by Virgil Huston
Iridescent hues glisten
in morning dew warmth
Walking softly feet wet
Green surrounded by
opaque grey the path
evaporates
Sunday, February 28, 2016
The Wound
By Denny E. Marshall
Day after day, the earth will bleed
With blood of water and of land
Humans born with the gene of greed
Day after day, the earth will bleed
Mostly for our own selfish needs
Not just companies understand
Day after day, the earth will bleed
With blood of water and of land
Day after day, the earth will bleed
With blood of water and of land
Humans born with the gene of greed
Day after day, the earth will bleed
Mostly for our own selfish needs
Not just companies understand
Day after day, the earth will bleed
With blood of water and of land
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Hawk Against The Sky
by Ed Hack
The circling, minute adjustments of
its telltale wings, its ancient circuitry,
black diamond of its brain. Who speaks of love
but all the while neglects the hawk is free
to babble on unmoored from fact, that black
shape circling now. So much summed up in names--
a plunderer, a rapist too, and rapt
in holy light. The hawk's beyond all shame,
like God who breaks us into faith. Against
the gray or sun-dazed light raw hunger guides
its circling flight, impeccable and cleansed,
angelic wings' dark silence as it glides.
Whatever else sky is, it's home to hawks--
implacable and circling, their force.
The circling, minute adjustments of
its telltale wings, its ancient circuitry,
black diamond of its brain. Who speaks of love
but all the while neglects the hawk is free
to babble on unmoored from fact, that black
shape circling now. So much summed up in names--
a plunderer, a rapist too, and rapt
in holy light. The hawk's beyond all shame,
like God who breaks us into faith. Against
the gray or sun-dazed light raw hunger guides
its circling flight, impeccable and cleansed,
angelic wings' dark silence as it glides.
Whatever else sky is, it's home to hawks--
implacable and circling, their force.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
A Farmer Collects Plants for Louis XVI
by Andrea Wyatt
visiting settlements along the tidal reaches of the Chesapeake
André Michaux sketches patches of tiny pale flowers in moss
with bumpy sweet potatoes at the edges
yellow bees in the chestnut tree leaves
“we cannot sett down a foot, but tread on
Strawberries and fallen mulberrie vines,”
he writes in a small pocket diary stained with saltwater and bear grease
meets men & women who trade beaver skins
roast fat red kernelled ears of corn, dry spicy dark tobacco leaves
gather sea lavender & eat oysters till they keel over
as the canvasbacks and mallards obscure the sun
fly through the wet November sky
they have no idea it is past time to leave
as Louis pushes himself away from his royal table
filled with empty oyster shells & corn.
visiting settlements along the tidal reaches of the Chesapeake
André Michaux sketches patches of tiny pale flowers in moss
with bumpy sweet potatoes at the edges
yellow bees in the chestnut tree leaves
“we cannot sett down a foot, but tread on
Strawberries and fallen mulberrie vines,”
he writes in a small pocket diary stained with saltwater and bear grease
meets men & women who trade beaver skins
roast fat red kernelled ears of corn, dry spicy dark tobacco leaves
gather sea lavender & eat oysters till they keel over
as the canvasbacks and mallards obscure the sun
fly through the wet November sky
they have no idea it is past time to leave
as Louis pushes himself away from his royal table
filled with empty oyster shells & corn.
Trails
by David Chorlton
Along a voiceless trail
are the shadows of birds
who once flew over it,
and embedded in the dirt
the tracks a fox left
one full moon’s night
when its tail curled up
behind it with a spark
at the tip of each hair.
Language doesn’t help us
find a way back
to them, only grants
the means to ask where
they have gone, and whether
any other trail leads there.
Along a voiceless trail
are the shadows of birds
who once flew over it,
and embedded in the dirt
the tracks a fox left
one full moon’s night
when its tail curled up
behind it with a spark
at the tip of each hair.
Language doesn’t help us
find a way back
to them, only grants
the means to ask where
they have gone, and whether
any other trail leads there.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Slovenian Lament
by Terrence Sykes
fog cloaks
gray slate roofs
flint & shadows
streets void
stone mute trees
black canvas blank
steady rain
falls upon the autumn
flowers silent at dusk
darkness drapes
muted melancholy
trellising the soul
burja winds announce
death or resurrection
certainty of uncertainty
dissonance & dissension
chapel & steeple
distant tolling
vertigo & vengeance
mistaken towering babel
forgotten in the ruins
fog cloaks
gray slate roofs
flint & shadows
streets void
stone mute trees
black canvas blank
steady rain
falls upon the autumn
flowers silent at dusk
darkness drapes
muted melancholy
trellising the soul
burja winds announce
death or resurrection
certainty of uncertainty
dissonance & dissension
chapel & steeple
distant tolling
vertigo & vengeance
mistaken towering babel
forgotten in the ruins
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
Cloak of Fog
by Tim Staley
The sun picks the scab of night
but clouds foam over the light.
The clouds fling their fingers
against the mountain, glide up
and over or sidle for miles
against the canyon wall.
A mountain lion tiptoes
down the canyon to the spring,
both of us are spooked
by the boom of nuclear bombers
running maneuvers all morning
under the cloak of fog.
The sun picks the scab of night
but clouds foam over the light.
The clouds fling their fingers
against the mountain, glide up
and over or sidle for miles
against the canyon wall.
A mountain lion tiptoes
down the canyon to the spring,
both of us are spooked
by the boom of nuclear bombers
running maneuvers all morning
under the cloak of fog.
The Dance of the Meek Lake
by Mendes Biondo
the meek lake
budges with breeze
stalks of sedge
the factories
on the opposite bank
stand still
too hard to
dance with
the meek lake
the meek lake
budges with breeze
stalks of sedge
the factories
on the opposite bank
stand still
too hard to
dance with
the meek lake
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Acer rubrum for Valentine’s Day
by Karla Linn Merrifield
Swamp maples begin leafing
in February in Central Florida.
Spring is stingy with their crimson
sequins or sparing of sightseers’ eyes.
I catch too few, so squint
into water below doubling the color
upon reflection.
A tree’s sap seems to be flowering
blood across the pond’s still surface.
A single maple in a singular swamp
is just now— now—coming into bud.
I am somehow younger, rubied
in the light, blushing in the shadows:
a girl again, rouged with youth.
Swamp maples begin leafing
in February in Central Florida.
Spring is stingy with their crimson
sequins or sparing of sightseers’ eyes.
I catch too few, so squint
into water below doubling the color
upon reflection.
A tree’s sap seems to be flowering
blood across the pond’s still surface.
A single maple in a singular swamp
is just now— now—coming into bud.
I am somehow younger, rubied
in the light, blushing in the shadows:
a girl again, rouged with youth.
Thursday, February 11, 2016
Another Rainy Day
by Ed Hack
The storm's set free the tree's dark rushing voice,
raw whispering of branches crazed by wind,
of leaves still caught in night. This isn't noise
but language that the silence holds, the kin
of light asleep in stone. The roiling gray
is odd right now, a knot gone slack, as rain
sweeps down and slicks the leaves that drip and sway,
explode, fall limp as wind unwinds its skein.
The knot's undone as air turns gray-glare clear.
The day has taken hold, the rain relents,
though leaves still fly in gouts of wind that shear
then pool, uprear, collapse in wild ferment.
And then a change, vague shadows show, the sun
a broken bulb--it's not quite light but crumbs.
The storm's set free the tree's dark rushing voice,
raw whispering of branches crazed by wind,
of leaves still caught in night. This isn't noise
but language that the silence holds, the kin
of light asleep in stone. The roiling gray
is odd right now, a knot gone slack, as rain
sweeps down and slicks the leaves that drip and sway,
explode, fall limp as wind unwinds its skein.
The knot's undone as air turns gray-glare clear.
The day has taken hold, the rain relents,
though leaves still fly in gouts of wind that shear
then pool, uprear, collapse in wild ferment.
And then a change, vague shadows show, the sun
a broken bulb--it's not quite light but crumbs.
Dog Canyon
by Tim Staley
Darkness unrolls over the west
like black nylons, one over the other.
Fire leaps from the stalks
of the desert spoon.
The breeze massages juniper
and pinyon sticks
into a jag of sparks.
Folding fire into itself for hours
teasing out more flames.
Light spasms of space junk
pierce the atmosphere
and steal attention from the blaze.
Darkness unrolls over the west
like black nylons, one over the other.
Fire leaps from the stalks
of the desert spoon.
The breeze massages juniper
and pinyon sticks
into a jag of sparks.
Folding fire into itself for hours
teasing out more flames.
Light spasms of space junk
pierce the atmosphere
and steal attention from the blaze.
The Park
by Tammy T. Stone
concrete spillage
allowing for no
mighty flowers
to peek through and
rise straight to sun
dumpster flower pots
instead
plastic brocade
plants tended to with
minute care
in this barren space
maybe early
in the morning
maybe by elderly
volunteers
pressing ever forward
in strong constitution
maybe with tweezers,
even, so as not
to miss a thing
the plants in
this here and
this now a mystery
save their
earthly
origins
concrete spillage
allowing for no
mighty flowers
to peek through and
rise straight to sun
dumpster flower pots
instead
plastic brocade
plants tended to with
minute care
in this barren space
maybe early
in the morning
maybe by elderly
volunteers
pressing ever forward
in strong constitution
maybe with tweezers,
even, so as not
to miss a thing
the plants in
this here and
this now a mystery
save their
earthly
origins
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Petals
Directions
Brian Pham
Forward and ahead,
where the birds flew for the spring,
they create new life.
Backwards and behind,
where they fly for the winter,
they try to survive.
Up high and above,
like the sun, their day
starts and ends with time.
Down low and below,
this marks the end of the day,
to repeat again.
Four Seasons
Franchesca Benjamin
Colors of all sorts
are loved by all hummingbirds
nature's cycle comes
The clash of the two
first comes the sweltering sun
then the ocean's wave
A gust of dark leaves
will eventually fall–
a child's playground
White blanket laid out
where all ages lay upon
for angels to form
Changing Times
Nathan Tran
Creatures awaken
to a soft and mellow
some for the first time
Dry or rainy days
fighting for little water
or running from it
Red and orange leaves
scatter across the land
a lonely wind blows
A blanket of white
covering the past mistakes
creatures hibernate
Four Haiku
Isabella Vasquez
The jasmine blossoms
like stars in the growing night
alone and waiting.
The jasmine falling
and leaves glisten in the sun
like naked bodies.
The decaying leaves
turn from green to gold and red
like bursts of flowers.
Leaves give way to ice
and shudders in the white snow,
only sticks remain.
Seasons
Ahjanay Ervin
Tulips awaken,
a hummingbirds melody-
The promise of spring.
Mothers burst with joy
during the summer and play with
their laughing children.
As autumn appears,
colored leaves drift through the wind
till nothing remains.
An ice sickle falls
landing on the white pillows
of snow beneath it.
Two Poems
Megan Lee
Snow
Gently descending
Trees covered in white blankets
Frozen fingertips
Warmth
No signs
As sunlight consumes the cold-
A summer morning
Two Haiku
Steven Singeorzan
Ground slips under me
Running for dear life help me -
Mother wakes me up
In the scorching heat
Many stairs no one here but me
Whistling the tune
Untitled
Amanda Abad
A mouse scurries by
while a hawk swiftly swoops down,
for an early snack
Two Poems
Grace An
Spring Breeze
Fuzzy winds along
the blooming flowers, tickle
my nose very much.
Morning Runs
These morning winds hurt,
it cuts me with its sharp flow.
Mom, can I go home?
Two Poems
Maggie Kung
Spring
Late in the spring night
Dog barks hysterically
Baby bird perish
The Scorpion
Scorpion is trapped,
it tries to find a way out-
stings itself and dies
Two Poems
Kayla Katsuda
Monday Mornings
Bare trees, a new day
in an empty parking lot
a blue sky brightens
Before the Storm
The rain is coming,
the great gray clouds fill the sky
anticipation
Untitled
Angelica Ellerma
The flashes lit trees
chaos took over the town,
lives and homes was lost.
Time of the Season
Ryan Estrella
Leaves slowly unfurl
Pale versions of fall colors
Quickly change to green
No one is sleeping
The nights keep getting shorter
Will they disappear?
The school bell prevails
The swimming pool’s just a dream
Sleep is dearly missed
Cool breezes kiss skin
LA shivers in the wind
Family time begins
Editor's note: the above selections were produced by a workshop for young writers in Cerritos, California. The Tavern is flattered and grateful to have been chosen by the authors for their submissions. The editor especially wishes to recognize 'The jasmine falling' by Isabella Vasquez , 'In the scorching heat' by Steven Singeorzan and "Dry or rainy days' by Nathan Tran for overall excellence.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
One Rabbit
by Ingrid Bruck
Rabbit hops away,
a dandelion held in his mouth
the silver orb of seeds bobs
on the end of the stem it is eating.
Rabbit hops away,
a dandelion held in his mouth
the silver orb of seeds bobs
on the end of the stem it is eating.
Thursday, February 4, 2016
To Start a Wander
by Tricia Knoll
Older than little, here on a threshold
to the woods that reconfigures
what was and is new. A worn duff
path to a next grand possibility,
a tinge of silver tomorrow in my sunset.
Do not speak of jawbones
called out long ago, just looseness
unwinding, how even a furled feather
hovers for footsteps
to start a wander,
a wander into deep green,
resolving the me
that still worships green.
Older than little, here on a threshold
to the woods that reconfigures
what was and is new. A worn duff
path to a next grand possibility,
a tinge of silver tomorrow in my sunset.
Do not speak of jawbones
called out long ago, just looseness
unwinding, how even a furled feather
hovers for footsteps
to start a wander,
a wander into deep green,
resolving the me
that still worships green.
Weather For Hawks
by Ed Hack
White winter light and blue that long ago
forgot what mercy is. A morning for
a hawk. The clouds are silvered gray and glow
a razored glare, raw light you can't ignore,
that blinds the eye that cannot help but look.
The perfect light for hawks. And when it dims
the silver has a wicked gleam, a hook
that skewers nerves, edged pain up to the brim.
The wind is polishing the upper leaves.
Bright points wink on, wink off. We are what is
irrelevant. We are what we believe.
The hawk is real, the rest self-serving myth.
We wake, we work, we love, we war, we talk,
we plan. While high above, the circling hawk.
White winter light and blue that long ago
forgot what mercy is. A morning for
a hawk. The clouds are silvered gray and glow
a razored glare, raw light you can't ignore,
that blinds the eye that cannot help but look.
The perfect light for hawks. And when it dims
the silver has a wicked gleam, a hook
that skewers nerves, edged pain up to the brim.
The wind is polishing the upper leaves.
Bright points wink on, wink off. We are what is
irrelevant. We are what we believe.
The hawk is real, the rest self-serving myth.
We wake, we work, we love, we war, we talk,
we plan. While high above, the circling hawk.
The Black Mother
by Mendes Biondo
do not forget the taste
of the earth that nourished
your lush roots
although sick and sterile
the black mother
was the first source
where you taste the water
do not forget the taste
of the earth that nourished
your lush roots
although sick and sterile
the black mother
was the first source
where you taste the water
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Swimming Deer
by Al Ortolani
A young buck swims the center of Shoal Creek in flood stage. Rains have pummeled the hills for two days. Now, sunlight like yellow flowers patchworks the timber, crosses the lapping waves, climbs the bluff. The buck bobs in and out of dappled shade, felted antlers green in early sun. Spring run-off carries him through the park and under the distant highway bridge. Hawks catch the April wind, rise quickly into the fresh blue. All that ever was, or will be, is now.
dogwood spray
in gray timber, daffodils
clutched in landfill
A young buck swims the center of Shoal Creek in flood stage. Rains have pummeled the hills for two days. Now, sunlight like yellow flowers patchworks the timber, crosses the lapping waves, climbs the bluff. The buck bobs in and out of dappled shade, felted antlers green in early sun. Spring run-off carries him through the park and under the distant highway bridge. Hawks catch the April wind, rise quickly into the fresh blue. All that ever was, or will be, is now.
dogwood spray
in gray timber, daffodils
clutched in landfill
Winter
(for John Nightingale)
by Terrence Sykes
In my garden of regret
seeds of forgotten sorrow
cast with damp ashes
silence already muted spirits
No need to gather
harvest that again
since weeds & crops
now yellowed & strawed
Glazed with frost
contentment & burdens
death & resurrection
indistinguishable
In my garden of regret
seeds of forgotten sorrow
cast with damp ashes
silence already muted spirits
No need to gather
harvest that again
since weeds & crops
now yellowed & strawed
Glazed with frost
contentment & burdens
death & resurrection
indistinguishable
Our Blue Marble
by Kerry Seymour
Our blue marble floats,
perfect
from a distance.
Here, mined and fracked,
aquifers sucked dry,
she quakes
and sinkholes gape;
Continents bake,
yet the coasts drown
in warming waters.
In millennia to come,
our drying orb
of desperate remainders
smolders, beyond thirst.
This was our only blue marble.
Our blue marble floats,
perfect
from a distance.
Here, mined and fracked,
aquifers sucked dry,
she quakes
and sinkholes gape;
Continents bake,
yet the coasts drown
in warming waters.
In millennia to come,
our drying orb
of desperate remainders
smolders, beyond thirst.
This was our only blue marble.
