Sunday, June 24, 2018

In the Desert

by Carl Mayfield

thirty-seven drops of rain
have reminded
the cholla cactus
what color is for


by Colleen M. Farrelly

ibis creeping low
in spring’s oasis
before jaws snap shut

"At the bend, a flamenco cry erupted"

by Margarita Serafimova

At the bend, a flamenco cry erupted.
An invisible rooster, proud with the midday light,
robbed my pulse,
and I looked for confirmation at the man
who was working there.

Wednesday, June 20, 2018


by Karla Linn Merrifield

Do not say
the tide goes out
rather it falls
coral reef appears
secreted shoals
as turquoise retreats
to horizon-deep blue
I follow
flying the ebb

Sunday, June 17, 2018

"I saw the belly of a bird of prey"

by Margarita Serafimova

I saw the belly of a bird of prey –
dappled as a clear sky with cirrocumulus.
She possessed the inner law.

Cable Crossing

by Gary Lark

I stop at the cable crossing hole
when light just touches
the top of the canyon.
I slip down the bank under the trees
to the liquid emerald
and roll cast to the dimples
of rising trout.
They pay little attention
to my muddler or mayfly.
I set the fly rod down.
This deep green world
turns to magic at twilight
and I give in.
The fish jump and roll
as I breathe the living air.
I will be here at seventeen
and seventy, life washing
through me, this small infinity,
the experience of one.

Haiku At Poinsett Bridge No. 2

by Matthew Banash

You can’t tell
A Monarch butterfly
Where to go

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Wild Water

by Victoria Doerper

Water rockets
Round boulders
Tight pressed
In pockets of cliff,
Falling heedless
In spume and thunder
Pounding down,
Surging under
Broken limbs,
Bounding up,
Flowing on again
Strong as a silver
Scour of gravel,
Silt sculpting rock,
Building up a mantle
Of remembrance
In deposits along
The further banks,
Signs that once
Water had a wild
With constraint
But left behind
Less than what
She kept
And carried

Sunday, June 10, 2018

Haiku At Poinsett Bridge No. 1

by Matthew Banash

Crows laugh in the elms
At jokes I don’t get-
Caw caw caw

Around the Bend

by Gary Lark

We fished the south fork
for bullhead catfish
or steelhead in the winter
but seldom for trout.
I decided it was time to explore.
June, before it got too warm,
I headed up river,
looking for water on BLM
or Forest Service land,
somewhere not posted.
On the map Cow Creek
makes a big loop
before joining the river.
I walk railroad ties
away from civilization,
catch a couple of trout,
nothing to get excited about,
when a sweet aroma
filters through the trees.
I follow, find some tiger lilies.
Though perfect in their own right,
it's not them.
Down more ties, around a bend,
the scent invades me,
tunnels into my cells.
There it is, wild azalea
in full bloom, filling the world
with its heavenly essence.
In the pantheon of aromas,
it could shoulder aside
gardenia and honeysuckle.
Wild azalea, unmatched.

Wednesday, June 6, 2018

Hummer Sunset

by Mike McCormick

Emerald stars
Erupt from sun
Orbit juniper

Scatter like comets
When yucca shadows
Grow long talons

Sunday, June 3, 2018

Deodar Cedar

by Jack King

I have three trunks
like a fork
aimed straight at the sky.
I climb the air.
My limbs reached out for a hand
to hold,
but never found one so kind.
The only one of my kind,
For all I can see.
I stand taller than all around,
They never knew the reason for my height
was because of my bite on an old sewage pipe
deep beneath the grass and pavement. Shit
was my secret

Raging Earth, Soothing Sea

by Maria DePaul

The ground quakes before me,
The islands overflow with fire.
I am Pelehonuamea,
Hawaii’s Volcanic mother.
I devour the archipelago
With towers of ash.
I rage at human stains on the
Landscape, erasing every trace.
Men flee to my basaltic shores,
To meet the goddess of the sea.
My sister Namakaokahi cools
Raging sands with soothing waters.

Binghamton June

by Matthew Johnson

In summer,
The wide, brushstroke Catskill daylight
Never bothers the farm girls tending their gardens,
Or the mountain men, hiking the valleys
And streams of the Hudson River.

In summer,
The clouds coiling ‘round the Catskills
Suffocate the sun, and spill autumn,
For in that low-hanging, morning June mist,
There’s plenty of 50-degree days to be found.

Wednesday, May 30, 2018

Grass Bends with the Smoothness of Blue Jay Dreams

by Adam Brown

Pliant grass bends with the softened wind
and submerges sorrow with the blackened
soil of faith and healing

Dwarf’s Beard lichen soothes the bones
of pain and whisks away phantoms of
night-molded loneliness

Palpable minnow-shine supplants
misery with Pine memories in essences
of elation and delight

Love permeates the broken twilight
of sadness and overwhelms the heart
with everlasting fortitude

Feathers of a Blue-Jay pirouette
down into the pond in renaissance fashion,
creating ripples of satisfaction

Sunday, May 27, 2018

Favoured Island

by Joanna M. Weston

a ferry sails into harbour
on its reflection
while mountains
rise into burning skies
and Douglas firs shake
cones on our heads

farm-stands litter
the winding roads
where crags reach
to tidal points
and bundled roses
open gates built
out of driftwood
for a tourist Canon

The Catch of the Day

by Matthew David Laing

Acidic falling drops of concentrated
reptilian poison, splurging over tinted
glass windshields, wipers
melting and sticking like chewing gum.
The metal doors warp and buckle,
a child screaming from the back seat.

Geysers of waste and plastic
toppling over onto acres of sturdy pine,
filling the soil with chemicals, rot
and fusion of the environment with human
venom and excrement.

Once an uncharted emerald and sapphire vastness,
is home to the seagulls stooping over
the salty sea to the east – the fishing trolleys
lay silent and empty to the west, waiting
for the century’s catch of the day.

Silent Circles

by Emily Strauss


the Redtail hawk is hardly seen against the cliff
wings held stiff for the up-drafts, only his shadow
circles over us, we duck and flinch instinctively


the moon is voiceless yet we denote by design
a female presence, pale, wan, fragile, a distant
ideal circling at night, a ghost in gauzy dress


the field sprayer turns around the center well
once a day, wheels pass silently, herds of deer
arrive at dusk to lick droplets from the alfalfa


dark black vultures, a kettle, slowly pass over
ready to slip lower, testing the state of a vole
lying under sage, bloody teeth marks dripping

Saturday, May 26, 2018

Three Photographs
Pepper Trail



 Lily & Grass

Sunday, May 20, 2018

"Out of the sunset light"

by Margarita Serafimova,

Out of the sunset light,
a brown flame arose.
A falcon placed herself above her hunger.

Fragile Thing

by Lynda McKinney Lambert

Before daylight
lone black crow lands on swaying tree tops
high above rushing waters of the creek
crow’s voice hollers out
sharp staccato jabs, high-pitched notes
mingled with swift moving water

Canadian geese
build nests on flat rocks
beside a torrent of white-water
near Rhododendron bushes
super stars, each of them
magnificent blooming wall of flowers
before dawn this morning

Life happens slowly
like growth of lavender-pink
Rhododendron blossoms
smallest details
hundreds of them
wide open
everything in sync
a fragile thing.


by Stefanie Bennett

The periwinkle pulls her head in
at twice the speed
of sound

Heron Mathematica

by Michael Medler

If you've strayed
too close to the coterminous
of rock, of river, a chaos
of green water may pull
you in. You may crack
the ragged plane of air.

The heron will loop
down, though, a cosine
arc drawn on a silver
of sky. He will
save you; the parallels
of his slender legs
withstand the flood.

Step back and stop.

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

Sand Dunes
--from “The Snow Man," Wallace Stevens

by Emily Strauss

One should have the mind of water
to understand the Bitter River (Amargosa)
as it sinks into the wash and reappears
eleven miles downstream under willows

half hidden from the sun, avoiding sand dunes
and tracks of vehicles that climb like lizards.
The mind of water feels the heat of evaporating
pools, a constriction of mud, a thickening

into dirt as the river digs through hidden
channels underground, seeping, dripping
in cracks, lightless cavities it has forged
where we see only dry beds carved against

sandstone during rare summer floods. Then it
tires of hiding and pours for ten minutes, the mind
of water a living memory of rushing angst
in its haste to prove that bitter was only a lack

of momentum and rain is the shimmering soul
of water revealed once a year under black clouds.