Portraits – goldfinch in the bramble, rain on the pond,
orbits of skippers and spiders walking on water,
necessity of meditations this Holy Saturday, this rain-
dampened morning blessed, cleansed by the softest steady rain.
Wednesday, May 29, 2019
4.20.19
7.16 a.m.
65 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Portraits – goldfinch in the bramble, rain on the pond,
orbits of skippers and spiders walking on water,
necessity of meditations this Holy Saturday, this rain-
dampened morning blessed, cleansed by the softest steady rain.
Portraits – goldfinch in the bramble, rain on the pond,
orbits of skippers and spiders walking on water,
necessity of meditations this Holy Saturday, this rain-
dampened morning blessed, cleansed by the softest steady rain.
Sunday, May 26, 2019
Tanka
by Darrell Lindsey
sound of a flute
going deeper into dusk
along the river
we count the same firefly
over and over again
sound of a flute
going deeper into dusk
along the river
we count the same firefly
over and over again
Wednesday, May 22, 2019
EQI Glacier
by Abigail Tyrrell
Lick of the iceberg.
Crystal burns to salt.
You don't need to
hide.
Bob there with the plastic.
Clash with midday sun,
body delving deeper
and deeper away from day.
(Night is colder, a frigid shelter)
Crippled kingdom;
glass castle pouring
into the sea.
Lick of the iceberg.
Crystal burns to salt.
You don't need to
hide.
Bob there with the plastic.
Clash with midday sun,
body delving deeper
and deeper away from day.
(Night is colder, a frigid shelter)
Crippled kingdom;
glass castle pouring
into the sea.
Sunday, May 19, 2019
Downsized
by Ellen Chia
A case of hijacking
In nature's flight plan:
Fallen snow-garbed seraphs
Dislodged, freighted
From the
Arctic to the equator,
From the lemming-rich tundra
To a
Length = Wingspan x 5
Breath = Wingspan x 4
Height = Wingspan x 3
Coop of a glass tank
Bathed in neither
Night nor day,
Summer nor winter;
Where camouflage
And binocular vision
Are rendered superfluous
Against the painted
Backdrop of wintry blotches
Peering over dwarfish faux
Snow-dusted spruce trees.
On the other side
Of the glass panel,
Conveyor streams of
Gleaming patrons
Sneak at flash photography
Marvel at the pair's
Captive glory -
The snowy owls perching,
Half-squinting;
Their talons marking time
On sculpted concrete.
A case of hijacking
In nature's flight plan:
Fallen snow-garbed seraphs
Dislodged, freighted
From the
Arctic to the equator,
From the lemming-rich tundra
To a
Length = Wingspan x 5
Breath = Wingspan x 4
Height = Wingspan x 3
Coop of a glass tank
Bathed in neither
Night nor day,
Summer nor winter;
Where camouflage
And binocular vision
Are rendered superfluous
Against the painted
Backdrop of wintry blotches
Peering over dwarfish faux
Snow-dusted spruce trees.
On the other side
Of the glass panel,
Conveyor streams of
Gleaming patrons
Sneak at flash photography
Marvel at the pair's
Captive glory -
The snowy owls perching,
Half-squinting;
Their talons marking time
On sculpted concrete.
Mute
by Marc Carver
Everyday I wake up
born again
well almost
I tell myself this as I walk along the pilgrims path.
A woman passes with two dogs
the woman doesn't notice me but the second dog does
as I walk away he turns to me
and I stop look at him and ask him if he wants to come with me.
His jaw starts to move as if he is talking but no words come out but he can't understand why I don't hear him
then she shouts and off he goes.
Everyday I wake up
born again
well almost
I tell myself this as I walk along the pilgrims path.
A woman passes with two dogs
the woman doesn't notice me but the second dog does
as I walk away he turns to me
and I stop look at him and ask him if he wants to come with me.
His jaw starts to move as if he is talking but no words come out but he can't understand why I don't hear him
then she shouts and off he goes.
3.28.2019
8.54 p.m.
27 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Pointed tips of grass, the first to emerge this frigid spring,
origins of blades of grass in the icy water,
news that warmth will be born from the frozen darkness,
doorways opened, and the new ice and the old ice will disappear.
Pointed tips of grass, the first to emerge this frigid spring,
origins of blades of grass in the icy water,
news that warmth will be born from the frozen darkness,
doorways opened, and the new ice and the old ice will disappear.
Animal Farm
by Ana Vidosavljevic
The fishy fish, smelly and slick,
Wriggling in your hands like a mad toy.
The fat pig, filthy and gross,
Always following the smell of food.
The naughty donkey, stubborn and stupid,
Not even once does it what you order him to do,
The bleating sheep, noisy and wooly,
They seem docile and passive, but often they disobey your commands,
The barking dog, loud and fidgety,
It can’t sit still even for a moment.
The happy canary, so yellow and clamorous.
The white rabbit, always hungry and too docile.
I wonder what it would look like not to have them and live in an apartment on the top floor of a tall building.
The peace would prevail. Persistent and boring.
The stairs and elevators would tire my legs,
And I would get fed up with all those somber tall buildings.
The noise of the city would tear my ears and I would praise my animal farm as the greatest asset.
Well, then, let me be grateful for all the filth, smells, noise, colors of my farm.
And if I forget sometimes how lucky I am, pinch me hard.
Grab a handful of mud and throw it in my face.
The fishy fish, smelly and slick,
Wriggling in your hands like a mad toy.
The fat pig, filthy and gross,
Always following the smell of food.
The naughty donkey, stubborn and stupid,
Not even once does it what you order him to do,
The bleating sheep, noisy and wooly,
They seem docile and passive, but often they disobey your commands,
The barking dog, loud and fidgety,
It can’t sit still even for a moment.
The happy canary, so yellow and clamorous.
The white rabbit, always hungry and too docile.
I wonder what it would look like not to have them and live in an apartment on the top floor of a tall building.
The peace would prevail. Persistent and boring.
The stairs and elevators would tire my legs,
And I would get fed up with all those somber tall buildings.
The noise of the city would tear my ears and I would praise my animal farm as the greatest asset.
Well, then, let me be grateful for all the filth, smells, noise, colors of my farm.
And if I forget sometimes how lucky I am, pinch me hard.
Grab a handful of mud and throw it in my face.
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
A Crawford County Tale
by Jean Krieg
I imagine the land speaking to me, saying
bluebirds, goldfinches and monarchs now color the sky,
black raspberry vines and goldenrod carpet the earth.
In the past, farmer's cows trod over me,
trampled the prairie grasses,
and chomped on fallen, wormy apples from young trees.
Before that, maple and shagbark hickory trees
found their footing and set down roots.
Before that, the first cabin was built in the township,
then in 1843 a young man surveyed the area,
noting gently rolling terrain,
and oak, sugar, elm, ash, and lynn (basswood) trees.
Before that, troops followed Black Hawk's trail nearby.
Before that, Canadian pioneers settled in the county,
in an area first called "Popple".
Before that, native people hunted the plentiful game,
walked valleys, ridges, and ravines,
fished from nearby creeks and streams,
and drank cool spring water.
Before that, the land was forgotten by the glaciers,
retaining the rich soil, bluffs, and vital rivers
that forever has welcomed us.
I imagine the land speaking to me, saying
bluebirds, goldfinches and monarchs now color the sky,
black raspberry vines and goldenrod carpet the earth.
In the past, farmer's cows trod over me,
trampled the prairie grasses,
and chomped on fallen, wormy apples from young trees.
Before that, maple and shagbark hickory trees
found their footing and set down roots.
Before that, the first cabin was built in the township,
then in 1843 a young man surveyed the area,
noting gently rolling terrain,
and oak, sugar, elm, ash, and lynn (basswood) trees.
Before that, troops followed Black Hawk's trail nearby.
Before that, Canadian pioneers settled in the county,
in an area first called "Popple".
Before that, native people hunted the plentiful game,
walked valleys, ridges, and ravines,
fished from nearby creeks and streams,
and drank cool spring water.
Before that, the land was forgotten by the glaciers,
retaining the rich soil, bluffs, and vital rivers
that forever has welcomed us.
Sunday, May 12, 2019
High Pressure Wild Card
by Jennifer Lagier
Rain clouds hit an atmospheric wall,
dump drizzle on Vancouver,
snow in Chicago.
Along Monterey Bay, parched chaparral
and shriveled sage concede the battle.
Storm tides slam ashore, ignorant
of faux spring, this year’s tardy winter.
Befuddled plums erupt, bare limbs
concealed within festive blossoms.
Hillsides release lupine and poppies into dry shrouds.
Wild grasses bleach blonde before our very eyes.
It’s rumor and sun glow,
a persistent high pressure ridge
rerouting downpour.
Rain clouds hit an atmospheric wall,
dump drizzle on Vancouver,
snow in Chicago.
Along Monterey Bay, parched chaparral
and shriveled sage concede the battle.
Storm tides slam ashore, ignorant
of faux spring, this year’s tardy winter.
Befuddled plums erupt, bare limbs
concealed within festive blossoms.
Hillsides release lupine and poppies into dry shrouds.
Wild grasses bleach blonde before our very eyes.
It’s rumor and sun glow,
a persistent high pressure ridge
rerouting downpour.
"We've gone as far as we can go"
by Abra Deering Norton
gone as far as we can go
but still we go riding 75 North
what happens when you go farther than you thought you could
what happens when you go past the road you know?
when you keep driving
into the dark
into the light
into the gray mist
when the road doesn't end
and there you are
you didn't give up
the journey found you
and so did the game
it had a surprise ending
gone as far as we can go
but still we go riding 75 North
what happens when you go farther than you thought you could
what happens when you go past the road you know?
when you keep driving
into the dark
into the light
into the gray mist
when the road doesn't end
and there you are
you didn't give up
the journey found you
and so did the game
it had a surprise ending
Raptor Winds
by Philip C. Kolin
a silky maltese
weighing less than
a pile of fall leaves
runs across
the gated yard,
the freedom of air before
the guile of winds
in a late season storm
set in; the sky not
sure what color
it will be
how it wants to be blue
but raptor winds pounce
on the hope of calm
and turn it biting colors
circling, blowing leaves
away, scattering them
in harrowing directions,
the yard overtaken
with blood-red and
fearful yellow,
the backdrop for
a red-tail hawk swooping
down to carry off the dog.
a silky maltese
weighing less than
a pile of fall leaves
runs across
the gated yard,
the freedom of air before
the guile of winds
in a late season storm
set in; the sky not
sure what color
it will be
how it wants to be blue
but raptor winds pounce
on the hope of calm
and turn it biting colors
circling, blowing leaves
away, scattering them
in harrowing directions,
the yard overtaken
with blood-red and
fearful yellow,
the backdrop for
a red-tail hawk swooping
down to carry off the dog.
Wednesday, May 8, 2019
Avant-Garde Writers at the End of Long Driveways
by Howie Good
Kim Kardashian has been seen texting while riding her horse along the road. The two activities inform one another. It shouldn’t happen like this. It shouldn’t happen at all. It’s 75 years after the war, and I’m still uneasy. A rhino poacher got stomped to death by an elephant and then devoured by a pride of lions. Now we want to take it further and go faster. There’s bound to be some confusion. The sun dries the ink, and with every step, people tear pieces of the fragile paper. The face becomes a landscape. We’re starting the spring off wrong.
Sunday, May 5, 2019
Meditations in the Garden
March 22
by Brian Glaser
The bee disappears
into the trumpet-vine:
forgetfulness.
The bee disappears
into the trumpet-vine:
forgetfulness.
In the Hills
by Ray Greenblatt
Leftover deer stand and stare.
In the hills we wear
high leather boots in case
we kick up copperheads
sleeping off winter.
A tribe of forsythia
gathers on a hillside.
On a fence crow crouches
like a mail pouch,
vulture spreads wings
formidable as any eagle.
Sacrilegious: tire in a field.
Leftover deer stand and stare.
In the hills we wear
high leather boots in case
we kick up copperheads
sleeping off winter.
A tribe of forsythia
gathers on a hillside.
On a fence crow crouches
like a mail pouch,
vulture spreads wings
formidable as any eagle.
Sacrilegious: tire in a field.
3.27.2019
1.21 p.m.
44 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Patent leaf rises to the surface and gets trapped in the ice,
outstretched and winter-marred like my words,
novel as amber but quicker to vanish, and the
dazzling brightness of birdsong sparkles on every branch.
Patent leaf rises to the surface and gets trapped in the ice,
outstretched and winter-marred like my words,
novel as amber but quicker to vanish, and the
dazzling brightness of birdsong sparkles on every branch.
Wednesday, May 1, 2019
March Equinox
by g emil reutter
Night sky weighty
super moon dim
obscured by pigskin
clouds. Incessant
rain marinates spring
bulbs, stems rise
from scruffy mulch
purple hue of crocus
rise up adjacent to
unadorned rose bush
folded stalks of
iris. Stark branches
of blueberry, lilac
burning bush
unruffled await their
turn as forsythia buds
clusters of yet bloomed
blue bells prepare for
arrival of humming
birds. All of this under
the weighty dim sky
of transition from
grim twilight of winter
to March equinox
assurance of existence
and rebirth.
Night sky weighty
super moon dim
obscured by pigskin
clouds. Incessant
rain marinates spring
bulbs, stems rise
from scruffy mulch
purple hue of crocus
rise up adjacent to
unadorned rose bush
folded stalks of
iris. Stark branches
of blueberry, lilac
burning bush
unruffled await their
turn as forsythia buds
clusters of yet bloomed
blue bells prepare for
arrival of humming
birds. All of this under
the weighty dim sky
of transition from
grim twilight of winter
to March equinox
assurance of existence
and rebirth.
