By Leila Kulpas
Our scavenge for old bottles forgotten
my mother, father and I follow one another
along the river bankin the light of reared-up clouds.
Steps bounce over mulch and moss,
strands of casuarinas brush bare arms,
and low down, on trunks like cement,
cicada shells gape and glint.
Embossed with the creature's
every ridge, hollow and bump,
even tiny hemispheres of eyes,
my child's mind would shudder
at the thought of the tearing away.
When I unhook the legs,
the spines scratch, as if the empty shells
have come to life, startling my grip.
The breeze snatches them, dances them
round and round. Drops them
in unreachable crannies.
I try holding them tight,
but they crackle into flakes.
Even in our silence,
our reverence, our human vibrations frighten.
Every few feet, a water dragon
plunges into the stream up ahead.
We hurry, squint through bubbles,
glimpse its shadow.
Drifting, sinking.
Friday, September 22, 2023
The Snail, The Rooster
By Maurizio Brancaleoni
after the rain —
the saved snail
extends its horns
dawn in the suburbs —
the rooster crows
as in olden times
after the rain —
the saved snail
extends its horns
dawn in the suburbs —
the rooster crows
as in olden times
Untitled
by Chen-ou Liu
alone with the sound
of water flowing over rocks ...
this childhood river
Zen Garden
a dragonfly's wings pat
the morning sunlight
eye of the hurricane
alone in the dark I look
into my life
of water flowing over rocks ...
this childhood river
Zen Garden
a dragonfly's wings pat
the morning sunlight
eye of the hurricane
alone in the dark I look
into my life
Monday, September 4, 2023
Lost At Sea
By Ceri Marriott
Slave, migrant, refugee
Forced to sea, to leave
An oft-loved land of birth,
A cherished family, and dear friends -
What choice for many
On this ill-apportioned earth,
Exploitation and abuse
Still over and above free will;
And while the politicians spout their stuff,
And crooked exploiters make their bucks,
The humble fisherman
Nets not fish, instead dead children, babies are his catch
To huge, but shortlived outcry,
And a sickening racket
Which stirs again the cruel fuel
Of endless profiteering.
Slave, migrant, refugee
Forced to sea, to leave
An oft-loved land of birth,
A cherished family, and dear friends -
What choice for many
On this ill-apportioned earth,
Exploitation and abuse
Still over and above free will;
And while the politicians spout their stuff,
And crooked exploiters make their bucks,
The humble fisherman
Nets not fish, instead dead children, babies are his catch
To huge, but shortlived outcry,
And a sickening racket
Which stirs again the cruel fuel
Of endless profiteering.
Pine Creek
By Katharine Cristiani
800 years of Eastern Hemlocks
a cathedral of giants
until an insect
rolled as forest fire
charred the life out,
centuries of canopies disappeared
August 2019 - Pennsylvania Mountain Laurel
evergreen jewels
except when drought
sucks the jade out, wilted
brown-spotted, dying
March 2020 - Sycamores
white parchment rips
torn scrolls fall
wind storms extract roots
teeth dangle from gums
July 2021 - Red Pine
burgundy mosaic bark
cradles the forest
soft needles crown the sun,
the chaperones of Pine Creek
watchers of clear water
of the black flies
who float with trout
August 2022 - Blue Heron
raises its leg
recoils
the S of its neck
stabs beak into trout
June 6, 2023 - Deer
choke at dawn
when a dry peach rises
against gray
poisoned dandelion seeds
blown into orange haze
Sunday, September 3, 2023
Untitled Transalations II
By Stephen A. ROzwenc
Hawaiian
Mai ia manawa maiʻO ka ʻalani
ʻAʻohe mea i moeʻuhane maikaʻi
Ever since
The watermelon
Nothing has dreamed better
Untitled Translations I
By Stephen A. Rozwenc
Spanish
Vuelos de colibrí
Abrir la cremallera
Nada sublime
Hummingbird flights
Unzip
Sublime nothingness
Spanish
Vuelos de colibrí
Abrir la cremallera
Nada sublime
Hummingbird flights
Unzip
Sublime nothingness
Splash Of Intuition
By Jean Janicke
From a distance all is calm
at this stretch of the Hughes River.
From a distance all is calm
at this stretch of the Hughes River.
Flat water by the far bank
reflects specks of sky shimmered
through dark bars of tree trunks.
Roots grasp the river’s edge
by the abandoned church
as branches reach across ripples
bubbled by submerged stones.
A dry leaf zig zags down, rocks
like a silent metronome, breaks
mirrored water.
reflects specks of sky shimmered
through dark bars of tree trunks.
Roots grasp the river’s edge
by the abandoned church
as branches reach across ripples
bubbled by submerged stones.
A dry leaf zig zags down, rocks
like a silent metronome, breaks
mirrored water.
Friday, September 1, 2023
Grand Reopening
Dear Plum Tree Patrons, Morgen John here.
It's 3 months to the day that my father passed away.
In his honor, we're having a grand reopening.
Will be posting 3 poems per day for the next 3 days!
Like my dad I'm a fan of the mystical, wondrous ways of nature.
Therefore, expanding the submission call for rivers, to include all bodies of water -
From puddles to ponds, to seas, angry waves & the like. This will run to September 23rd.
The beginning of autumn approaches.
(Thanks for understanding my hiatus)
Gunnison River, Black Canyon
By Ryan Harper
At bottom they were groping for light:
such a pass a day makes across the rocks,
pale rails rolling up the twisted trunks
of junipers. People like them had warned them:
no place for the neophyte.
Hard to tell behind veils what goes down,
but the land’s higher relief is first
to vanish under secret claims; secret
combinations of people like them would clear them
from the west, for the breaking ground.
John Gunnison, layman, captain, friend
to the civilized tribes, sent dispatches;
the rapids grayed as the white day came and went
over lunch. Those who knew Zion by light
believed a glory reached its end.
The clash by night and the clash with night—
ignorant armies never know which, cause
Gambel oak, knuckled root and gneiss, to assume
martial postures. Back all this, the latter-day fear:
Zion ruled in plural, off-white.
Gunnison, at bottom you will lie:
rising schistic to the canyon rim
great columns of earth will keep watch—for the dark,
with the dark—make your peace with the hard stakes,
the rails laid up into the sky.
At bottom they were groping for light:
such a pass a day makes across the rocks,
pale rails rolling up the twisted trunks
of junipers. People like them had warned them:
no place for the neophyte.
Hard to tell behind veils what goes down,
but the land’s higher relief is first
to vanish under secret claims; secret
combinations of people like them would clear them
from the west, for the breaking ground.
John Gunnison, layman, captain, friend
to the civilized tribes, sent dispatches;
the rapids grayed as the white day came and went
over lunch. Those who knew Zion by light
believed a glory reached its end.
The clash by night and the clash with night—
ignorant armies never know which, cause
Gambel oak, knuckled root and gneiss, to assume
martial postures. Back all this, the latter-day fear:
Zion ruled in plural, off-white.
Gunnison, at bottom you will lie:
rising schistic to the canyon rim
great columns of earth will keep watch—for the dark,
with the dark—make your peace with the hard stakes,
the rails laid up into the sky.
Piney River
By Joe Cottonwood
Just another midwest river you never heard of,
green, quiet, doing its job. We float for miles
in a johnboat. An abandoned wasp nest
hangs from the gunnel. We drift and paddle
passing limestone bluffs, cedar trees
hanging from cracks. The day is
smothering hot, Fourth of July.
Vines tangle the sky,
lilies flatten cool water.
Turtles plop. Scads of tiny fish
swirl around our paddles
as if curious, playful. Sudden mist—
a mossy waterfall. We see watersnakes
dark and diamond-backed, frogs that stare,
egrets white, herons blue,
and the lovely purple gallinules
which the guidebook says don’t live here
but in stealth they do,
all in a narrow wandering sanctuary of wildlife
wedged between farms. And here’s
a beaver lodge—in Missouri!
What we don’t see
are other human beings
until we beach at Baptist Camp
where a party of teens flying a rebel flag
play loud music from gunrack trucks
and set off fireworks, celebrating bombardment.
Nearby is Sweet Potato Cave where
peaceable farmers hid their harvest
from raiders during the Civil War.
Caves, like rivers, hold secrets.
The teens have no idea.
Just another midwest river you never heard of,
green, quiet, doing its job. We float for miles
in a johnboat. An abandoned wasp nest
hangs from the gunnel. We drift and paddle
passing limestone bluffs, cedar trees
hanging from cracks. The day is
smothering hot, Fourth of July.
Vines tangle the sky,
lilies flatten cool water.
Turtles plop. Scads of tiny fish
swirl around our paddles
as if curious, playful. Sudden mist—
a mossy waterfall. We see watersnakes
dark and diamond-backed, frogs that stare,
egrets white, herons blue,
and the lovely purple gallinules
which the guidebook says don’t live here
but in stealth they do,
all in a narrow wandering sanctuary of wildlife
wedged between farms. And here’s
a beaver lodge—in Missouri!
What we don’t see
are other human beings
until we beach at Baptist Camp
where a party of teens flying a rebel flag
play loud music from gunrack trucks
and set off fireworks, celebrating bombardment.
Nearby is Sweet Potato Cave where
peaceable farmers hid their harvest
from raiders during the Civil War.
Caves, like rivers, hold secrets.
The teens have no idea.
The Old-growth Forest Trail
by Darrell Petska
Here must waft
the tang of joy
at its simplest:
feasting saproxylics—
tiny beetles,
blooming fungi—
imparting to the flesh
of long-fallen giants
life anew.
Here must waft
the tang of joy
at its simplest:
feasting saproxylics—
tiny beetles,
blooming fungi—
imparting to the flesh
of long-fallen giants
life anew.
