Sunday, May 24, 2020

Seasons With Stone Lizard

by Terrence Sykes

upon my stone wall
lizard flashes rainbow tail
seasons come early

what do you forage
dandelions plucked for lunch
let us share this meal

verdant sunlight fades
clutching of oregano
spring rains bring flowers

willow branches dance
blackbird casts it mournful song
cross the fountain

summer comes too soon
lizard I call you my friend
flashing prism gleam

ginger blossoms soar
into star laden cosmos
dawn finds me hungry

rivers call my name
unspoken punctuation
where is my autumn

chestnut foliage
wild hive laden with honey
hidden in the lairs

where are you lizard
we have not talked as of late
dreams need to be told

mulberry charcoal
warms these freshly plucked peaches
drunk upon plum wine

clouds steeped silent hours
chrysanthemums shine brightly
like a pot of tea

lost in copse & groves
olive tree constellations
tea kettle simmers

stars fall from the sky
winter snow comes too early
fire pit keeps me warm

stone lizard stay warm
hibernate like a phoenix
resurrect come spring

Wednesday, May 20, 2020

Late April Evening, Garden Valley, Idaho

by Yash Seyedbagheri

At the end of Sunset Drive
where the road curves
pines rise
black shadows
sky a deep velvet
frogs calling
Venus shines
a waxing crescent moon above the trees
it is the last week of April

Sunday, May 17, 2020

Green on Grey in Adelaide

by Martha Landman

Rain forced in by Antarctic winds
drenches pepper trees, oaks
and fern.
Lorikeets’ green, yellow and red
defy the sunless grey morning
until skies open to their screeches
and let blue slither through.

Morning

by Kathleen Brewin Lewis

Leaves of the banana tree,
gravid with fresh rain.
One touch, they spill their catch.
Green day born and baptized.

Wednesday, May 13, 2020

A Brief List of Brilliant Things

by Kathleen Brewin Lewis

Thin light of morning.
Aubade of the house wren,
aroma of magnolia. Spiderwebs,
brown hawk in the sky.
Green meadows dabbed
with violets. Ginkgo turning to gold.

Spray of waterfall. Hiss of goose.
The chatter of afternoon rain.
Jupiter and Venus in the sky
together, fireflies in the pines.
A path of silver moonlight
thrown down on the crumpled sea.

Sunday, May 10, 2020

Lines

by JS Absher

early spring
lambs in the shadow
of a vulture's wing

Agalloch

by Kevin McGowan

bazaar of spices
stemming from musky heartwood

Zebra-Tailed Lizards

by Lynn Finger

Zebra-tailed lizards
skim
under buckled mesquite,
soft sounds
on dry river sand.

Wednesday, May 6, 2020

Gravity

by Michael Estabrook

the sky with all its blue
tumbling down through the branches and leaves
of the trees reaching
all the way to the ground.

Sunday, May 3, 2020

Lines

by Elizabeth Sams

barn owl
in a crevice in the Douglas Fir
as dusk falls

Lines

by Luther Allen

single bloom
winter garden
the pearl moon

Lines

by Roberta Beach Jacobson

in the center
of the pasture
a lone tree of crows

Wednesday, April 29, 2020

Lines

by Susan N Aassahde

bramble platoon jazz
lemon twist
Kingfisher panic keg

Sunday, April 26, 2020

tikkun olam

by Madison Zehmer

tell me again how seaweed aches for breath,
how the fawn cries out for its mother,
how snakes wrap around oak.

show me butterflies flattened on gravel,
crow innards eaten by vultures,
buzzards sleeping away guilt under willow trees.

tell me there is hope
in birds that still fly south for the winter,
in flowers that blossom from concrete,

in the scarred dirt you cradle in your hand
and then whisper back to earth.

Autumn Morning

by Ray Greenblatt

Marmalade moon
burns in mauve sky.
Cold frames filled
with gold Incan masks
as first sunlight fills trees.

Wednesday, April 22, 2020

Rainy Afternoon, Garden Valley, Idaho

by Yash Seyedbagheri

up and down Sunrise Drive
Garden Valley Idaho, hills rise and fall
dip and curve
a soft rain falls
light gray clouds above
a mist to the east

Sunday, April 19, 2020

Lines

by Veronika Zora Novak

a monkey's hiss
that is not there . . .
dusk in bamboo

Lines

by Marilyn Dancing Deer Ward

Hawthorn hedge
deep in darkness
Dunnocks chirp

Wednesday, April 15, 2020

Patterns

by Ray Greenblatt

Crows on swaying wires
rule the early morning.
A stroke of gulls
against distant woods
across the Great Elk River.
Clouds move up the river,
tide now ebbing.
Trees shuffle in place
and wave branches in rhythm.
From the north Boreas
is the unseen
music maestro.
Like a sub-atomic particle
one moth defies plotting.

Sunday, April 12, 2020

Unmeditated

by Stew Jorgenson

A robin has returned
with spring

as I sit here
this morning

not thinking
about it

just listening
to

the earth breathing
through me

taking each one in
and letting it go

waiting for another one
to return.

The Simplicity of Water

 by Colin James

It hardly ever seems under duress
just expands or contracts,
evaporates or condenses
at its environment's indulgence.
Patiently sorting out
its workload by category.

Wednesday, April 8, 2020

Crows

by Philip C.  Kolin

A cortège of black clouds,
They sweep acrosss
A frightened sky.

Gloom calls them
To a country of corpses--
Fouled air, red flares.

Trees with wild hair
Cannot hide or hush
Nestlings in their
Last taint of breath.

For most fallen
The duration of death
Is swift, a hunter's shot,
a bigger predator's spoil.

Pieces of flesh left behind
On highways or back roads
Waiting for these dark undertakers.

Over each they mutter
A one-syllable requiem
Before ravaging them.

Or carrying off
Pieces of flesh
To their aeries.
The wind goes silent.

Sunday, April 5, 2020

Blank Look #7

by Carl Mayfield

the daffodils are back
with their version of the story

Early spring in the Blue Hills

by Lucy Chae

past the foothills where timber rattlesnakes
meander in fat, lazy lines
and dogwoods lie unblossomed,
the narrow clearings wither into thorn.
whitetails scramble farther,
breaking through the thickets,
snapping wispy branches
for a place still as clear as winter.

Saturday, April 4, 2020

Lines

by Ron. Lavalette

high winds all night long
—mesmerizing lullaby—
first week of April

Wednesday, April 1, 2020

Lines

by Roberta Beach Jacobson

in the Maple trees
where winter was
spring

Sunday, March 29, 2020

Lines

by Christina Chin

wind dies
a coconut branch snags
the bullfinch kite

After Bonnie

by José Stelle

Moon out and a forced lull.
No woozy waterspout
Dragging the fractured sea
To a dark rage.

The hacked, wrecked hulls
Heaped on the shore
Loom like whale bones
In a strange glow.

The well bottom is shorn
Of the fleece clouds.
Only some scattered planets
Make a pale show.

Across the water
The dock lights drown
In their own reflections.

All around, demented
Crickets scrape their wings off.

Lines

by Veronika Zora Novak

weeping
till we no longer dream . . .
winter koi

Wednesday, March 25, 2020

Lines

by Roberta Beach Jacobson

late December
shivering spirits
of the cornfields

Sunday, March 22, 2020

Lines

by Padmini Krishnan

patch of blue
amongst dark clouds
the hidden hyacinth

Winter’s Afternoon, Garden Valley, Idaho

by Yash Seyedbagheri

Up Sunrise Drive
sun illuminates hills of white
air crisp and still
shadows of pine trees zigzag in leftover snow
road rises and dips and curves

Blank Look #819

by Carl Mayfield

      no post card
      can do it:
                   mountain peak
                   knowing where to stop

Wednesday, March 18, 2020

Squirrel Selecting Bouquet

by Wesley D. Sims

A squirrel sits upright
on hind legs amid a patch
of lavender, lilies, and goldenrod
as though trying to select
a bouquet to pick and take home
to his out-of-sorts mate,
needing to make up
for his horrible habits
like hoarding the acorns,
leaving a mess of hulls
scattered around the house
and other irritable actions
constantly driving her nuts.

Sunday, March 15, 2020

Lake Morey

by Corey D. Cook

Red and white bobber pins the sky’s
reflection to the surface of the lake,
an expanse of light blue borrowed
from Sisley, crowded with schools
of clouds, their bellies round and ripe.

Blank Look #302

by Carl Mayfield

Standing on the escarpment,
city pollution at eye level.

In the valley below fossil fuels
are pushing their weight around.

Winter

by Craig Kennedy

Gregorian chant, burning wood,
the midnight blue Croton River
frozen thick and bittersweet,
congealed near Orchard Road.

Wednesday, March 11, 2020

Overwinter

by Kathryn Ganfield

Canada geese break their vee
into a sine curve.
Four lag behind, beating hard to regain the flock
that wends northeast on a winter afternoon.

Geese or ganders, identical,
whether near or far.
Wings a gauntlet gray,
heads stretched and black like asps.

In the air,
bright and ceaseless honks,
capped only by a downy woodpecker,
its head a slice of Red Delicious.
Knocking, knocking,
rapping, bashing.
Not too loosen insects, but because
this is the only song they sing.

Sunday, March 8, 2020

Lines

by Carl Mayfield

soaring raven painting the sky black

City Street Performance

by M.J. Iuppa

This winter there will be
no winter—only snow

mixed with rain— the filthy
kind of slush that gets thick

in the smear of wheels
spinning around corners—

all vowels stick
as pedestrians arch

their backs & raise
their arms, like pigeons

dispatched—not
a moment too soon.

Lines

by Susan N Aassahde

snow crumpet plaza
nettle mash
rain stalactite dentist

Wednesday, March 4, 2020

Pima Canyon Sunday

by David Chorlton 

Cactus wrens mark distance by their calls.
Winter sparrows come out
from seclusion, and the sun
is a spirit clock at noon.
The desert trail’s a pilgrim’s
way, where lizards cling to
the rocks and every
Curve-billed thrasher has a tiny Compostela
in the cactus where it makes a nest.

Sunday, March 1, 2020

Lines

by Christina Chin

desert superbloom
the call of skylark
sitting in the sun

Lines

by Veronika Zora Novak

shaped
by mountain fog . . .
a raven's caw

Lines

by Andre Le Mont Wilson

coyote darts
across Bear Creek Road
faces the sun

Wednesday, February 26, 2020

Ravens

by Walker Abel

At daybreak in desert
two ravens on rock
moon still up in west.

Hills wrinkled deep with shadow.
When the birds fly north
no one stays behind.

Sunday, February 23, 2020

Estuary

by Mike Dillon

Sanderling’s wicker tracks in mud.
A breeze ticks the sedge that nearly hides
a rotting dory. Gull mew. Clack of clamshell
upon rocks dropped from a hovering height.
The quiet mixing place where salt water
meets fresh, its bits of seaweed and a rainbow trout.
Back of all — a silence that does not speak.

Decaying

by Farzana Israt

a sigh in unison
amongst the Willow Trees
as the cicadas
sing their
mournful song

kingdom

by Geoffrey Aitken

seasonally
they return to the south
our Australian Parrots
to fly above us
on intermittent show
celebrate September springtime
with feasts of fresh pine nuts
in Conifer treetops
take water
from recent winter rains
then preen
mate
and nest
then with familial dawn song
remind us of incumbency
evolutionary longevity
and ownership
before flight beckons -

as if to brag

Wednesday, February 19, 2020

Tannenbaum

by Andrew Hutto

The bear-whelps scratch on fir trees
and mourning doves eat safflower seeds.

To bracket out epoché between unseen
                                                    and seen-world.

There is no adieu.

                        Ice will not ornament the forest this winter,
                             there will be no way to cross the river.

The hot air in the morning will drive
all the martens to the stream but they will not
dip their paws into the boiling water.

Sunday, February 16, 2020

Lines

by Stephen A. Rozwenc

dew and lightning
mountains and rivers

sacred doctrine

over the crest of Kerchouan

by James Bell

bare boughs beneath the sky
trace in hazel woods
remains of long gone oaks

great rocks of granite
skirt small ravines where humanity
has had no effect on the always been

standing stones have dotted horizons
for thousands of years
in attempts to understand

the beyond over brows of hills
as far as the eye cannot see –
its limits clear of mist today

Lines

by Roberta Beach Jacobson

claiming
the sunrise
barnyard rooster

Wednesday, February 12, 2020

Three Crows on a Pine Bough
upon Buson’s ink-brush painting

by GTimothy Gordon

Late fall parched mustard wheat
modest as a Norse king, no risqué
bluebell, poppy, scarlet paintbrush,
or even outré desert aspen, bronze turning
among mangroves of sand speckling this end
of earth, not Kyoto, in fall, the blackest of ravens,
goblins, trolling from husks of stumps bone-dry things,
all for the scent of blossom, sight of bloom,                 
every prickly Joshua beseeching heaven.

Sunday, February 9, 2020

Lines

by Roberta Beach Jacobson

autumn morn
canaries find something
to sing about

January Evening, Garden Valley, Idaho

by Yash Seyedbagheri

Garden Valley, Idaho night,
a January evening
luminous half moon mingles with brightness of snow
white meets white
across hills and valley
around the curves of Sunrise Drive
over rising and falling hills dotted
white mingling with remnants of ice
from the last storm, the storm before it
fresh and glass-like
and moon shimmers through groves of pines
stillness in the air, shadows
broken only by lights from an A-framed lodge
bright white holiday lights
the occasional roar of a truck, a car
fading away without echo
footsteps of a walker in the night
en route somewhere,
replaced by the crispness of thirty-degree cold, dropping, and the moon,
drifting through clouds, opening and disappearing.

Guineas

by Wesley D. Sims

A knot of guineas swung
around the pasture
like a swirl of twigs
pinned to a rubber band,
picking grass seeds
and singing their squeaky
alto song of contentment
All-right, all right.

Wednesday, February 5, 2020

Wildlife

by Darrell Petska

The zoo giraffe
treading its concrete
winter quarters
pauses
with each circuit
before the small
high window
looking out on

the chain-link enclosure
of the Somali wild ass
listlessly chewing hay
beneath its lean-to
capped with snow

and the grey slate of sky
nearly as far from spring
as Africa.

Sunday, February 2, 2020

Kolibri

by Sterling Warner

iridescent feathers
greenish-red flashes
zipping, darting among
coral honeysuckle vines,
wings buzzing 52 beats a second,
ruby throated hummingbirds
pause, hover, penetrate, feed,
long tongues lapping nectar,
plucking aphids and mites within 
each trumpet-shaped
blossom.

Kallar elephant corridor, Western Ghats

by Ajay Kumar

Some just came to drink
across a table of water,
others just left,
pudding-pipes in their way,

a calf sniffs to the side,
alone a bull’s tusks
point to his raised trunk,

movement of myriad grey.
A flycatcher, a blue of his own,
excavated in the sky
from the sun, rests on a Neem.

Soap pods in patches. Snaky
trunks smell a cardamom memory.
The ones that came to drink leave
for wild plantains, more come
across the water again.

Spider Constellation

by Wesley D. Sims

A large gray spider
in an almost deserted
restroom at the campground
has spun a silky mural
of long legs and little
brown bodies,
strung up a constellation
of granddaddy long-legs,
their wire-thin legs splayed radially
outward like arms of a galaxy.
Their lights have gone out,
their carcasses kept
on cold storage in the spider’s
private mausoleum,
hidden in a corner
of little used web-space.

Wednesday, January 29, 2020

Missive from a Blue Whale

by Susan L De Miller

My world is your ocean
So you say
Floating on blue
you pay to see me
I am your fascination
You offer me no peace no warning
you are here there everywhere
Refuse spills from your world into mine
Blue sky
Blue ocean
Blue whale
Multi hued human
I am starving
We are all starving
Starving for blue
You can not build
a new planet
a new ocean
a new sky
Gone
is
gone
is
gone

Sunday, January 26, 2020

Sky Driving

by Judith Steele

Early South Australian summer
before the fires.
Driving north
from Glenelg beach to country town
of Gawler, into sky intensely blue,
lapis lazuli, a bowl just made
in ancient Mesopotamia.

Late afternoon returning south
sky gathers smoky clouds,
herds them onto the horizon,
allows pale blue to float above.

Detour west to Semaphore beach
in early evening. Yellow streaks of sunsetting
recline on darkening sea.

Stopped at traffic lights, look east
to curves of Adelaide Hills
glowing purple. Above them,
reflecting their lines and tints,
long waves of violet clouds.

Back in my Tod St flat
with its view of 26 more.

Lines

by Darrell Petska

Walking through the woods
in search of inspiration—
oh, that blue jay's scorn!

Sky Tree Water

by Ajay Kumar

Jacanda walking, on the water,
on the water-weed disciples,
its wings bronze, golden
the oil sachets it keeps walking on.

In the trees, there’s a decade
in that one note the koel likes to hold
in december, his eyes red in july.

In the sky, kindled blue, with a cloud
disturbed indigo, an eagle
flapping once- assurance
of gravity upon a time.

Wednesday, January 22, 2020

Five Crows Forage in Wittunga Park

by Martha Landman

their stomachs full
they take flight en masse
swooping through the air
their caw-cawcophony
murders the Sunday silence

Sunday, January 19, 2020

Lines

by Stephen A. Rozwenc

three evergreen triangles
slowly climb
a steep hillside

As simple as that

by Ajay Kumar

Water makes no sound, friendly petioles
pardon leaves which flavor the wind green.

Message of crow echoes, torch by torch.
A bird of sound alone, a small bird by sound,
flies from the mountains of that side-

rubber rubber rubber mountains mountains
rubber rubber rubber rubber mountains rubber
rubber palm bananas bananas palm rubber
          pole                               pole     
road road road road road road road road road
canal canal canal canal canal canal canal canal
road road road road road road road road road
      pole                                       pole
wall gate gate wall wall wall wall wall wall
drumsticks                         coconut coconut
hibiscus tulsi                         tobacco   coconut
                                              well neem
                                          coconut coconut

-to the coconuts of this side, a fossil of a song
from the east to the west is a kingfisher,
a piece of cloud stuck in his throat, whitening it.

The trinity of coconuts sways, in memory
of a fulfilling wind, in extinction of right-angles,
all curving & moving, the white-throat drops
an anchovy, like punctuation, like leaves falling
in alliteration

Can It Be?

by Gary Beck

Dogwood is blooming everywhere.
Daffodils are blooming everywhere.
A scrawny cherry tree
is working like wild
to put out its aroma.
Daffodils are blooming everywhere.
Dogwood is blooming everywhere.

Friday, January 17, 2020

December

by Michael H. Brownstein

Snow fell on white rose petals,
the way too early blossoms of mulberry,
and spun webs upon gardens of lilies.
The sky opened itself to summer,
earth crunched open with warmth,
the roses opened their mouths to the sun,
one mulberry began to ripen among miscolored Ieaves,
and three lilies spread their wings.
Seventy degrees, an easy wind,
warm swamps of what had been snow,
and we put away our winter clothes again,
headed out to the field of stone edges,
green brown moss, evergreens,
and wild flowers that did not know any better.

Wednesday, January 15, 2020

"then there are"

by Stephen A. Rozwenc

then there are
those long frigid winter nights
when the shivering mind desperately resorts to cold calculation
for warmth

perception becomes beatified delusion
and crucial explanation
of why
riparian New England snowscapes
swath moonlit snow’s creamy vellum
with iridescent comforters of thermal profusion

movement becomes meditation
a restless Chi of wind moans hotter eroticism
up through the back pasture
sailing disbelief like a ghost schooner
its barely audible foredeck jib a filigree powdery swirl

more resolute abstinence tacks across a hillside meadow
pausing only
to marvel at the rusted hay baler
and its half emerging halo of snow
inviting reckless deer to feed
on heavenly light
instead of ragged strips of hemlock bark

a pearly necklace of enterprising stonewall
belies the edgy hill’s diffident proposal
of fire clamoring inside ice
and a runway back to blissful heat
and the blessed Pleiades within our DNA

Tuesday, January 14, 2020

Australian bushfires

by James Aitchison

They say the smoke has reached Chile.
Not just the smoke from our blazing forests,
But the smoke from lost firefighters and townsfolk,
And thousands of lost homes,
And five hundred million wild animals,
And cattle and sheep and bold horses
Burned alive in once-lush paddocks.

They say the smoke is toxic.  It is not. 
It is sacred.

Sunday, January 12, 2020

Mimicry

by Michelle Ainslie

Two purple hooks
curl into a promise
to the male wasp’s urge;

its plum body
pulsating on yellow
again
and
again.

Flower to
flower,

the wasp
relentless
in his pursuit;

the orchid -
blooming.

From Ocean Triptych

by KB Ballentine

III.

California coast — mystery of rock and water —
froth spumes, soars — whirlpools eddy the sand.
Seaweed tossed and withering, shearwaters skim
teal and turquoise while fly fishers wait, wading
swirling edges. Salt stings, shells and broken glass
  flashing through the shingle.


Trajectories
#8

by David Chorlton

Against a sky wiped clean of every memory
a Red-tailed hawk hangs on a thread
of sunlight, while behind him is a kestrel
dipping and looping in a hundred
arabesques. Below them
Sunday’s rooftops lie at rest, with brunch
and lunch and football games continuing
and a weekly round-up of the news
consigned to silence. The kestrel’s
quick as a lawyer’s tongue;
the hawk is big but can’t negotiate
the curves the kestrel can. There’s no telling
where it ends. The facts come slowly
but they come. Without a lot
of decoration, just the intricate maneuvers
a diplomat is master of. There’s truth
and lies and every nuance in between,
so much work to figure out
who’s right. Or not, when the light
shines so brightly on the struggle
and the powerful wings
steer the hawk in his defeat
away.

Friday, January 10, 2020

Lines

by Veronika Zora Novak

cradled
by a peacock's cry . . .
full moon

Wednesday, January 8, 2020

Here

by Andrew Hutto

is a Florida scrub jay
on the shell of a gopher tortoise
in the Juniper Prairie.

They walk alongside the
trumpet vines
and saw palmetto.

Sunday, January 5, 2020

Lines

by Marilyn Ward

long night
the broken branch
a crow turns into

Daybreak

by Beverly Summa

Bent blades of Shenandoah and beard grass reflect
morning’s blue-green light under shimmering coats
of late winter frost.  The red fox turns her head at the fleeing sound
--a nimble-footed field mouse erupts through the thread hairs
of her ears and warms the blood of curious nostrils.
The mouse disappears beneath the snow.
Hunger guides a knife’s edge concentration as her kits
stir and stretch in her belly.  She pauses, waits.

Lines

by Veronika Zora Novak

Kawarthas
a wolf's deep winter tracks
rewritten

Wednesday, January 1, 2020

Lines

by Susan N Aassahde

deer gypsy broom
snow well
hoof trench pickle