Sunday, July 31, 2016

Sasazuka Night, After Rain

by David Eves

Buildings rub shoulders.
Streetlight blots the moon's hue, rusts
gullible puddles


by Miriam Sagan

out to the west
something burning
pillar of smoke
on the long plains
how can I remember
before this world
started burning
an unscorched
Lama Mountain


by JS Absher

short night
the pinch-waist wasps
sleeping upside down

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Of Sahara

by Andrea Wyatt

Of the bow and the clearing                                                
of the granary and the spear

of Sahara
    in naked beauty more adorned

with bark and resin
with hide and horn
move across the primal rock
the ancient and eroded tableland
of our heart

we are on the rim of the desert                                  
   a barren waste and wild of sand

(not the american vision east to west)
but southerly
from the encircling shore of dunes
to the rim of Sahel
the dry zone

hide and horn, blood and bone of cattle
dug deep into the small scratched fields
of sorghum and millet
of cotton, rice and yams

quickly planted and harvested
in the shrinking seasons
down through the rainforests
of orchids and baboons
down across the savannah
the endless herds of antelopes and zebra
the tectonic plunge
down into our dream selves
a resonance of sound
we cannot hear
pitched high and keen
across the vast lands
of flat plains
caught tight
in the burn of youth


by Sarah Henry

Human life did not crawl
out of a swamp
It began with Adam and Eve.
Plants and animals watched
the apple cut their teeth.

Man soon lived in harmony
with nature. Zebra prints
decorated the throw
pillows of beauty shops.
Trees grew daggers and
initials on their bark.
Fireplaces burned fake logs.
A man wore cargo shorts
in advance of the flood.

After the Burn

by Taylor Graham

A moonscape – mid-Sierra forest
since the fire. River runs clear again
after winter storms. Familiar switchbacks.
Ash and char. On both sides of the road
stand ponderosa snags like splints
to hold the mountain together. But here,
peavine binds the hillside in vibrant
pink like sunrise after a dark night.
And fireweed – first to come back after
inferno – a whole blooming meadow
of flaming spikes, the lobes
of each corolla open like a blessing.

Sunday, July 24, 2016


JS Absher

dry pond
the cattle are gazing
at the moonlight

Vancouver in April

by Yuan Changming

Don’t even think of
Trying to pretend, but
Just show your most natural
Charm and grace; stand straight
Amidst the greening maple trees
Hold all the blooming cherry flowers
Closer to your heart; face towards
The bluest sky above the pacific
Move a bit more forward
Before the grouse mountain
Shake off the rain drops of last long winter
On your hair, and

Say cheese, you vancouver in april

Coltrane’s Reign

by Catfish McDaris

Fat folks will suffer,
Cedrick yelled on the dock,
we unloaded mail

Sweating animals
in the Brew City post office
Coltrane blasting loud

Quiet men like jazz,
black clouds bursting with thunder
no rain no refrain.

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

No Place Special

by M.J. Iuppa

The seam between night &
day is a bluish crease

that splits without a sound, with-
out  having the hook of  a sickle

moon to hold onto— we slip out
of life’s fickle temperament &

vanish for one hundred days of
summer— this hush-hush life-

style— you & I, sinking in-
to soil’s soft crumble.


by Sarah Henry  

A sullen man trims his hedge
unevenly with many false
starts and unhappy endings
He could be doing something
else. He stops pruning and
rakes away the scattered
clippings. A few brown leaves
do not impress him.

The man shrugs and
walks toward his house.
He goes inside,
closes the door, and
more leaves darken.

Sunday, July 17, 2016


by AE Reiff

I will tell the wilderness
beneath a bear.

The tail is cedar,
the bones are subway tubes

of glistening bronze.
Come and pierce the nose.

Open its mouth,
lie down upon a row of shields.

Put its tongue on a leash for girls,
that head harpoon you mountaineers,

a well-worn wake of undersides
as deep as hair.


by Chantal Gaudiano

A pigeon with deformed legs
Scuttles across tiled cement
At the train station.
It rests on the
'Mind the Gap' studded white steel border
That warns of the rail line's edge.
Texas summer sun heats bird and metal.
Whistle blows, and metal vibrates.
Train approaches, and pigeon

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

June Journal: Wednesday, June 5, 2013

by Donald Mager

Humping along in tandem sleek black pairs,
six Starlings glean the fresh mown lawn.  They
harvest  ants and seeds.  Dusk-lit grass glows
in jade shadows.  Onyx feathers gleam.
Bobbing beaks flash yellow stabs and pricks
like toy machines.  In a parallel
with the Starlings’ now, with different laws
another now presides.  Ankle-high
moist tang of hay teems with conclaves of
mosquitoes gathering to ply their
trade in thirst and blood.   They too know how
best to stab and prick.  Their now hungers
too. Each shape of now is as supple
as who observes—what stands where—and why.

Sunday, July 10, 2016


by Nancy Scott McBride

finches in the knotweed
hungry hawk watching from
the tall pine tree


by AE Reiff

There was a sign
when sun emerged
from fingers tips and rain.

A language fell above the breast.
I don’t know if lips were moving
but the hands spoke.

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

June Journal: Sunday, June 2, 2013

by Donald Mager

Night’s shrinking band of sky sets up shop
between the tree-lined horizon and
the tent-top shelf of clouds.  The oblique
triangle of Venus, Jupiter
and speck-white Mercury drift behind
the northwest mound of trees.  Applause
ends.  The sky’s silence steps forward in
black.  Behind the cloud tarp, the sequin
gown of stars hides.  Binoculars sit
abandoned on the deck table. The
show is over.  The bedroom door slides
and snaps its lock.  Clouds ooze farther down
across the slice of sky and slowly
inundate what’s left of memory.

Sunday, July 3, 2016


by Sayeeda T Ahmad

Krishnochura blossom across Bangladesh in the spring,
rows of Krishnochura trees on crimson fire, crimson petals
scattered throughout the village grounds and fields,
scattered throughout the footpaths and city streets
of Dhaka, Sylhet, Chittagong, Rajshahi,
cover every district town,
melt like crimson droplets in the rain.
They are a yearly reminder
of the blood of its people in 1971
drenching the village grounds and fields,
drenching the footpaths and city streets,
and rows of Krishnochura trees on fire.
Krishnochura petals still burn memories,
still leave crimson bloodstains on the ground.