Wednesday, December 4, 2019

La Fin Sauvage

by John Zedolik                                                         

Wild is the roof
atop which reach
the unwanted spindly
stalks and irregular leaves

to an evening deepening
to night that will obliterate
their serrated silhouettes
and grant safety from discerning

eyes that might influence
a call for taming, a cutting
for the cutters upon the seam
of sky and constructed earth,

bold and instinctive on their edge,
left better to occasional sighting
by unconcerned souls who deem
the ridge, the ragged row welcome

wilderness needed among the docile
and down-combed brick-blocks
that certainly would frown up
if they could at the fringe that their

absolute politesse impedes
with wisps and licks that refuse
to lie flat and servile
as the lawns below.

Sunday, December 1, 2019


by Judith Ann Muse Robinson

Planned community.
Ears up. Eyes wide. Whitetail deer.
C.V.S. ahead.

on a corner

by James Bell

a prosperous looking blackbird tries
to precision crack the shell
of a snail
on a corner of the Corlay Road -

lifts it in its beak
and flies away from morning sun


by Hemapriya Chellappan

bamboo grove
the soft whistle
of a spice finch

Wednesday, November 27, 2019


by Susan N Aassahde,

billiard toast flock
cask sneaker
tambourine peak hunt

Sunday, November 24, 2019


by Roberta Beach Jacobson

circling seagulls
welcome sign
rusting into fall

The Buff-Rumped Thornbill

by Frances Roberts

Hidden by the leaf of a Red Olive Plum
a Buff-Rumped Thornbill
sends a high wisp of song
into open forest.
A piping voice calls back
from Lane Cove Valley below.

Praying Mantis

by Lucy Zhang

There’s a Mantis
in the middle
of Wolfe Road
raptorial forelegs folded
not praying but
How did the butterfly
fall victim
when all it needed to do
was complete an upstroke
in a lift-producing vortex
and tumble
through the sky?
But the Mantis stalked,
struck out, tore off
extraneous Bushbrown wings
and held the butterfly close
like it’d never
let go.

Wednesday, November 20, 2019

Light and shade

by Lillian Good

mark the changing light.
In-between, dark flies buzz
interferingly over red dust
sprinkled with dung.

Sunday, November 17, 2019

Route 109

by Tom Lagasse

Wandering through the Litchfield Hills
In his battered red Chevy Malibu
Its odometer nearly tipping to 100K
Li Bai drunk from one too many
with his friends at the GW Tavern
pulls his car to the shoulder
Near Sunny Ridge Road.
On the back of an envelope
From an unpaid bill he scratches:

The mist rests
on the pines
as they lean
with the weight
of Route 109.

Over the Lake

by Ray Greenblatt

Winds scour Marsh Creek Lake
and rip at stray stone walls
no longer knowing what
they kept out or in.
          Myth has it that fish
          lie on the bottom
          disguised as mud balls.
                   Trees have dropped all their
                   summer camouflage.

Four old crows each on
brittle tree branch
talk things over in
their raspy argot.
          Fox out of its den
          forages for short time
          before snowflakes whirl.
                    Tomorrow lake surface
                    might be walkable.

(Corn) Husk In The Wind

by Randall Rogers

It's true in the end ashes do look best.
Or the new beautiful
compressed-bone art deco white oval
I saw advertised on TV the other day.
Creamy it looked like a bar of Dove soap.
A large burial mushroom pod
where your remains sprout
new fungi (or fun-guys!), perhaps? Heh-heh
So many options,
so much to look forward to
getting old, croaking, and being buried in
the quaint little cemetery
around the church
of the small town
on the prairie
in southern Minnesota
where all the farms
are neat and orderly
and there are towns
like Truman
where industrious Germans and Swedes
mow their lawns on Sunday
now that weed's legal
and there's decent internet
it's okay to live there.

Wednesday, November 13, 2019

ebb tide

by Martha Landman

last night the moon was in your hair
but the day is vast around us now
the horizon further away
islands and mountains hold
the infinity of this place
the ocean peels away from the shore
large circles of brown and blue
thin layers of water lying still, a flat bed
we walk on the ocean floor
a white-bellied sea eagle swoops
a fiddler’s bow playing Spiegel im Spiegel
but last night the moon was in your hair   

Sunday, November 10, 2019


by Christina Chin

cormorant dives
Li River's starlit water
an oar pauses

Prodigious Plumes

by Suzanne Cottrell

Dragon’s Breath proclaims its presence                                         
spreads burgundy streaked, olive foliage
presents its fiery bouquet of
feathery crimson blooms
hints of spicy fragrance
dominates floral landscape
summer through autumn


by Christina Chin

dawn light
filters into the teacups
Mulu Caves canopy

Friday, November 8, 2019

November 8, 2019
7.02 a.m.
29 degrees

by John Stanizzi

Panoplied in cold, fall has charred the entire landscape, as memories 
overtake my thoughts – visions of dragonfly days,
     and on the first morning the
notification by the great blue heron on the
     far side of the pond that the
dawns ahead would be filled with myriad marvels; he was right.

Wednesday, November 6, 2019

Consider This

by Mary Innes

Consider how it is
    we eat the air:
Sunlight touches green,
turning spirit into matter,
becoming us
who breathe our spirits back to air.

Consider how the grasses' green
becomes our skin, our heart, our hair.
Carbon marries light
and we appear.

Sunday, November 3, 2019


by Padmini Krishnan

Chilly night
Redwood tree absorbs
all the moon

Nightfall at Minnamurra

by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

At the foot of Minnamurra Falls
the maples heave in the gale,
wind drawing applause
rich with sudden confetti,
whirling bushels
of umber, gold, sienna.

the trees arch skyward,
upper reaches shorn
as the windstorm shuffles away,
balm of autumn night
settles eggshell, tranquil,
the forests of Illawarra
lit by a smudge of fireflies.


by Padmini Krishnan

Cold night
wind sings
to nesting pigeons

Saturday, November 2, 2019


by Carl Mayfield,

water bowl--
     bloated mouse
  lifting his head

Wednesday, October 30, 2019

Forgotten Fruit

by Suzanne Cottrell

A hardy tree stands taller
than the two-story house
on the old Garrett Farm

Common American Persimmon Tree
its thick squared bark resembles alligator hide
alternating, slick, leathery, oblong leaves

Pale melon-colored balls
the size of shooter marbles
replaced creamy flowers

Ripened fruit, a deep cinnabar
flesh as soft, juicy, and
sweet as an apricot

Laden tree with fruit
some split and mushy
litters the ground while

Most cling to branches
till winter arrives
once a treasured fruit, now forgotten

Sunday, October 27, 2019


by Susan N Aassahde

doze rain trumpet
cue night flock
gooseberry scaffold play

Cicada banger

by Coleman Bomar

Red wrapped woods in California
Sappy straws gnawed like twizzlers
By maroon-eyed ebony earthen
Cicadas in sync
Billions rise from dirt
Soft skinned
White born
Cling to bark
Climbing green heavens
For wood rebirth
On bloody tree altars
The first in seventeen years
Molting darkly
Brood bred black screamers
Drink love
Roaring rhythmic orgy
A once in forever banger
Then silence conceived joy
Immediately dead
Shed husks
This grand tumble:
The single greatest
Life giving
Party’s over
On silent Earth


by Felix Constantinescu

The orchard’s road
Tall, withered thistle.
Wet soil, damp.
Plum-tree bark, red
Vegetable light.

Wednesday, October 23, 2019


by Carl Parsons

As aspens quaver
hawthorn hedges bare their
knots of sharpened thorns—
now the spotted fawn gathers
the cold wind in its quick legs.

Tuesday, October 22, 2019

The River Remembers Her Ravines

by Babitha Marina Justin

When the waters came rolling down the hills, they scooped out the last human from the village on a rescue boat and rowed down the hill, which slid down after our flight.

We saw life boats, dinghies, fishing boats; we hoped to be saved clinging on to the last gunny-sack of dreams clamped to our chests, our lives pressed down to a few damp papers.

We plugged our ears to the news of people flowing away like catamarans with a cloud-burst or a landslide; dying prosaic like that, we held on to our lives not distinct from the unguent, unbridled cannonball mud.

We could have saved our huts, hill’s memories, our hearths; we know that the
river remembers her ravines for real long time.

We can go back to our empty hills, begin anew, write our histories on water, reclaim our lands, rake up the slush and reap in gold.

We know for real, Periyar remembers her ravines for a real long time.

Monday, October 21, 2019

8.01 a.m.
52 degrees

by John Stanizzi

Possessing less and less each day, the banks, like low tide, are exposed,
obstinate dry spell leaving the pond’s bones to dry in the sun.
Neurosis in the landscape, the weight of late summer
discomfits the trees which give in, sag, continue their slow burn.

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