Boats at Sunrise

by Wesley D. Sims

First light unveils two empty
round-a-bout boats, nuzzling
the shore, tethered like horses
to their hitching posts,
sweet gum trees standing watch.
Fiberglass hulls sparkle
and glint as they bob and rock
in the low-slapping waves.
Shroud of fog cataracts the scene
light gray and velvety smooth,
the pale orange orb of sun
flashlights through the cove
to illuminate beginnings
of a new day on Watts Bar Lake,
and fresh possibilities
of the open water.

11.11.2018 3.11 p.m. 39 degrees

by John Stanizzi

Ponds’ conflux – run-off from Fowler’s pond
overflows the small stone wall along with street run-off;
nozzling, they warble a crystal duet in the birdless
dusk beginning to bear down on the half-buried bullheads sleeping.

At Artist's Point Yellowstone Park

by Amy Uyematsu

A pine tree breaks through the hard red surface -

in what hidden places did the granite body

receive pine’s unexpected seed?

And how long the reach

of unseen roots

bearing so much green

inside stone?

Muir Woods - California

by Alisha Ahmed

Scents of spring dew, earth.
Trees that graze the clouds with their
thick rings of wisdom.

"Dried remains in the garden. Incisors protrude from"

by Nicholas Alexander Hayes

Dried remains in the garden. Incisors protrude from
a gapping jaw, barely covered by red-grey fur. Grave goods revealed
as snow melts. Purple crocus pierce the earth’s dampness.

"Smoke stacks"

by Shelly Sitzer

Smoke stacks
And oil rigs color the views
Pigs are getting fatter
But not the animal kind.

Not the pretty pink pigs
With curly tails
But the ones with pink skins
And short hair

They work near the oil rigs
Some work to extract gold
They all take, take, take
Depleting mother nature's soil.

What do they give back,
Gold coins at the market place
Where some cannot buy
Because the good things are scarce.

Things like sweet apples
Are disappearing from trees
Too hot for their blossoms
They wither and die.

Not Enough, Too Much

by Joan Hofmann

hot
dry
drought
insect infestation
timberland damage

clear cut acres   scrub
grasslands expand
ignite

aquifer dropping
battles: urban versus farming
rationing   limits

people   more   spreading
so much to protect
wildfire   more   burning
burning

11.10.2018 10.06 a.m. 34 degrees

by John Stanizzi

Pitchy dark where winter has just this moment arrived
out of the north hills; it crawls up under my shirt,
naturally and unfazed, as if it were trying to warm itself --
daguerrean-downstream rush of the brook gossips with its cold voice.

Summer Danger (Triolet)

by Joanna M. Weston

the air tastes of wood smoke
fires burning on the hills
making asthmatics choke
on drifts of dangerous smoke
an ember then the fire awoke
to bring on our breathing ills
with inhaling ash-laden smoke
drifting from blackened hills

Lines

by Maria DePaul

Abandoned Pueblo
Dust storms sweep arroyo
Cactus flowers bloom

Chile, Winter 2017

by Joan Hofmann

In the Patagonia fiords
I looked but didn't find
the frigate-bird,
his red chest pouch
inflated. Girls like red
balloons, and I imagine
one wanting one enough
to join him as he gyrates
silly near his nest. Here,
in the Atacama Desert
Andean flamingoes
stand knee to knee,
pink in altiplano salt flats.
Unlike grouped males
strutting back and forth,
they're singular now
and just a few necks jerk
black beaks to the sky--
like seeds flecked airborn
in reckless release
or ebony notes across
a music score,
the individual tenors
scatter the landscape.

2.15.19 11.06 a.m. 42 degrees

Paltry mist, slush, gray on gray on gray, birdsong drowned out by the
operose nuthatch’s ratchet and ratchet from the overcast, and
nymph-haze sheer as air rises from the pure melting and the ice is
dressy in crystal sheets alive now with beads of tender rain.

"rain sharpens"

by Stephen A. Rozwenc

rain sharpens
the latest infatuation
with clemency

palm trees lining the avenue
sway with death sacrament vertigo

sidewalk angels
schoolgirls from another time
costumed in dark blue pleated skirts
and frilly white blouses
glow like perfect criminal flowers
forbidden and thus exalted
by the magic tongue
that twinkles from the universal mind

Winter Bites

by Warren Paul Glover

Wearing a tabard of blood
the robin stands as winter’s warrior;
watchful as the snow serpent snakes its way
across land no longer green,
her frost fangs plunging deep into the skin of the earth.

Casting her spell, winter bewitches,
hugging as tightly and close as the death of strangled light;
her kiss as cold and sharp as cracked crystal.

As that pagan plant, the vampire mistletoe,
insinuates and flatters her way into the homes
and hopes of a thousand Christmas fools,
holly stabs like a pang of guilt.

And all the while the white blanket covers the ground,
coaxing the land to sleep.

Lines

by Maria DePaul

Distant train whistle
Echoes shake crisp leaves
Nightingales take flight

Indifferent Eviction

by Gary Beck

When I was young
I walked unblemished Florida shores
and saw flights of pelicans
50-100 strong,
going about their business
in orderly vees.
Large flocks of sandpipers
scurried along water’s edge
in complete unison,
feeding in rhythmic pecks,
suddenly taking flight
in organized formation
the military would envy.
Few of us notice
the departure of our neighbors
from proximity
to man-made nests,
inhabitants too territorial
to allow coexistence.

Full Moon: A Winter Sequence

by Carl Mayfield

clearing the ridge slowly--
     fir tree shadows
across the snow


edge of city--
     bare redbud branches
cradling the light


a few clouds
     passing
leaving brightness behind


towards daylight
     radiance touching
the cold horizon

Kingfishers

by Jonti Marks

A summer evening, by the Dordogne:
A blink of movement and
Two kingfishers flash past -
Irridescent topaz streaks
Slicing the evening shadows
On the day’s last sunlight.
The river bends;
They bank and turn together,
Out of sight.
            Dusk deepens.
            A fish ripples the darkening water.

Lines

by Maria DePaul

Breath turns to vapor
Harsh winds flatten grassland
Vacant grey plain

Baltic

by Terrence Sykes

worn guidebook
found on a bench
in the park in that
foreign town
byzantine framed
icon’d memories
baltic forests
flower laden
marsh mints
finch amongst
linden & autumn
nettles not yet
gathered by village women
whose family always lacked
simmering amongst
rutabagas for dinner
some night before
those waters flowed
almost like moonlight
turned its back
eclipsed & failed
to guide the tides to
the last stop
of that ragged
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