by Sneha Subramanian Kanta
how you eat the fallen figs
your body full of soil scents –
arm clutched to my side,
bare bodies of autumn’s pride.
your fingers, opening a map –
nail pointing eastward
moving subtly, then all at once
over the body of the large Pacific.
how your mouth, partly open
devours my mouth, in exploration –
then, like ancient forest-dwellers
sing ourselves to sleep, meditating.
how chants, escape your tongue,
lick my senses into molten clay –
how, in a world of immigrants,
we find – a land unknown, to stay.
Sunday, December 18, 2016
Repeater
by Denny E. Marshall
Dust bowl of the 30’s
After hundred years
Of raping Nebraska aquifer
Dust bowl of the 30’s
Dust bowl of the 30’s
After hundred years
Of raping Nebraska aquifer
Dust bowl of the 30’s
Nightly Eye Shine
by Suzanne Cottrell
Night
cold grass
green eye shine,
Carolina Wolf Spiders
hunting crickets.
Night
cold grass
green eye shine,
Carolina Wolf Spiders
hunting crickets.
a small end
(for Martha Landman)
by James Bell
see the red click beetle
crawl over a log choose
that one for the wood stove
instead of others on the stack
sit to feel some heat
with a modicum of guilt
about what made you make
that choice listen for a pop
some kind of cry
only the regular click
of the stove as it warms
the log bursts into flames
see the red click beetle
crawl over a log choose
that one for the wood stove
instead of others on the stack
sit to feel some heat
with a modicum of guilt
about what made you make
that choice listen for a pop
some kind of cry
only the regular click
of the stove as it warms
the log bursts into flames
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Feeding
by Subhra Bhattacharya
The school of fish
feed on the dead baby octopus
one leg at a time
in bites and chunks
till all that is left
is a gelatinous blob
shaking in the water.
You didn't get there on time
to grill it
serve it on a platter.
The school of fish
feed on the dead baby octopus
one leg at a time
in bites and chunks
till all that is left
is a gelatinous blob
shaking in the water.
You didn't get there on time
to grill it
serve it on a platter.
Sunday, December 11, 2016
Listening to a Crow Lecture
by Don Thompson
Clinging to the old oak
as if tenured, a crow
has been holding a seminar.
Three or four students listen,
compelled, powerless to resist
nihilism: Nothing is good,
according to that harsh caw,
not at all hard to translate
into human sentiments.
I’d take notes myself,
but keep being distracted by
how eager the leaves seem,
motionless in dead air, to dance
as soon as the breeze comes up.
And it will.
Clinging to the old oak
as if tenured, a crow
has been holding a seminar.
Three or four students listen,
compelled, powerless to resist
nihilism: Nothing is good,
according to that harsh caw,
not at all hard to translate
into human sentiments.
I’d take notes myself,
but keep being distracted by
how eager the leaves seem,
motionless in dead air, to dance
as soon as the breeze comes up.
And it will.
