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
Wednesday, January 29, 2020
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.
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!
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.
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
their stomachs full
they take flight en masse
swooping through the air
their caw-cawcophony
murders the Sunday silence
Sunday, January 19, 2020
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
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
