Wednesday, September 28, 2022


by Tom Lagasse

Pine trees sway in time
a chorus of bullfrog song
The rocks meditate


by Ram Chandran

star gazing-
I remember 
mom's story for each star   

Sunday, September 25, 2022

Androids Do Fleece Sheep

 by Geoffrey Aitken
this day to day
of breathe in and out
for continuing life
is difficult to support
and more difficult to follow
with its inconsistent
walk with me prompts
by assumed authority
knowingly confident
their own success
also measures ours

Batty Attic

by Kathryn Holeton
Sleeping in sunlight,
Bats in the attic window-
hanging upside down.

Wednesday, September 21, 2022


by Daipayan Nair 

the dragonfly 
on a sunflower
...till I give up 


by Chen-ou Liu

a crow
perched on the bird feeder ...
foreclosure sign


by Joshua St. Claire

black raspberries
the deer
leave some for us

Sunday, September 18, 2022

Blue Jays Aren’t Blue

by Ann Chiappetta
The phenomenon of light scattering is An artifice
Filtering and fooling the eye
Muting the spectrum except for blue
A crushed cardinal feather
Is red through and through.
But the wind cannot be fooled.


by AE Reiff
Plenty of variables above the peaks
discover cliff sheltered bays
to equivocate both eye and mind
above the tide of those
who keep their heads to plunge
Simple rectilinear, curvilinear pi
the mind sees, not the eye.
Homonyms for nouns
Emboss in holograms the sea salt thing,
down by the waterside, backs to land,
undersea curves and planes of change
five-fold crest the waves.

What arm binds the restless wave?
O hear us when we cry
For those in peril on the sea,
I wept tears from my eyes.
When the sun parched seven times
to call the whirlpool throat,
the whitened devouring world,
teeth of iron and nails of brass
devour underfoot the others slain
for those beliefs that got them there,
like pilgrims fall from grace.
In the world of water, land or oil
do not grudge that same soul wind
to blow the time to sail.
A commonwealth invades its own,
sneaking up behind 
Ossian in the grass, scales Pythagoras.

"My waters are polluted"

by Jayashabari Shankar

My waters are polluted,
All my treasures have been looted,
Plastics and trash are everywhere,
They capture my fish with a snare,
The birds and turtles mistake plastic for food,
My oceans are dying, I must conclude.
Acid rain and chemicals kill the corals,
Yet all they do is quarrel.
No fish, no ice, nothing left for the polar bears,
Yet nothing is offered but tears.
Neither is my land left untouched,
Full of landfills and chemicals, crushed,
The other planets jeer and mock me,
“Why do you harbor life? Be free like us, can’t you see?”
The same questions I asked myself,
Yet my reason I shall give shall speak for itself,
I offered a home to animals, plants, and humans too,
With hope they can make the universe better for all- me and you.

Yet when humans hurt other life and my oceans,
Sadness, anger, fear- come out all my emotions.

Each piece of litter gives a heartache.
Yet some acts I witnessed stopped the heartbreak,
Activists tried to protect me,
They pick up litter and plastic from my sea,
Others march for change,
Demanding that animals and nature be saved,
Yet what touched me the most,
Was people who picked up trash one by one, near the coast.
Even though their contributions seem small,
To me, it is the biggest of them all.

I realize that being a planet full of life is quite rough,
But having others to help makes the journey less tough,
Never doubt someone’s contribution however small,
We can save my oceans and land one by one, that's all.

Yes, this poem was written by your planet Earth,
I am alive too, and with words, I have no dearth.

Wednesday, September 14, 2022


by Douglas J. Lanzo

refreshing mist
remnants of thunder claps
from white-frothed sea


by Joshua St. Claire

tea ceremony
a raccoon dips an apple
in the Susquehanna


by Ceri Marriott

Chilling summer's day
The oaks have always been there
New owner prefers stumps

Sunday, September 11, 2022


by John Valentine

I an old man,
A dull head among windy spaces.
-T.S. Eliot

Sometimes quick clearings
in the night.
Palimpsest, traces trying
the language 
of illumination. A time, a moment.
Then the sudden dark
of forgetting. You are like a blind man
tapping a cane
in his memories. Alas, the armature and its
Stand up, quickly now, quickly. Here come
the voices, dry
whispers in the wind. Scarecrow, beware.
Where is the contract,
the guarantee of eternity?  

Aureate Locks

 by AE Reiff

Lost trains along the track
convey the draft in flames
from farms below the lines.
Giant cubes of steel
out-plane and form
the old world round
with one intent to burn.
Drop by drop on aureate rock
ducks in their coal-neuks discern
A double strand of long legged thrones.
Toes with feet hang down,
Turpitude grows endless
commentary where I go.
Call them bridges over mouths,
call them gates grotesque
bobbling on corded strands
one foot in vacant space.
Eagles nest on road signs there
and firefly wishes rise,
High season down high road wears
different color thoughts,
yellow hats and chartreuse scarves.
The crowd is singing, tongue in Mouth,
Throne rulers create the lords,
moon chained villages suspend below
radium pyre words.

The love-bugs

by Rongili Biswas 
Love-bugs, I call them, though they have nothing to do with love. They come in late Autumn. Hordes of them. And go round and round in circles around a source of light. They want to singe their wings, burn themselves to death, they make the buzz of their circling sound unreal.
Dark moths, I call them. Though they have nothing to do with moths. They come when evening descends. Or at nightfall. Over the shoulder of a neighbouring tree that has splayed its hands towards heaven. As if in votive offerings. Its avid religiosity clasped in a gesture of genuflection that has gone awry.
They live in dark corners in the hounding daylight. In musty leaf litters. Or, in crannies of the bark that nameless trees offer them. Almost whispering, I call them – ‘pappataci’. Though I know more than anyone else that they have nothing to do with those wilful midges. Both my whisper and the soughing of the wind are lost on them.
Their whirls seem an act of atonement, for some wrong they have never done.
I find them stricken with a grief that they do not know how to shake off. And I see grace oozing out of their tiny bodies in the gathering dusk.
I think of an unusually quiet night. A blue one like none other. ‘Over strand and field’. Over the clear sky, the transparent wind, and the forlorn shrubs. Reddened with bruises. Teeming with sighs. And blackened with immured pain.
The love-bugs, going round and round in circles,
                                        move towards eternity.

Wednesday, September 7, 2022

High Force

by Andrew Collinson

Where the Tees falls off the edge
Natural cold boiling guinness
Violently tumbles between rocks
Blundering rapidly down stone blocks
Suiciding noisily off the tops
Massively more so in full spate
Filling the ancient vertical gate
Fell water & pure turbulence meet
Wet misty cream, gravitates in rough sheets
Rolling plundering, vertically thundering
Heavy constant feed, for the dark velvet pool
Calming the torrent, waves to ripples go
Deep pools distant edge, brackish flow.

Sunday, September 4, 2022


by Ram Chandran

except under a lone tree
meadow full of
morning sun

A monostitch

by Elancharan Gunasekaran 

dune upon dune sand gales grasping but never catching the hawk in flight


by Jerome Berglund 

why man invented fire
      to cook meat
Laughing Buddha