Sunday, October 20, 2019


by Susan N Aassahde

potato sty mustard
duvet winch
copper glaze accordion

Rock Falls

by ae reiff

After a flood
the grass will lay
brown as the stump
of a cut back tree

Heaps of stone
have known this change
rock falls when cliffs
and walls give way.


by Christina Chin

rice grains heavy
against sky blue
red dragonflies

Saturday, October 19, 2019

Spanish Skirts of the Palo Duro

by Judith Ann Muse Robinson

Crenelated strip, stitched to crenelated strip.
Repeat. Azure. Lavender. Maroon. Draped
against these flaring walls. Abandoned. as if
shed by spinning, dancing angels of the Llano
Estacado – on-ramp to Sangre de Cristos,
northward to the Rockies. Levitation courtesy
– not of wings – but of whirling, twirling
Spanish Skirts. Set afire! Vivified by dawn’s first
peek above the eastern rim. Hems pooling
in Red River waters of creation.

In their plunge, vaulting cliffs conceal seamed pockets.
Tiny caves. Comanche shelter. Rising mesas split
the downdraft to whistle through the maw, like blades
of grass held to blowing lip. Swishing moccasin shod
foot travels time astride an ancient echo. Turkey scrabble
in mesquite. Rattle of maracas? No! Beware! The rattler’s
tail. Bleat of restless, shuffling aoudad competing for
siesta sun. East-wall clinging Spanish Skirts live short
on time. An early inky dome of night pierced by one hundred
thousand stars as if to ignite the whirling, twirling Llano
Estacado specters to take flight.

Wednesday, October 16, 2019

Cattle Egrets

by Wesley D. Sims

Late day in Fooshee Pass Cove
near smoothing water’s edge,
swarms of cattle egrets
round the point and curve past
the copse of hardwoods.
The bright, scribbly vees
veer up and cinch into
nightly flight paths
where the flocks bob and drop
in the fading air currents,
wobble up to skim hickory tree tops
as they wing their way
to roosting perches
on high limbs of tall pines.

Sunday, October 13, 2019


by Veronika Zora Novak

a snowy owl shriek
unsettles bones . . .
night deepens


by Austin Hehir

Moon light skips
off the rattling creek.
Slowly wandering down the
hills. Fire smolders in our souls as
we climb.
Sucking down the nectar, intoxicated.
Hands viced to the cold bed of the truck.
Headlights off, star lights only to guide the path.
Dimly we race, against the passing of time
and foolishly we think that nights
in the rolling mountains tumbling
metal wagons carelessly down
the hill and through the
creek will last



by Christina Chin

the scent
at her gravestone

Saturday, October 12, 2019

8.00 a.m.
58 degrees

by John Stanizzi

Pensive silence this morning, the walk to the pond quiet and still.
Ownership of sound is taken by Fowler’s stream, a bubbling
necklace of clear water into the muddy pond, the only sound
deemed necessary on a morning this soft, this undisturbed.

Wednesday, October 9, 2019

Along the Coast

 by Ray Greenblatt

No bewitching eyes of seals,
nor intoxicating dolphin songs
Instead etched inlets,
rounded promontories.
The beach is a shelf
offering unique products:
          dead fish
          polished glass
The sea paints the surf
          gold at dawn,
purple at dusk.
Coastal trees learn the shapes
          of local winds.

Sunday, October 6, 2019


by Roberta Beach Jacobson

how are you doing
I asked the turtle
but he was dead

Cormorants at Yaquina Bay

by Karen Jones

Along the plank connecting old dock pilings,
they stand, ragged, adolescent, legs apart,
lift stubby wings in an arc to dry.

Another flies in, lands too near his neighbor.
They spar for a moment, then sidestep away
in black huffs of disgust.

Spaced like a row of theater luminaires,
the cormorants perch and preen,
open their wings, flap, balance again.

Below them floats a red and white buoy.
Gulls cry, a boat speeds by, its fishing net
flying like a standard in the wind.


by Laurie Wilcox-Meyer

bees fall from blossoms
yellow swallowtail on asphalt
sick skin, the rivers

Wednesday, October 2, 2019

Missouri River Cottonwoods

by Karen Jones

Thunder growls under Meadowlark song.
Clouds pile the horizon, the river glides.

Cottonwoods, ancient children, lean
along the bank.  Their roots seek cool waters.

Rugged bark covers massive trunks.
Limbs, dry old bones, full of gnarls and knobs,

bend to the ground like knees of giants.
Dead twigs tangle in cracks of heartwood.

Young boughs, smooth and limber,
bounce and sway easy as a porch swing.

Leaves spin on long, flattened stems,
rain-patter in breeze.  Finest of leather hearts,

they sparkle like sun on water, like haloes
of vibrant atoms, ever green in the drying wind.

Tuesday, October 1, 2019


by Wayne Scheer

jackson pollock drips
orange and red and yellow
on a dull canvas--
autumn begins

Sunday, September 29, 2019


by Jamel Hall

The evening like a fallow field until ready for harvest
as night descends on a forest of rice.

Tenggala rises.

Moonless night a metronome
keeping the pace of yesterdays and todays.

Each ancient and flickering star
a moment, a time, a passing.

The brusk blowing brass of grassy winds.


by Yingtong Guo

Gold and green in the hills
Trickle through the rocks
In gazillions of rainbow droplets,
Run from the flanks
In ribbons of garish streams –
To paint the coral reefs
To dye the sea horses
In the Gulf of California.

An evaporating watercolor,
Unfathomable in its monotony.


by Joanna M. Weston

an eagle rises
from its kill
scarlet ribbons

Wednesday, September 25, 2019

Claws of the Mighty

 by Kufre-Udeme Thompson

   Sweating drummers,
Growing so wild;
   Anxious crowds,
Expanding like ringworm.

Like a bunch of palm fruits;
   Huge shoulders,
Dancing into the sandy circle.

   Smoky clouds,
Drifting across the dying sun;
   Human voices,
Chanting their names.

   Tough palms,
Clashing like swords;
   Heavy legs,
Rooting like Mangrove.

One plunged the other down;
   Roaring crowds,
Lifting him shoulder high.

Sunday, September 22, 2019


by Padmini Krishnan

Drizzle aftermath
How different they smell
young leaves and the dried ones

The moon gives witness

by Joan Eyles Johnson

Crows in a pear tree
pass the moon between them
ripple Lake Gregory
under the branches

What Basho Knows

by Ron. Lavalette

fog is good
but god’s a frog
loves the sun

Wednesday, September 18, 2019

Socotra Cormorants, Ahmadi Beach 1991

by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

three Socotra cormorants lie pinned
in quicksand,
amorphous lumps sinking
in puddles of congealed oil,
beaks and feathers crusted,
stripped of the strength
to extricate their bodies,
burbling breath, life dissolving
in the spill that chokes
the shores of Kuwait City.

through the pyrocumulous clouds,
the occasional patch
of cornflower blue sky peeps,
glimpse of a time before strife -
sands pristine, skies unblemished,
phthalo blue waters, mirror-still,
the shade of cormorants’ eyes.

the Arabian Gulf stretches, a wasteland
bubbling poisonous black,
viscous veins plump with decay
clawing across the waves,
the inferno of the oil fields of Ahmadi
glowing with molten hellfire,
ringed with the bodies of cormorants.


by Ben Rasnic

Jalapeños, cayennes &
hang like Christmas ornaments
in their clay containers;

reds & yellows,
greens & orange
basking in the mid-
Atlantic august sun.

Peppers, waxed & polished,
crave the next eruption
of nor’easter rainfall;

capsaicin branding
the soft inner flesh,
bursting with seeds.

Sunday, September 15, 2019

there’s no such thing a loneliness

Stephen A. Rozwenc

there’s no such thing a loneliness

weather trembles admirably
the opera glass snake aria
serenades pleasurable rocks
that dapple the river bank

venerable waters sparkle genius
dark bowers wander fearlessly
bleating palm trees
welcome lush adoration

in a breathless hush


by Yuan Changming

Turning, twirling

In ever smaller circles
A vortex in the stream
Seems to be sucking in
All the waters on earth
Like the black hole
Trying to swallow
The whole universe

Frank Talk re: the Off Ramp

by Todd Mercer

Going extinct will be tragic enough,
but once we’re there no one
will concern themselves with it
or care to write it down. We should try
harder to avert a needless crash,
but it looks like that’s not what we’ll do.
Disappointing, but no sense in handwringing,
messing up our weekends with the doom.
The end won’t be long. Without people
in the equation, Nature will soldier along
perhaps for quite a while. Until asteroid.
Let’s not sugarcoat the shameful fact
that we know how to save the species,
but we just don’t feel like it. Too much hassle,
no fast cash in it. We’re funny like that.

Wednesday, September 11, 2019


by Yuan Changming

Burst with courage

You are flying around, using
Your little light
Like a sharp scissor tip
To rip off the heavy curtain
Of all the darkness
Blown out of frenzy dreams

Sunday, September 8, 2019

The Reef (Sattahip, Thailand)

by Ellen Chia

At knee-deep,
The ebbing tide's a semblance
Of an expansive glass aquarium;
Within, a city's vivid lights
Have long since snuffed out;
A gradual dimming culminating
To a washed-out white
Before armies of minuscle greens
Laid seige,
Cleaving to this labyrinthine rubble
Like a skintight cloak
Though muffling not
The echo strains of a requiem.
What remains is this
Museum of shame
Gazing back at us.

San Bruno Mountain

by  Dan Richman

Looking up
the slope is studded                                                                 
with Wild Mustard,
Milkweed, Sticky Monkey,
Lantana, Coyote Bush,
Lupine, brutal
but useful
Thistle, and Wild Fennel,
and scattered within the Red Fescue,
the orange kisses
of California
Poppy. And then it
ends and one is struck
by just how
the sky can be.

green so

by Steve Piazza

the piebald fawn grazing conspicuously alone

unaware as we are of the vanity in our projecting insecurities
about outcast and shunning and how does this happen
oh    the    poor    thing

cranes effortlessly to reach challenging leaves

while we waver against the steadiness of nature
and resort to clashes over domain and supremacy
who    wins    this    time

according its grace before despondent eyes

Friday, September 6, 2019

8.59 a.m.
71 degrees

by John Stanizzi

Privets ragged in the heat begin their late summer droop lifted somewhat by the slow
ooze of Joe Pye’s lanky mauve, and the goldenrod spirals in the humidity, swirls of
nurls reaching through the air, and here, remnant of a drama, more air than substance, a barred owl
deposited a feather, perhaps dropped as he swooped down then up startled frog on the rising.