by Suzanne Cottrell
A hardy tree stands taller
than the two-story house
on the old Garrett Farm
Common American Persimmon Tree
its thick squared bark resembles alligator hide
alternating, slick, leathery, oblong leaves
Pale melon-colored balls
the size of shooter marbles
replaced creamy flowers
Ripened fruit, a deep cinnabar
flesh as soft, juicy, and
sweet as an apricot
Laden tree with fruit
some split and mushy
litters the ground while
Most cling to branches
till winter arrives
once a treasured fruit, now forgotten
Wednesday, October 30, 2019
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Cicada banger
by Coleman Bomar
Red wrapped woods in California
Waiting
Sappy straws gnawed like twizzlers
By maroon-eyed ebony earthen
Cicadas in sync
Billions rise from dirt
Soft skinned
White born
Nymphs
Cling to bark
Climbing green heavens
For wood rebirth
On bloody tree altars
The first in seventeen years
Molting darkly
Brood bred black screamers
Drink love
Roaring rhythmic orgy
A once in forever banger
Then silence conceived joy
Immediately dead
Falling
Shed husks
Quietly
This grand tumble:
The single greatest
Life giving
Party’s over
On silent Earth
Red wrapped woods in California
Waiting
Sappy straws gnawed like twizzlers
By maroon-eyed ebony earthen
Cicadas in sync
Billions rise from dirt
Soft skinned
White born
Nymphs
Cling to bark
Climbing green heavens
For wood rebirth
On bloody tree altars
The first in seventeen years
Molting darkly
Brood bred black screamers
Drink love
Roaring rhythmic orgy
A once in forever banger
Then silence conceived joy
Immediately dead
Falling
Shed husks
Quietly
This grand tumble:
The single greatest
Life giving
Party’s over
On silent Earth
Lines
by Felix Constantinescu
The orchard’s road
Tall, withered thistle.
Wet soil, damp.
Plum-tree bark, red
Vegetable light.
The orchard’s road
Tall, withered thistle.
Wet soil, damp.
Plum-tree bark, red
Vegetable light.
Wednesday, October 23, 2019
Preparation
by Carl Parsons
As aspens quaver
hawthorn hedges bare their
knots of sharpened thorns—
now the spotted fawn gathers
the cold wind in its quick legs.
As aspens quaver
hawthorn hedges bare their
knots of sharpened thorns—
now the spotted fawn gathers
the cold wind in its quick legs.
Tuesday, October 22, 2019
The River Remembers Her Ravines
by Babitha Marina Justin
When the waters came rolling down the hills, they scooped out the last human from the village on a rescue boat and rowed down the hill, which slid down after our flight.
We saw life boats, dinghies, fishing boats; we hoped to be saved clinging on to the last gunny-sack of dreams clamped to our chests, our lives pressed down to a few damp papers.
We plugged our ears to the news of people flowing away like catamarans with a cloud-burst or a landslide; dying prosaic like that, we held on to our lives not distinct from the unguent, unbridled cannonball mud.
We could have saved our huts, hill’s memories, our hearths; we know that the
river remembers her ravines for real long time.
We can go back to our empty hills, begin anew, write our histories on water, reclaim our lands, rake up the slush and reap in gold.
We know for real, Periyar remembers her ravines for a real long time.
When the waters came rolling down the hills, they scooped out the last human from the village on a rescue boat and rowed down the hill, which slid down after our flight.
We saw life boats, dinghies, fishing boats; we hoped to be saved clinging on to the last gunny-sack of dreams clamped to our chests, our lives pressed down to a few damp papers.
We plugged our ears to the news of people flowing away like catamarans with a cloud-burst or a landslide; dying prosaic like that, we held on to our lives not distinct from the unguent, unbridled cannonball mud.
We could have saved our huts, hill’s memories, our hearths; we know that the
river remembers her ravines for real long time.
We can go back to our empty hills, begin anew, write our histories on water, reclaim our lands, rake up the slush and reap in gold.
We know for real, Periyar remembers her ravines for a real long time.
Monday, October 21, 2019
9.21.19
8.01 a.m.
52 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Possessing less and less each day, the banks, like low tide, are exposed,
obstinate dry spell leaving the pond’s bones to dry in the sun.
Neurosis in the landscape, the weight of late summer
discomfits the trees which give in, sag, continue their slow burn.
Possessing less and less each day, the banks, like low tide, are exposed,
obstinate dry spell leaving the pond’s bones to dry in the sun.
Neurosis in the landscape, the weight of late summer
discomfits the trees which give in, sag, continue their slow burn.
Sunday, October 20, 2019
Rock Falls
by AE Reiff
After a flood
the grass will lay
brown as the stump
of a cut back tree
Heaps of stone
have known this change
rock falls when cliffs
and walls give way.
After a flood
the grass will lay
brown as the stump
of a cut back tree
Heaps of stone
have known this change
rock falls when cliffs
and walls give way.
Saturday, October 19, 2019
Spanish Skirts of the Palo Duro
by Judith Ann Muse Robinson
Crenelated strip, stitched to crenelated strip.
Repeat. Azure. Lavender. Maroon. Draped
against these flaring walls. Abandoned. as if
shed by spinning, dancing angels of the Llano
Estacado – on-ramp to Sangre de Cristos,
northward to the Rockies. Levitation courtesy
– not of wings – but of whirling, twirling
Spanish Skirts. Set afire! Vivified by dawn’s first
peek above the eastern rim. Hems pooling
in Red River waters of creation.
In their plunge, vaulting cliffs conceal seamed pockets.
Tiny caves. Comanche shelter. Rising mesas split
the downdraft to whistle through the maw, like blades
of grass held to blowing lip. Swishing moccasin shod
foot travels time astride an ancient echo. Turkey scrabble
in mesquite. Rattle of maracas? No! Beware! The rattler’s
tail. Bleat of restless, shuffling aoudad competing for
siesta sun. East-wall clinging Spanish Skirts live short
on time. An early inky dome of night pierced by one hundred
thousand stars as if to ignite the whirling, twirling Llano
Estacado specters to take flight.
Crenelated strip, stitched to crenelated strip.
Repeat. Azure. Lavender. Maroon. Draped
against these flaring walls. Abandoned. as if
shed by spinning, dancing angels of the Llano
Estacado – on-ramp to Sangre de Cristos,
northward to the Rockies. Levitation courtesy
– not of wings – but of whirling, twirling
Spanish Skirts. Set afire! Vivified by dawn’s first
peek above the eastern rim. Hems pooling
in Red River waters of creation.
In their plunge, vaulting cliffs conceal seamed pockets.
Tiny caves. Comanche shelter. Rising mesas split
the downdraft to whistle through the maw, like blades
of grass held to blowing lip. Swishing moccasin shod
foot travels time astride an ancient echo. Turkey scrabble
in mesquite. Rattle of maracas? No! Beware! The rattler’s
tail. Bleat of restless, shuffling aoudad competing for
siesta sun. East-wall clinging Spanish Skirts live short
on time. An early inky dome of night pierced by one hundred
thousand stars as if to ignite the whirling, twirling Llano
Estacado specters to take flight.
Wednesday, October 16, 2019
Cattle Egrets
by Wesley D. Sims
Late day in Fooshee Pass Cove
near smoothing water’s edge,
swarms of cattle egrets
round the point and curve past
the copse of hardwoods.
The bright, scribbly vees
veer up and cinch into
nightly flight paths
where the flocks bob and drop
in the fading air currents,
wobble up to skim hickory tree tops
as they wing their way
to roosting perches
on high limbs of tall pines.
Late day in Fooshee Pass Cove
near smoothing water’s edge,
swarms of cattle egrets
round the point and curve past
the copse of hardwoods.
The bright, scribbly vees
veer up and cinch into
nightly flight paths
where the flocks bob and drop
in the fading air currents,
wobble up to skim hickory tree tops
as they wing their way
to roosting perches
on high limbs of tall pines.
Sunday, October 13, 2019
Appalachia
by Austin Hehir
Moon light skips
off the rattling creek.
Slowly wandering down the
hills. Fire smolders in our souls as
we climb.
Sucking down the nectar, intoxicated.
Hands viced to the cold bed of the truck.
Headlights off, star lights only to guide the path.
Dimly we race, against the passing of time
and foolishly we think that nights
in the rolling mountains tumbling
metal wagons carelessly down
the hill and through the
creek will last
Forever.
Moon light skips
off the rattling creek.
Slowly wandering down the
hills. Fire smolders in our souls as
we climb.
Sucking down the nectar, intoxicated.
Hands viced to the cold bed of the truck.
Headlights off, star lights only to guide the path.
Dimly we race, against the passing of time
and foolishly we think that nights
in the rolling mountains tumbling
metal wagons carelessly down
the hill and through the
creek will last
Forever.
Saturday, October 12, 2019
9.1.19
8.00 a.m.
58 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Pensive silence this morning, the walk to the pond quiet and still.
Ownership of sound is taken by Fowler’s stream, a bubbling
necklace of clear water into the muddy pond, the only sound
deemed necessary on a morning this soft, this undisturbed.
Pensive silence this morning, the walk to the pond quiet and still.
Ownership of sound is taken by Fowler’s stream, a bubbling
necklace of clear water into the muddy pond, the only sound
deemed necessary on a morning this soft, this undisturbed.
Wednesday, October 9, 2019
Along the Coast
by Ray Greenblatt
No bewitching eyes of seals,
nor intoxicating dolphin songs
here.
Instead etched inlets,
rounded promontories.
The beach is a shelf
offering unique products:
kindling
dead fish
polished glass
seaweed.
The sea paints the surf
gold at dawn,
purple at dusk.
Coastal trees learn the shapes
of local winds.
No bewitching eyes of seals,
nor intoxicating dolphin songs
here.
Instead etched inlets,
rounded promontories.
The beach is a shelf
offering unique products:
kindling
dead fish
polished glass
seaweed.
The sea paints the surf
gold at dawn,
purple at dusk.
Coastal trees learn the shapes
of local winds.
Sunday, October 6, 2019
Cormorants at Yaquina Bay
by Karen Jones
Along the plank connecting old dock pilings,
they stand, ragged, adolescent, legs apart,
lift stubby wings in an arc to dry.
Another flies in, lands too near his neighbor.
They spar for a moment, then sidestep away
in black huffs of disgust.
Spaced like a row of theater luminaires,
the cormorants perch and preen,
open their wings, flap, balance again.
Below them floats a red and white buoy.
Gulls cry, a boat speeds by, its fishing net
flying like a standard in the wind.
Along the plank connecting old dock pilings,
they stand, ragged, adolescent, legs apart,
lift stubby wings in an arc to dry.
Another flies in, lands too near his neighbor.
They spar for a moment, then sidestep away
in black huffs of disgust.
Spaced like a row of theater luminaires,
the cormorants perch and preen,
open their wings, flap, balance again.
Below them floats a red and white buoy.
Gulls cry, a boat speeds by, its fishing net
flying like a standard in the wind.
Lines
by Laurie Wilcox-Meyer
bees fall from blossoms
yellow swallowtail on asphalt
sick skin, the rivers
bees fall from blossoms
yellow swallowtail on asphalt
sick skin, the rivers
Wednesday, October 2, 2019
Missouri River Cottonwoods
by Karen Jones
Thunder growls under Meadowlark song.
Clouds pile the horizon, the river glides.
Cottonwoods, ancient children, lean
along the bank. Their roots seek cool waters.
Rugged bark covers massive trunks.
Limbs, dry old bones, full of gnarls and knobs,
bend to the ground like knees of giants.
Dead twigs tangle in cracks of heartwood.
Young boughs, smooth and limber,
bounce and sway easy as a porch swing.
Leaves spin on long, flattened stems,
rain-patter in breeze. Finest of leather hearts,
they sparkle like sun on water, like haloes
of vibrant atoms, ever green in the drying wind.
Thunder growls under Meadowlark song.
Clouds pile the horizon, the river glides.
Cottonwoods, ancient children, lean
along the bank. Their roots seek cool waters.
Rugged bark covers massive trunks.
Limbs, dry old bones, full of gnarls and knobs,
bend to the ground like knees of giants.
Dead twigs tangle in cracks of heartwood.
Young boughs, smooth and limber,
bounce and sway easy as a porch swing.
Leaves spin on long, flattened stems,
rain-patter in breeze. Finest of leather hearts,
they sparkle like sun on water, like haloes
of vibrant atoms, ever green in the drying wind.
Tuesday, October 1, 2019
Lines
by Wayne Scheer
jackson pollock drips
orange and red and yellow
on a dull canvas--
autumn begins
jackson pollock drips
orange and red and yellow
on a dull canvas--
autumn begins
