by Joe Cottonwood
Take off your shoes, walk with me.
We’ll squish our toes. Miles it goes,
the busy beach brimming with tiny crabs
until we reach — here, this outcrop:
from salty pools you can pluck
dead souls reborn as rock, washed by tides
just as they bathed so long ago
smacking their clammy lips,
wafting a seaside scent
not unlike spilled beer.
We humans still seek contentment.
Here it has lain millions of years.
This fossil, bivalve,
from time before meadowlarks,
before Neanderthal, before waltz
in the shape of a harp roughhewn,
plays a melody murky, out of tune.
Wizened she is.
Surface ribs roll. Feel the deep chuckle.
How dense in your fingers,
how nicely she fits against your palm.
From the sand she shakes your hand!
Greetings from the Paleozoic tavern,
surfin’ oldies on the jukebox.
Some day, may you and I
jolly in our bones
return as stones.
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Sunday, November 25, 2018
How Autumn Begins
by Don Thompson
Nothing close to a chill this morning,
but cool enough to remember
how the cold felt and to know
that it’s coming soon.
Leaves yellow on the edges,
dying from outside in;
green fruit that never got started,
and one last fig that must be ripe:
Soft, but the skin’s leathery.
It plucks easily, though,
and tastes as sweet as anything
summer had to offer.
Nothing close to a chill this morning,
but cool enough to remember
how the cold felt and to know
that it’s coming soon.
Leaves yellow on the edges,
dying from outside in;
green fruit that never got started,
and one last fig that must be ripe:
Soft, but the skin’s leathery.
It plucks easily, though,
and tastes as sweet as anything
summer had to offer.
Autumn Pastoral
Mary Anna Kruch
At the foothills of the Rockies, the road shadows the river.
Rock ledges of red and burnt sienna
form terraced altars for juniper and spruce;
harebell and wild flax bloom at their feet.
Past the ledges, the sky is overcast but visible,
even at 8500 feet. There, Quaking Aspen,
connected by one root system, spread their wings above ground,
finding patches between rocks to flourish.
A sharp turn marks a grove of cottonwood
clustered together, leaves fluttering, sharing secrets.
Trail Ridge Road climbs higher into the mist;
one expects saints to appear, point the way.
A sign for Fall River Road comes into view.
Ponderosa Pines fade into thick clouds;
headlights shoot through the fog.
Tail lights vanish ten feet ahead,
and the road snakes toward Chasm Falls.
Partly-obscured guard rails bend and kneel, lean
toward free-fall disaster, barely three feet to the left.
Poplars gone red emerge, flow, then meld into a baptism
of tangerine alder, juneberry, and spruce.
A dip in the road brings clarity to the clouds,
a veil lifts, log cabins appear, and plains open up to a herd of elk.
Aspens crown the golden pastoral scene.
At the foothills of the Rockies, the road shadows the river.
Rock ledges of red and burnt sienna
form terraced altars for juniper and spruce;
harebell and wild flax bloom at their feet.
Past the ledges, the sky is overcast but visible,
even at 8500 feet. There, Quaking Aspen,
connected by one root system, spread their wings above ground,
finding patches between rocks to flourish.
A sharp turn marks a grove of cottonwood
clustered together, leaves fluttering, sharing secrets.
Trail Ridge Road climbs higher into the mist;
one expects saints to appear, point the way.
A sign for Fall River Road comes into view.
Ponderosa Pines fade into thick clouds;
headlights shoot through the fog.
Tail lights vanish ten feet ahead,
and the road snakes toward Chasm Falls.
Partly-obscured guard rails bend and kneel, lean
toward free-fall disaster, barely three feet to the left.
Poplars gone red emerge, flow, then meld into a baptism
of tangerine alder, juneberry, and spruce.
A dip in the road brings clarity to the clouds,
a veil lifts, log cabins appear, and plains open up to a herd of elk.
Aspens crown the golden pastoral scene.
Saturday, November 24, 2018
Three Photographs
Christi Kochifos Caceres
Li River Mists
Longsheng Rice Fields
Stairway - Longsheng Minority Village
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
Sunday, November 18, 2018
At the Edge of Sight
~ Old Quebec City
by M.J. Iuppa
Where sky meets water, blue
mountains rise— moving
across the horizon in shifting
clouds that curve into fortress
walls— mortar made to keep
this old French city contained
in its glass globe.
A ray of light catches fire
on the cathedral’s steeple.
A gray pigeon flies under eaves.
A man stomps his boots before
opening the heavy door
to morning prayers. . . .
And, your cupped hands
shake—unable to control this
universe—it snows, and snows,
and snows.
Where sky meets water, blue
mountains rise— moving
across the horizon in shifting
clouds that curve into fortress
walls— mortar made to keep
this old French city contained
in its glass globe.
A ray of light catches fire
on the cathedral’s steeple.
A gray pigeon flies under eaves.
A man stomps his boots before
opening the heavy door
to morning prayers. . . .
And, your cupped hands
shake—unable to control this
universe—it snows, and snows,
and snows.
Wilder Ranch
by Jeff Burt
Struck by sunlight
the west wall of the cliff
like two cymbals
crashes unexpectedly,
stone ignites,
nests of shorebirds
open from darkness,
swallows cavort
squeaking celebrations,
pairs of blue dragonflies
hunt like closing scissors,
and yes, yes, the sun, the sun,
the clanging and banging,
and the whole cliff waking to vibration
Struck by sunlight
the west wall of the cliff
like two cymbals
crashes unexpectedly,
stone ignites,
nests of shorebirds
open from darkness,
swallows cavort
squeaking celebrations,
pairs of blue dragonflies
hunt like closing scissors,
and yes, yes, the sun, the sun,
the clanging and banging,
and the whole cliff waking to vibration
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
Prairies
by Philip C. Kolin
A prairie is flat,
honest
free and open
not hampered
by planting rituals
or fenced in
like a garden's roses.
A prairie celebrates the wind
frolicking with wild rye and clover;
its butterfly flowers follow the sun
and its buffalo grass roams at will;
prairie bluestem everywhere
mirrors the cloudless sky.
Imperious sparrows and larks
cannot control
what a prairie harvests
or seed it with weeds.
A prairie grows
from the inside
out. No prickly pines
or glossy holly can root here.
A prairie courts posies
with black eyes
and blue bonnets.
A prairie sings:
Let all the world be lupine.
A prairie is flat,
honest
free and open
not hampered
by planting rituals
or fenced in
like a garden's roses.
A prairie celebrates the wind
frolicking with wild rye and clover;
its butterfly flowers follow the sun
and its buffalo grass roams at will;
prairie bluestem everywhere
mirrors the cloudless sky.
Imperious sparrows and larks
cannot control
what a prairie harvests
or seed it with weeds.
A prairie grows
from the inside
out. No prickly pines
or glossy holly can root here.
A prairie courts posies
with black eyes
and blue bonnets.
A prairie sings:
Let all the world be lupine.
Sunday, November 11, 2018
Untitled
by Aneliya Avtandilova
All wrinkled and creased,
Exposing the imprints
Of someone's gargantuan limbs -
The bed of Cascadia.
All wrinkled and creased,
Exposing the imprints
Of someone's gargantuan limbs -
The bed of Cascadia.
Wednesday, November 7, 2018
Safari
by Julianne Basile
To discover how one
Can fit a safari
In an amusement park,
Board the truck.
The spirits left
A tweed elephant
On her seat
When she got up.
It was bejeweled and the color of dusk.
What is one thing she learned about the safari?
It's smaller than Africa.
To discover how one
Can fit a safari
In an amusement park,
Board the truck.
The spirits left
A tweed elephant
On her seat
When she got up.
It was bejeweled and the color of dusk.
What is one thing she learned about the safari?
It's smaller than Africa.
Sunday, November 4, 2018
Egret
by Paul Waring
Embedded in silence—
a statue, study in patience
you stand, lost to time
watch and wait
s-neck still life
wings locked down
in wild Lanzarotean wind
for what seems hours
you paint brilliant white form
pure as truth
against black volcanic rock
forensic eye
sharpened telescopic stare
down yellow beak
poised to pounce beneath
ice-blue Atlantic sheet
killer spear inclined
to missile prey
with minimum fuss
and rise back to life
in rapid flap
of broadsheet sails.
Embedded in silence—
a statue, study in patience
you stand, lost to time
watch and wait
s-neck still life
wings locked down
in wild Lanzarotean wind
for what seems hours
you paint brilliant white form
pure as truth
against black volcanic rock
forensic eye
sharpened telescopic stare
down yellow beak
poised to pounce beneath
ice-blue Atlantic sheet
killer spear inclined
to missile prey
with minimum fuss
and rise back to life
in rapid flap
of broadsheet sails.
