editor, Steve Wilkinson, for including the following two of my "weirdling" artworks for this issue:

 

The Bamboo Hut: Fields of Gold - Poems of Peace, 2022

My thanks to the editor, Steve Wilkinson, for including my work in this anthology. All proceeds will be donated to the Disaster Emergency Committee to benefit those displaced and impacted by the war in Ukraine. The book's title is taken from my tanka:

fields of gold

gleam against blue sky . . .

all the times

we have taken

freedom for granted

 

Graceguts: Michael Dylan Welch's Blog, 2021

My thanks to Michael Dylan Welch for including the following collaborative work in his trifold, City Rengay, published in 2021:

Winnipeg Wind

by Michael Dylan Welch (in normal type) and Debbie Strange (in italics)

Portage and Main—

the wind whipping snow

after my missed bus

Assiniboine Forest at dusk

a deer flicks its tail

in the ruin

of St. Boniface Cathedral

a crushed snail

another heatwave—

Leo Mol nudes recline

in the garden

the Golden Boy

still pointing north

at Fort Whyte

the snowshoe tracks

of humans and hares

Note: this rengay first appeared in The Bamboo Hut's Hands Across the Water - A Journal of Collaborative Poetry, December 2018.

The Bamboo Hut, Number 2, 2021

small(holding)

crab-apple wine

the dance floor dad built

in the orchard

the scent of hay

wafts over our pasture . . .

we breathe deeply

wheat gum

our laugh lines etched

with dust

a slice of moon

dangles from the auger . . .

rusty combine

barren fields

the scattered bones

of our farm

the jangle

of a tin roof leaving home . . .

desolate prairie 

The Bamboo Hut, Number 1, 2021

the year that was

mask debate

the wasps inside

my mouth

lockdown

a song sparrow offers

mother's eulogy

isolation walk

I wash my hands

at water's edge

quarantine

the silent scolding

of squirrels

travel ban

a jet on the runway

of my mind

social unrest

we drive into a tornado

of tumbleweeds

The Bamboo Hut, Number 4, 2020

The Birds Inside My Ribcage

railway spur the to and fro of meadowlarks

blown cattails

moorhen prints emboss

the mud

circles of sun

in the peregrine's eyes . . .

windy bluff

smoky moon

a sandhill crane's

rusty crown

solstice

the snowy sky freckled

with crows

The Bamboo Hut, Autumn 2019

forest bathing
I immerse myself
in your light


dew point
fountain grass bends
to the earth


calm lake
otters slip between
starbeams


pinnacles
the cup of valley
fills with fog


a grebe's nest
the rise and fall
of our paddles

The Bamboo Hut, Spring 2019

fog settles eventually all things become nothing


morning chill
two ladybirds trimmed
with pearls


the blue hour . . .
you slipped away
without a sound


a lodestar
glistens above
our bow
we follow the light
into breaking dawn


grief rides my back

like a cowboy
on a rank horse

spurs dug deep
into the flanks
of memory

The Bamboo Hut: Hands Across the Water - A Journal of Collaborative Poetry, December 2018

a poetry of place collaborative rengay

by Michael Dylan Welch (in normal type) and Debbie Strange (in italics)

Winnipeg Wind

Portage and Main—

the wind whipping snow

after my missed bus

Assiniboine Forest at dusk

a deer flicks its tail

in the ruin

of St. Boniface Cathedral

a crushed snail

another heatwave—

Leo Mol nudes recline

in the garden

the Golden Boy

still pointing north

at Fort Whyte

the snowshoe tracks

of humans and hares

 This rengay also appears on Michael's site at:

https://www.rengay.com/city-rengay/winnipeg-wind

The Bamboo Hut, Spring/Summer 2018

Summering


sidewalk cafes
bloom on city corners
we plant
our winter bones
in any patch of sun

jazz concerts
in the sculpture garden
smooth strains
of tenor saxophone
waft across the river

the tangy scents
of propane and bug spray
permeating
these summer evenings
faint drifts of laughter

salsa dancing
under the canopy
bodies bend
to Latin rhythms
on this sultry night

we celebrate
our cultural diversity
all summer
street vendors tempt us
to eat and drink the world

The Bamboo Hut, Spring 2017

arts and crafts
glitter sparkles throughout
the galaxies


the songs
of an eldritch choir
lure me
to the precipice
but I do not look down


Night Terrors

we don't go
downtown anymore
it's not safe
for women and girls
of any age, every colour

shots fired
another child dies
for a debt
her chalk outline
macabre street art

The Bamboo Hut, Autumn 2016

believing
you were my bellwether
I followed
every footstep sinking
deeper into the mire


where are you
my fair-weather friend
have you left
for sunnier climes
grown weary of my rain


at the first
slow swell of violins
these tears
that seep into my mouth
and quench my thirst


inheriting
her jewellery chest
I wonder
about the secrets
she had yet to tell


calluses
on my fingertips
musical scars
that bleed every time
I strum our duet


at the base
of this volcano
cinnabar
our pilgrim cheeks blaze
with revelation


don't sell me
anti-ageing creams
the lines
upon this canvas
my life's masterstrokes


over time
every mountain
sinks back
into the ocean
as must we all

The Bamboo Hut, Spring 2016

even when
you came home early
blood-spattered
with glass in your hair
I never saw this coming


though my feet
have never trod upon
that fair isle
they know it better
than these dirty streets


the times
that are the hardest
give way
to those that soften
this, I tell myself


when, at last
we turn to dust and bone
my hair
an eternal waterfall
will still flow over you


rose thorns
and twists of barbed wire
you trace
my body's deep scars
until I believe

The Bamboo Hut, Autumn 2015

a washboard road
woven between fallow fields
leads me backward
to a past so much smaller
than I had remembered


Irish dancers
their lightning steps flash
emerald-bright
phosphorescent waves
thunder at my feet


wrecking balls
expose long-held secrets
underneath
these crumbling facades
we are masterpieces


painting
my body with woad
I succumb
to the strange allure
of melancholia


scavenging
in the "nuisance ground"
black bears
catching the scent of me
catching the sight of them


note:  "nuisance ground" is a term used for a rubbish dump near a small town


On the Strand


our beach wedding
ribbons of dreams fluttering
from the old boat's mast

the singing sands
on a wind-strummed beach
you murmur my name

wet beach towels
we dance a fandango
in the hot breeze

The Bamboo Hut, Spring 2015

the aroma
of pungent Persian stars
transports me
to a caravanserai
in the moonlit desert


how still
this numinous dawn
we kneel
watching a muskrat's breath
bubbling under thin ice


a hapless boat
trampled by water kelpies
all souls lost
so many widows waiting
upon every wild shore


spring arrives
one small droplet
at a time
the way everything
takes root in earth


that night
a lightning ball bounced
through the house
scorching mother's linens
and a little girl's dreams