by Kevin Browne
against the current
a muskrat tests
the spring chill
a muskrat tests
the spring chill
Friday, May 26, 2023
Wednesday, May 24, 2023
Already Noon
by David Chorlton
The air’s a friendly buzz
and breath is honey
on the desert trail that feels
its way from spring
to early summer and the cool
interiors where flickers
raise their young in a saguaro
or the point
at which to decide between the knowledge
of coyotes or the garter
snakes who occupy
the narrow world the news
doesn’t reach; not the overnight
shooting, not
the lines along the southern border
where heat
comes begging for asylum,
and not the storms that pass
between the races. Nothing here
is ever broken; it just
collapses and decays like
dry mesquite and cactus hearts
soaking up the sunlight
even when it stings.
The air’s a friendly buzz
and breath is honey
on the desert trail that feels
its way from spring
to early summer and the cool
interiors where flickers
raise their young in a saguaro
or the point
at which to decide between the knowledge
of coyotes or the garter
snakes who occupy
the narrow world the news
doesn’t reach; not the overnight
shooting, not
the lines along the southern border
where heat
comes begging for asylum,
and not the storms that pass
between the races. Nothing here
is ever broken; it just
collapses and decays like
dry mesquite and cactus hearts
soaking up the sunlight
even when it stings.
Sunday, May 21, 2023
Coal Fires
by Keith Melton
Grandfather Mountain, thawing
Expanding in molten rants, stone prairies
Casting about the heavens
The earth rippling; stone plateaus, rivers
Peaks and ancient balds, once majestic
Awakening to acid rain, sulphur and the gray leaves of mortality.
Distant cities, warming
Islands of light born from the furnace
Fire and coal, the turbines
Like magicians toiling in garages
Freeways across the land
Sending diesel clouds into the sky.
Coal fires, burning
Becoming the spawn of the earth, Appalachian spring
Brittle, sedges burning, cliffs barren
Spruce and hemlock dying away
Tourists silent before
Barren trees.
In clouds of coal ash, no text message, no smoke signal.
Grandfather Mountain, thawing
Expanding in molten rants, stone prairies
Casting about the heavens
The earth rippling; stone plateaus, rivers
Peaks and ancient balds, once majestic
Awakening to acid rain, sulphur and the gray leaves of mortality.
Distant cities, warming
Islands of light born from the furnace
Fire and coal, the turbines
Like magicians toiling in garages
Freeways across the land
Sending diesel clouds into the sky.
Coal fires, burning
Becoming the spawn of the earth, Appalachian spring
Brittle, sedges burning, cliffs barren
Spruce and hemlock dying away
Tourists silent before
Barren trees.
In clouds of coal ash, no text message, no smoke signal.
The Unbearable Weight of Silence
by Doug Stone
After all these years when he walks across Tiananmen square,
the pavement still vibrates with the rhythmic rumble of idling tanks,
the quick, slick, metallic slide and click of machine guns cocking,
the murmur of fear swirling through the crowd like trapped water,
then the sound of gunfire and all those screams eating the air.
That moment still quivers through his feet into his bones,
quickens the rhythm of his heart, his breath at a dead run,
stumbles, gasping until all the jagged sounds of that day
flat line into an unbearable silence too heavy to carry anymore.
After all these years when he walks across Tiananmen square,
the pavement still vibrates with the rhythmic rumble of idling tanks,
the quick, slick, metallic slide and click of machine guns cocking,
the murmur of fear swirling through the crowd like trapped water,
then the sound of gunfire and all those screams eating the air.
That moment still quivers through his feet into his bones,
quickens the rhythm of his heart, his breath at a dead run,
stumbles, gasping until all the jagged sounds of that day
flat line into an unbearable silence too heavy to carry anymore.
Not All Russians Are Assholes
by Al Ortolani
The mailbox is frozen shut. The mailman
smacks the ice away with his fist, drives
down the road towards the next box
planted on a fence post, leaning from years
of constant wind. They are stuffed with
brochures, catalogued
cruises down European rivers, a time-share
on Marco Island, a glossy envelope of hybrid
tomato seeds for the tray in the window.
There hasn’t been a real letter to open
since Wi-Fi reached the plains, since Google
ran its highspeed cable next to the barbed wire.
In the church office, the minister
searches conspiracy theories for simple answers
to complex problems. Blades
of winter wheat green-up through the sleet
of today’s storm. In years past,
homesteaders planted Russian seeds
that could survive Kansas winters
when nothing grew
except the hope of meadowlarks.
The mailbox is frozen shut. The mailman
smacks the ice away with his fist, drives
down the road towards the next box
planted on a fence post, leaning from years
of constant wind. They are stuffed with
brochures, catalogued
cruises down European rivers, a time-share
on Marco Island, a glossy envelope of hybrid
tomato seeds for the tray in the window.
There hasn’t been a real letter to open
since Wi-Fi reached the plains, since Google
ran its highspeed cable next to the barbed wire.
In the church office, the minister
searches conspiracy theories for simple answers
to complex problems. Blades
of winter wheat green-up through the sleet
of today’s storm. In years past,
homesteaders planted Russian seeds
that could survive Kansas winters
when nothing grew
except the hope of meadowlarks.
Friday, May 19, 2023
The San Lorenzo
by Jeff Burt
The San Lorenzo dries
swallows dabble in a trough
take mud from horseshoes
swallows dabble in a trough
take mud from horseshoes
Wednesday, May 17, 2023
Mice in the Coal Fields
by Al Ortolani
The office car is abandoned
on a spur of railroad track. It is filled
with dust and gray sunlight. Some windows
are locked in their final shutting,
others broken or riveted with .22 caliber holes.
The door hangs on a single hinge, jamb split,
shattered by vandals. The mining company,
long gone under, has stripped the pastures of the coal
that lay soft and bituminous in its belly.
Bills of sale, receipts, orders indecipherable
litter the floor, catch the breeze, flutter like birds.
The miners who made the transition
from deep shaft to strip mining
drew small pensions or moved on to more
promising veins. Mice run the floorboards,
stuffing file cabinets with fescue, bits of letterhead,
mimeographed paperwork. Even in triplicate
commerce is consumed by mildew, by rough
bark dogwood, by switchgrass. The end
of each workday brings more loose shale.
Overhead a turkey buzzard circles, feathers
like piano keys fingered by wind.
Getting More Than The Drift
by David L Williams
It’s less than perfect river time unless
The feel of water swells against the skin,
With bubbles rising as from fishes’ breaths
And currents stirring feelings like the wind.
The driftwood and the litter on the banks
Might get scant notice, and though clearly dead,
They manage somehow still to join the ranks
Of ducks and railroad bridges overhead.
Passing beneath, one’s path defies straight lines,
The view distracted by some chemistry
Of downstream nudges, heeding current signs,
Becoming like a point in history
Somewhere between the source and yawning mouth,
Which opens, where it’s warmer, way down south.
It’s less than perfect river time unless
The feel of water swells against the skin,
With bubbles rising as from fishes’ breaths
And currents stirring feelings like the wind.
The driftwood and the litter on the banks
Might get scant notice, and though clearly dead,
They manage somehow still to join the ranks
Of ducks and railroad bridges overhead.
Passing beneath, one’s path defies straight lines,
The view distracted by some chemistry
Of downstream nudges, heeding current signs,
Becoming like a point in history
Somewhere between the source and yawning mouth,
Which opens, where it’s warmer, way down south.
Mannequins Yearning for Eye Contact
by Cathryn Shea
While visiting Santa Fe, which feels
a world away from my home state,
I’m disoriented tripping upon a lacuna
where monuments once stood
to honor the extermination tactics
of Diego de Vargas and Kit Carson.
And the Indian Wars, America’s real
longest war. And where monuments
that should have been to Pueblo and Navajo
never were, never mentioned
on the edges of my schoolyear textbooks—
Part of existence that’s toppled in a new day.
While visiting Santa Fe, which feels
a world away from my home state,
I’m disoriented tripping upon a lacuna
where monuments once stood
to honor the extermination tactics
of Diego de Vargas and Kit Carson.
And the Indian Wars, America’s real
longest war. And where monuments
that should have been to Pueblo and Navajo
never were, never mentioned
on the edges of my schoolyear textbooks—
Part of existence that’s toppled in a new day.
Back home in Marin, the county named
for coast Miwok Chief Marin, under a sky
dimmed with fall fires, I drive west to hike
to the beach at Abbotts Lagoon, named
for two brothers who grabbed the land
in 1858 for dairy ranching. I try to escape
from the remembrance of amended history,
eyeless busts and statues all over my country
erected to crimes. They used to remind me
of mannequins yearning for eye contact.
Named for a Southern Pacific Railroad
land agent who nobody seems to remember,
Redding, the town I grew up in, overlooking
the Sacramento had cornerstones we ignored
on brick buildings from the mid-1800s,
no generals I knew of atop bronze horses.
As if to pretend that lands weren’t stolen,
the first peoples weren’t massacred: Modoc,
Wintu, Yana, Pit River, and Klamath River tribes.
Like there was nothing to remember.
The historic brothels and saloons have been
demolished now, transplanted by parking lots.
Away from history’s rubble, at the western limit
of the continent, weight of the atmosphere
presses down on me. Sand in my face, water-doused,
I feel the collapse of seafoam. Trying to convince me
the past won’t be repeated, the sweet talk of Pacific spray.
Sunday, May 14, 2023
Monastery
by Terrence Sykes
summer fragrance blooms
sweet peas sprawling in the ditch
planted years ago
monastic dweller
plum rain falls upon my soul
mulberries & tea
star dust labyrinth
water birch & willow trees
harvest quagmired hours
water birch & willow trees
harvest quagmired hours
mirages olive groves
smudged silver grey leaves sway
chimera summer
smudged silver grey leaves sway
chimera summer
raging thunderstorms
mythological proverbs
mere pilgrims we are
mythological proverbs
mere pilgrims we are
bitter wild lettuce
beneath this ancient chestnut
shading my body
beneath this ancient chestnut
shading my body
seasons lie in wait
sweeping autumn leaves aside
chrysanthemums bloom
sweeping autumn leaves aside
chrysanthemums bloom
garden hours rust
weeds shall be our nourishment
share with the rabbits
weeds shall be our nourishment
share with the rabbits
morning rain mushrooms
soup simmering fire
fragrance of dried fennel seed
soup simmering fire
fragrance of dried fennel seed
rivers of vines soar
cicadas call out to me
lightening bugs are stars
cicadas call out to me
lightening bugs are stars
berries fermented
birds flint about the garden
bitter wine to pour
birds flint about the garden
bitter wine to pour
dawn came early
weaving fog in the relics
sprout laden garden
weaving fog in the relics
sprout laden garden
ashes of vespers
scattered upon fresco’d sky
wind tangles my soul
scattered upon fresco’d sky
wind tangles my soul
rest in this season
leaves dance in the wind
torn unread pages
leaves dance in the wind
torn unread pages
pokeweed berry ink
now tobacco brown
once shone lilac brilliance
now tobacco brown
once shone lilac brilliance
budding olive saplings
genuflect in the squall
mucked cardoons resurrect
genuflect in the squall
mucked cardoons resurrect
virginia creeper
climbing like jacob’s ladder
hoeing the tilled fields
climbing like jacob’s ladder
hoeing the tilled fields
cloud constellations
voyages to fables isles
archipelagos
voyages to fables isles
archipelagos
forage a craft
sail into oblivion
map my escape
sail into oblivion
map my escape
clouds & fabled isles
prune that ruminating light
crayfish augury
chanting cicada
where is your monastery
heal my weary soul
Friday, May 12, 2023
Where There Are Forks
by James Penha
the Lehigh River
flowing shallow this spring
from lack of snowfall
the Lehigh River
ranks second among toxic
US waterways
the Lehigh River
wholly owned by Lehigh Coal
till 1966
the Lehigh River’s
name stolen from Lenape
for where there are forks
the Lehigh River
flowing shallow this spring
from lack of snowfall
the Lehigh River
ranks second among toxic
US waterways
the Lehigh River
wholly owned by Lehigh Coal
till 1966
the Lehigh River’s
name stolen from Lenape
for where there are forks
Granchester Flows into the Cam
by Sarah das Gupta
Move on, nothing here
- only the flash
of a kingfisher's brilliance
only fine strands
of bright green hair
only the rise and fall
of clouds of gnats
only the last fingers
of light touching
the line of willows
only the first song
of the nightingale -
No, nothing
Nothing at all
- only the flash
of a kingfisher's brilliance
only fine strands
of bright green hair
only the rise and fall
of clouds of gnats
only the last fingers
of light touching
the line of willows
only the first song
of the nightingale -
No, nothing
Nothing at all
Thursday, May 11, 2023
Temple of the Azure Clouds
by Uchechukwu Onyedikam/Christina Chin
Temple of the Azure Clouds
beside the Keluang river—
snakes
come to venerate
the monk's birthday
Belisima Ribble
by Andrew Collinson
Trickles and drips from limestone lips
ichor, earthy wounds gentle issue
mossy Ribblehead springs and gills
Cam and Gayle beck’s confluence fresh and free
Piped by meadow pipit calls, Belisima Ribble
wends down - to suckle the Irish sea
Three peaks and Roman road near
crows-foot veins nourish flow. Jam, Syke, Shivery
Long, Lat and Mares Gill’s all make young
jugular Belisima grow. Dipper, plover
and stonechat love her, in punctuated
rapid’s steady melisma billow
Stumbling as tot over gritstone rock, a tyke finds her feet
more Yorkshire waters strive and meet
sheep-washing a dammed job for the youngster
She can be harsh and freeze and riffle in breeze
where Swale’s on their knee’s drink her
grey wagtail’s bob yellow, chit and thrive
Milled, wheeled and Pudsey leaped, energetic teen waters put to work
through Settle Gisburn Denham and Bolland, forded bridged and hipp-stoned
Past Fooden’s otter cave the rarely captive teenager slips through landscape
waters downhill escape, quietly moving, an occasional burble or
whispered swirl, a gently moving quiet girl
Her stony hips camouflage redshank and teetering sand piper
near kingfisher and martin’s holy banks. Shy, deceptively strong
naturally covert moving along -she’s smitten. The wild Hodder
industrial Calder and Belisima all wed near Mitton. Unquestioned
she rides Sale Wheel overt before Ribchester’s Roman ford
winding deep as cormorant’s fish, she’s wider, mature and lish
Belisima Ribble quietly broods with certain moods
she can giggle and laugh along the path and boil
in swollen rage. She will dance in fun, potter and run from
mountain issue to old age, coloured brackish
or clear, when the heavens come down she’ll turn
builder tea brown, flooding fascinating fear
The tide rips up a bore as curlew, oyster catcher and snipe probe mud
Thousand’s feed breed and nest round muddy reed
geese - red legged and brent witness Belisima Ribble’s
marshy manifold un-robe, Southport to St Annes
exhausted and spent, she lopes away - to suckle the Irish sea.
Trickles and drips from limestone lips
ichor, earthy wounds gentle issue
mossy Ribblehead springs and gills
Cam and Gayle beck’s confluence fresh and free
Piped by meadow pipit calls, Belisima Ribble
wends down - to suckle the Irish sea
Three peaks and Roman road near
crows-foot veins nourish flow. Jam, Syke, Shivery
Long, Lat and Mares Gill’s all make young
jugular Belisima grow. Dipper, plover
and stonechat love her, in punctuated
rapid’s steady melisma billow
Stumbling as tot over gritstone rock, a tyke finds her feet
more Yorkshire waters strive and meet
sheep-washing a dammed job for the youngster
She can be harsh and freeze and riffle in breeze
where Swale’s on their knee’s drink her
grey wagtail’s bob yellow, chit and thrive
Milled, wheeled and Pudsey leaped, energetic teen waters put to work
through Settle Gisburn Denham and Bolland, forded bridged and hipp-stoned
Past Fooden’s otter cave the rarely captive teenager slips through landscape
waters downhill escape, quietly moving, an occasional burble or
whispered swirl, a gently moving quiet girl
Her stony hips camouflage redshank and teetering sand piper
near kingfisher and martin’s holy banks. Shy, deceptively strong
naturally covert moving along -she’s smitten. The wild Hodder
industrial Calder and Belisima all wed near Mitton. Unquestioned
she rides Sale Wheel overt before Ribchester’s Roman ford
winding deep as cormorant’s fish, she’s wider, mature and lish
Belisima Ribble quietly broods with certain moods
she can giggle and laugh along the path and boil
in swollen rage. She will dance in fun, potter and run from
mountain issue to old age, coloured brackish
or clear, when the heavens come down she’ll turn
builder tea brown, flooding fascinating fear
The tide rips up a bore as curlew, oyster catcher and snipe probe mud
Thousand’s feed breed and nest round muddy reed
geese - red legged and brent witness Belisima Ribble’s
marshy manifold un-robe, Southport to St Annes
exhausted and spent, she lopes away - to suckle the Irish sea.
Wednesday, May 10, 2023
Extinct Today
by John Grey
So what in the world's gone now,
what forest, stream or maybe
parking lot, housing estate,
acquired its unknown absence.
No scrape, no whistle,
no pouncing on some tiny woodland
creature that has no clue how
much safer life's become.
Who marks down these things?
Who listens for the unheard echo?
Imagine it. Entire populations
of living creatures gone like some people.
No, you can't imagine it.
You don't know what to imagine.
So where’s the smooth handfish?
What about the harlequin frog?
Has anyone seen the stubfoot toad?
Or the spined dwarf mantis?
Now if you only had the corpse.
But no one knows one's needed.
So what in the world's gone now,
what forest, stream or maybe
parking lot, housing estate,
acquired its unknown absence.
No scrape, no whistle,
no pouncing on some tiny woodland
creature that has no clue how
much safer life's become.
Who marks down these things?
Who listens for the unheard echo?
Imagine it. Entire populations
of living creatures gone like some people.
No, you can't imagine it.
You don't know what to imagine.
So where’s the smooth handfish?
What about the harlequin frog?
Has anyone seen the stubfoot toad?
Or the spined dwarf mantis?
Now if you only had the corpse.
But no one knows one's needed.
Consumption Advisories
by H. W. Day
Asiatic honeysuckle
stems breath & water,
life, & the twining vine of sweet death.
& such sweet death
appropriates a trolling misery
when fish are feeling lunar.
Below the glinted Tallapoosa
a $5 spinnerbait snags a Christmas tree
sunk the Winter prior.
Asiatic honeysuckle
stems breath & water,
life, & the twining vine of sweet death.
& such sweet death
appropriates a trolling misery
when fish are feeling lunar.
Below the glinted Tallapoosa
a $5 spinnerbait snags a Christmas tree
sunk the Winter prior.
Sunday, May 7, 2023
Friday, May 5, 2023
Wednesday, May 3, 2023
Mystery
by Jan Wiezorek
Grasses like dried branches
this spring along the creek.
Green prints, eyes placed,
small fists, lines drawn
like vision or desire.
The grey turkeys get up
and fly fifteen or twenty
to the limbs, where
they disappear.
Diminished speech,
alphabetic, to land
on a hanging “Y”
or a sleeping “P.”
Chasing the hillside
with a voice—
muffled and heard
straight
from trees,
falling bark, needles,
rounding and rolling
to a natural
carpet
of mystery.
Hope’s Spring
by Karla Linn Merrifield
There are no toxins;
no further notes of drought,
of famine, nor of tectonic
fractures in Hawai’i,
earthquakes in Oklahoma, Arkansas.
No sinkholes of any metaphoric ilk.
Only the expectant pair
of northern rough-winged swallows
feeding in lazy spirals, snipping up
dizzy-darting flying insect prey,
and now perched on a fence railing,
sable mating plumage in morning sun.
