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.
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
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.
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
