by Don Thompson
Was it crows in their black
soutanes, relentless Jesuits,
or was it random night prowlers
that picked the fur to pieces,
bit by bit,
and scattered the rabbit’s carcass
across half an acre?
Or was it the finger of God
sorting through flesh and bone
to find something numinous,
something that belongs only to Him?
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Ripe
by Harry Youtt
The vined tomato begins at last
its crimsoning down into color, deeper and finer,
no longer that green-to-fire-engine-red way
it used to have – of trying to seem
all-grown-up – ready too soon.
But now, with a skin-split-yearning to be devoured,
on the verge of having fallen to the dusty ground, yet
stem-clinging by force of its own will – to be perfect.
Praying for discovery. Now! Only now!
Before this, it was too early.
The vined tomato begins at last
its crimsoning down into color, deeper and finer,
no longer that green-to-fire-engine-red way
it used to have – of trying to seem
all-grown-up – ready too soon.
But now, with a skin-split-yearning to be devoured,
on the verge of having fallen to the dusty ground, yet
stem-clinging by force of its own will – to be perfect.
Praying for discovery. Now! Only now!
Before this, it was too early.
Sunday, December 27, 2015
A Word
by Linda Golden
Terebinth, it echoes as it bounces off his tongue
Pulling an ancient memory from the marrow, hiding
Under the wings of forgotten prayers, cascading through
Channels of genetic magma, scorching incarnations
As if they were mere in and out breaths instead of whole
Lifetimes
Dotting the hills of Judea, framing the structure of living
Warming in winter, providing shade in lengthening days
Naming a tree, how far back does that go
Who thought such sounds to go with such a being
Whose rough bark and sinewy roots drink holy water
Holding forever secrets of what they have seen
Terebinth, it echoes as it bounces off his tongue
Pulling an ancient memory from the marrow, hiding
Under the wings of forgotten prayers, cascading through
Channels of genetic magma, scorching incarnations
As if they were mere in and out breaths instead of whole
Lifetimes
Dotting the hills of Judea, framing the structure of living
Warming in winter, providing shade in lengthening days
Naming a tree, how far back does that go
Who thought such sounds to go with such a being
Whose rough bark and sinewy roots drink holy water
Holding forever secrets of what they have seen
The Twelfth Month
by David Chorlton
The sky across the desert
in December darkens; lined with ice
it passes from a mountain’s edge
to a storm of needles
on flat and open land. Each drop
of morning rain
is speared by one as it descends
and holds its place
as long as there is light inside it.
A shower brushes up against
a windgust searching
for a canyon, but which finds
only the frost blackened
hawk taking leave of a cloud.
The sky across the desert
in December darkens; lined with ice
it passes from a mountain’s edge
to a storm of needles
on flat and open land. Each drop
of morning rain
is speared by one as it descends
and holds its place
as long as there is light inside it.
A shower brushes up against
a windgust searching
for a canyon, but which finds
only the frost blackened
hawk taking leave of a cloud.
Niwa, The Garden (for NT)
by Ed Hack
Niwa, she says. The garden always waits
for you, is there inside the silence you
long for. The path will lead you to a gate
where Bamboo chat in dialect the news
the wind conceals. And round into the sun
you'll walk as light leaps into emptiness
where everything is born. There is no sum,
no calculation there, no need to guess,
no right or wrong. There's just the path that flows,
the boulders where the kami live, the stones
that are the water's secret self that glow
in ocean glints and shimmer into foam.
Be still and you'll be there, she says. It waits
for you to walk the path, come through the gate.
Niwa, she says. The garden always waits
for you, is there inside the silence you
long for. The path will lead you to a gate
where Bamboo chat in dialect the news
the wind conceals. And round into the sun
you'll walk as light leaps into emptiness
where everything is born. There is no sum,
no calculation there, no need to guess,
no right or wrong. There's just the path that flows,
the boulders where the kami live, the stones
that are the water's secret self that glow
in ocean glints and shimmer into foam.
Be still and you'll be there, she says. It waits
for you to walk the path, come through the gate.
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
The Uncertainty of Winter
by M.J. Iuppa
No snow blooms on hedges
Everywhere is green— sudden
rash of magnolia buds, tipped
silver, candles morning’s light
Beauty, briefly spent
No snow blooms on hedges
Everywhere is green— sudden
rash of magnolia buds, tipped
silver, candles morning’s light
Beauty, briefly spent
West Side Canal, Freeborn Intake
by Don Thompson
The fog has held off, so far,
clinging to the hills
until it thins to commonplace haze
an hour after dawn.
It’s not quite the season.
But soon, when the oyster white sun
is too feeble to resist,
the fog will close in, will inundate
every solid thing we need
to make sense of ourselves—
blurring our certainties
until we know
how ancient seafarers must have felt
coming at last to the end
of their flat earth.
The fog has held off, so far,
clinging to the hills
until it thins to commonplace haze
an hour after dawn.
It’s not quite the season.
But soon, when the oyster white sun
is too feeble to resist,
the fog will close in, will inundate
every solid thing we need
to make sense of ourselves—
blurring our certainties
until we know
how ancient seafarers must have felt
coming at last to the end
of their flat earth.
Zazen
by Larry Jones
still the mind with meditation
know
you are the universe
then
continue selling vacuum cleaners.
still the mind with meditation
know
you are the universe
then
continue selling vacuum cleaners.
Monday, December 21, 2015
Winter Solstice
by Carl Mayfield
the ravens lift off
from the conifer
when shoes
scrape the gravel
at dawn
intrusion is a failure
of bones rattling
into a presence
which alarms the feathers
into wise flight
who is surprised
at the sound
of two feet emerging
from night's dream
more than me
the ravens lift off
from the conifer
when shoes
scrape the gravel
at dawn
intrusion is a failure
of bones rattling
into a presence
which alarms the feathers
into wise flight
who is surprised
at the sound
of two feet emerging
from night's dream
more than me
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Najimi
by Ed Hack
The winds are busy in the trees. Some give
so easily, the feathered ones. Some nod,
while other's don't, the old, who've outlived
centuries, gnarled and weatherworn, the gods
right after Time began, who gave a shape
to emptiness, perhaps are emptiness,
as Lao Tzu insists. The Garden shows fate's
signature--shadows, ripples, wind's caress
or ripping teeth, najimi, balance, in
what's here--old stone against the water's play,
the light and dark, the soft and fierce, the yin
and yang of all there is, not one lost stray
is possible, and all things on their way
to something else, for nothing ever stays.
The winds are busy in the trees. Some give
so easily, the feathered ones. Some nod,
while other's don't, the old, who've outlived
centuries, gnarled and weatherworn, the gods
right after Time began, who gave a shape
to emptiness, perhaps are emptiness,
as Lao Tzu insists. The Garden shows fate's
signature--shadows, ripples, wind's caress
or ripping teeth, najimi, balance, in
what's here--old stone against the water's play,
the light and dark, the soft and fierce, the yin
and yang of all there is, not one lost stray
is possible, and all things on their way
to something else, for nothing ever stays.
Lines
by Joyce Lorenson
beneath the owl's wings
wintry air
trees lashed with shadow
and at its edge
the river runs slower
beneath the owl's wings
wintry air
trees lashed with shadow
and at its edge
the river runs slower
A Trip to the Ocean
by Julie Ramon
Wind and seagulls make everyone else
seem far away, and the near, only passing
headlights. Here, it rains in the morning.
Waves bring shells and crabs to the shore.
It accepts everything we don’t. Feet are placed
carefully. We have sticks to poke things
we don’t understand. One morning, we found
a horseshoe crab and rolled it over. It’s legs moved
like a typewriter and made us jump.
Without understanding, you picked it up
and chucked it into the water breaking the smooth
surface between waves, understanding
that certain things don’t belong in certain places,
like us. And, you took my hand
worried it would come back and knew
you would be alright if I was there,
and we were walking towards Missouri.
Wind and seagulls make everyone else
seem far away, and the near, only passing
headlights. Here, it rains in the morning.
Waves bring shells and crabs to the shore.
It accepts everything we don’t. Feet are placed
carefully. We have sticks to poke things
we don’t understand. One morning, we found
a horseshoe crab and rolled it over. It’s legs moved
like a typewriter and made us jump.
Without understanding, you picked it up
and chucked it into the water breaking the smooth
surface between waves, understanding
that certain things don’t belong in certain places,
like us. And, you took my hand
worried it would come back and knew
you would be alright if I was there,
and we were walking towards Missouri.
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
The Neighborhood Garden
by Catfish McDaris
Rabbits ate okra
wrens ate tiny sunflowers
chipmunks ate green beans.
Rabbits ate okra
wrens ate tiny sunflowers
chipmunks ate green beans.
Lines
by Joyce Lorenson
white ghosts whirling
towards morning
waking to a cold fire and a dark room
an honest wind rattling the door
and the distance filling with snow
white ghosts whirling
towards morning
waking to a cold fire and a dark room
an honest wind rattling the door
and the distance filling with snow
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Hummingbird
by Carl Mayfield
From olive tree to conifer
across a pale September sky;
he's changing not before my eyes
but behind his, his heart hammering
a portrait faster than any brush
can stroke, his true colors
swimming in iridescence.
From olive tree to conifer
across a pale September sky;
he's changing not before my eyes
but behind his, his heart hammering
a portrait faster than any brush
can stroke, his true colors
swimming in iridescence.
Autumn apocalypse
by Ed Higgins
Beneath maples, oaks, and birches
an autumn apocalypse empties unruly brightness
onto lawns, sidewalks, the shoulders of watchers
and passers by. Whole drifts of madder yellow,
reds, and earth browns loosed to mould and
the gardener’s insufficient rake. By twos, twenties,
more, November jolted branches loose their color.
It is summer’s final uncoiling, fall’s harsh rhetoric
of leaf upon leaf let down, turning apex, flat margin,
base, serrated edges, settling, scattered to ground into
mellifluent lost syntax. Branch, trunk, and root hoard
only green memory now.
Beneath maples, oaks, and birches
an autumn apocalypse empties unruly brightness
onto lawns, sidewalks, the shoulders of watchers
and passers by. Whole drifts of madder yellow,
reds, and earth browns loosed to mould and
the gardener’s insufficient rake. By twos, twenties,
more, November jolted branches loose their color.
It is summer’s final uncoiling, fall’s harsh rhetoric
of leaf upon leaf let down, turning apex, flat margin,
base, serrated edges, settling, scattered to ground into
mellifluent lost syntax. Branch, trunk, and root hoard
only green memory now.
Wednesday, December 9, 2015
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
First Winter Snow
by Catfish McDaris
Birch trees full of black
feathered blue headed grackles
dancing on the wind
Fluttering up down
naked snowy ice branches
all flakes different
Blowing cold smoke rings
my shovel resting awhile
kids make snow angels.
Birch trees full of black
feathered blue headed grackles
dancing on the wind
Fluttering up down
naked snowy ice branches
all flakes different
Blowing cold smoke rings
my shovel resting awhile
kids make snow angels.
Sunday, November 29, 2015
What do you know about water?
by Emily Ramser
Did you know that in 5th grade,
I sang my very first song
in a school presentation
and that it was about transpiration,
and did you know that
my father doesn’t know how to swim
and did you know that my little brother
will only drink soda or sweet tea
and did you know that my mother
lives in a state that doesn’t have any available water
and did you know that there are trees
called tributaries
with branches made of streams?
Capsized
by M.J. Iuppa
Beneath a black willow, a wooden boat
stuck in sand & snakegrass appears
broken by years of work on water
that trembled with weather, ripe
& ready to diminish any net’s haul,
leaving you with rain in your ears—
marking the place where you stopped
irrevocably to listen to wind’s consuming
laughter that soon became your tears.
Beneath a black willow, a wooden boat
stuck in sand & snakegrass appears
broken by years of work on water
that trembled with weather, ripe
& ready to diminish any net’s haul,
leaving you with rain in your ears—
marking the place where you stopped
irrevocably to listen to wind’s consuming
laughter that soon became your tears.
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Early Santa Ana
by Heidi Morrell
This night the atmospheric caveats
come in gently like Chopin;
a dry breeze lifts hairs
rustling them like tiny leaves.
Santa Ana bathes the skin
with its aerial wash through the canyons,
canyon tongues that spit their gusts
into the huge Angeles basin,
a basin no longer wild with
arching ferns and alluvial fans,
mugwort and lily, tides and spring floods.
But the wind is still here,
stroking or maddening
with its heaves, sighs or curt salutes,
speaking in sepia tones
thrown into the sky.
This night the atmospheric caveats
come in gently like Chopin;
a dry breeze lifts hairs
rustling them like tiny leaves.
Santa Ana bathes the skin
with its aerial wash through the canyons,
canyon tongues that spit their gusts
into the huge Angeles basin,
a basin no longer wild with
arching ferns and alluvial fans,
mugwort and lily, tides and spring floods.
But the wind is still here,
stroking or maddening
with its heaves, sighs or curt salutes,
speaking in sepia tones
thrown into the sky.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Harvest
by Clinton Siegle
Harvest falls time changes orange to black colors sways
arrival of remembrance of the past days.
Reality seeds growing taking 100 days.
Vegetables cooked in 100 and one ways.
Eternity sprouts seeds of hope during these day's
season changes from green with orange to black day's
time for some spirits to be forewarned of past time's ways
harvest time prayer time on its way
almost winter time
real life to death time
vivid color changing time
eternity of hope in seed gathering time.
Seasonal difference time to harvest
time to harvest seeds for next harvest
Harvest falls time changes orange to black colors sways
arrival of remembrance of the past days.
Reality seeds growing taking 100 days.
Vegetables cooked in 100 and one ways.
Eternity sprouts seeds of hope during these day's
season changes from green with orange to black day's
time for some spirits to be forewarned of past time's ways
harvest time prayer time on its way
almost winter time
real life to death time
vivid color changing time
eternity of hope in seed gathering time.
Seasonal difference time to harvest
time to harvest seeds for next harvest
Thursday, November 19, 2015
An Untended Field
by Taylor Graham
A poor harvest from the garden
this year, water rationing
because of drought. Deer ate the few
just-ripening tomatoes.
The squash never blossomed.
Today, in November’s first soft rain
that derelict field – burned sun-dry
in June and left for dead – is suddenly
fragrant with the sweet plain scent
of life. Cheatgrass, chicory, wild oat.
A poor harvest from the garden
this year, water rationing
because of drought. Deer ate the few
just-ripening tomatoes.
The squash never blossomed.
Today, in November’s first soft rain
that derelict field – burned sun-dry
in June and left for dead – is suddenly
fragrant with the sweet plain scent
of life. Cheatgrass, chicory, wild oat.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Playing Dead
by Peter Branson
This autumn’s late, treescape and hedge dolled up
in party clothes. Dead wood’s been cleared, assailed
by snarling blade, teeth pulling torque and chain,
ploughed out, yet here’s an elm, its time well spent,
the sun-bleached corpus overlooked, as stark
as lightening tempered by a winter sky.
Like antlers, mast and gallants glow as white
as bone; some velvet bark clings on below.
Though dry as honeycomb in crumbling boards,
woodpecker holes beyond, like eyes in skulls,
the sculpted trunk’s a totem pole of lust.
Inside, where lichen feast and fungi dine,
vast confluence of creatures thrive, for, in
the wake of death, this constant wanton tide.
This autumn’s late, treescape and hedge dolled up
in party clothes. Dead wood’s been cleared, assailed
by snarling blade, teeth pulling torque and chain,
ploughed out, yet here’s an elm, its time well spent,
the sun-bleached corpus overlooked, as stark
as lightening tempered by a winter sky.
Like antlers, mast and gallants glow as white
as bone; some velvet bark clings on below.
Though dry as honeycomb in crumbling boards,
woodpecker holes beyond, like eyes in skulls,
the sculpted trunk’s a totem pole of lust.
Inside, where lichen feast and fungi dine,
vast confluence of creatures thrive, for, in
the wake of death, this constant wanton tide.
The Buck’s Baksheesh
by Maureen Kingston
The tar lake that was once our mountaintop is now a vast fly trap, catcher and dissolver of all that passes by. “Our dues have been paid,” the mine owner says on closing day. “Let reclamation commence.” He waves a red flag. A top lander in the distance kneels at the lake’s edge, dumps a load of bait into the slag. As though on cue a buck skull surfaces nearby, offers itself to the crowd: a form of alms, a corroded coin bobbing in an earthen begging bowl.
The brandling worms go to work, lovingly bristle industrial gunk from the skull’s black planes. We watch transfixed as the coal-ash apple is polished slick, as wriggling minstrels tell tall tales of healing in spit gleam, in slime rings, their sole mission to revamp vile with splenetic sieve and shimmy. The script they leave behind unsettles our settled notions of death and decay. And for an instant we almost believe in extended warranty—that deer herds might once again browse our vale; that our gardens might grow deformity-free.
Hope spasms through us, waves of insurgent murmurs, phantom lures, the flutter of old flames we can’t help pining for. We know better. The composter’s creed’s just another in a long line—a salvage come-on—no different than the saloon god’s many promises to intercede, his prayer cards always written in gin song and bluffer’s ink. Or worse, penned the morning after, too late to save enlightenment from its shot-gunned fate. We know. We don’t want to know.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Wasting Potatoes
by David Subacchi
Conformity and consistency
By words of mass production.
The harvesting machine
Wastefully leaves to rot
The too large or too small
For failing to meet
The ‘Supermarket Standard’.
Before mechanization
Eager hands picked
Potatoes of every size.
Food for hungry mouths
Unconcerned with uniformity.
The same still in those lands
Not yet reached by exploitation.
Conformity and consistency
By words of mass production.
The harvesting machine
Wastefully leaves to rot
The too large or too small
For failing to meet
The ‘Supermarket Standard’.
Before mechanization
Eager hands picked
Potatoes of every size.
Food for hungry mouths
Unconcerned with uniformity.
The same still in those lands
Not yet reached by exploitation.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
New Mexico Harvests
by Tricia Knoll
Beneath the searing dryness of the sun
the well-padded mestizo man paddled
in the iron pool at Ojo Caliente, recovering
from pressing cider. He moved
his arms as if they knew no other way
to circle. He spoke of blue corn, posole,
and today it was cider. So many apples.
The widow, lips chapped and cracked,
tugs vines in her waist-high vegetable bed
snarled with pumpkins and beans.
Her co-housing partners watch
thanksgiving coming on.
The deer sneak at midnight
to eat apples that thunk
down during the day.
They leave their pellets
and slink off
like clouds around the moon.
Beneath the searing dryness of the sun
the well-padded mestizo man paddled
in the iron pool at Ojo Caliente, recovering
from pressing cider. He moved
his arms as if they knew no other way
to circle. He spoke of blue corn, posole,
and today it was cider. So many apples.
The widow, lips chapped and cracked,
tugs vines in her waist-high vegetable bed
snarled with pumpkins and beans.
Her co-housing partners watch
thanksgiving coming on.
The deer sneak at midnight
to eat apples that thunk
down during the day.
They leave their pellets
and slink off
like clouds around the moon.
Sunday, November 8, 2015
Harvest - Book of Hours
by Terrence Sykes
Vellum fertile fields script
our hours of the day
staved upon the stars
parchment of fallowed seasons
altared memories
ambered remembrance
shattered shards
petrified recollections
gathered stones
clutter the cairn
bound to earth
binding fate
tracts of faith
nettle laden
boundary ditches
hail descends
proxied by Judas
mizzle & char
unleavened
humus & hymns
harp silently
annunciating
missal prayers
dreams of harvest
bleeding seeds onto
the very earth
Vellum fertile fields script
our hours of the day
staved upon the stars
parchment of fallowed seasons
altared memories
ambered remembrance
shattered shards
petrified recollections
gathered stones
clutter the cairn
bound to earth
binding fate
tracts of faith
nettle laden
boundary ditches
hail descends
proxied by Judas
mizzle & char
unleavened
humus & hymns
harp silently
annunciating
missal prayers
dreams of harvest
bleeding seeds onto
the very earth
Autumn Treasure
by Bubba Chambers
Beards, mossy grey, sway to the rhythm of chilled breezes,
trees without leaf, skeletal forms, cryptic beauty casts her spell.
Hoary forest, aged sleep, unaware my silent trespass.
Oak and ash need repose, dare I disturb their slumber?
An old cow cranes her neck over barbed wire.
she knows where the grass is greener.
Hay field wrapped and tightly bailed,
awaiting the next harvest.
Frost tonight? Maybe, to cover autumn’s beauty.
But white brings beauty of its own, achromatic color fleeting;
as it melts and hides inside the earth
leaving faces brown and ocher.
Leave the rose and buttercup to those who love the spring.
Naked landscape cold and barren, bring to us delight.
Sometimes things treasured least, conceived through frosted pane
muted colors of the fall, attendant once again.
Beards, mossy grey, sway to the rhythm of chilled breezes,
trees without leaf, skeletal forms, cryptic beauty casts her spell.
Hoary forest, aged sleep, unaware my silent trespass.
Oak and ash need repose, dare I disturb their slumber?
An old cow cranes her neck over barbed wire.
she knows where the grass is greener.
Hay field wrapped and tightly bailed,
awaiting the next harvest.
Frost tonight? Maybe, to cover autumn’s beauty.
But white brings beauty of its own, achromatic color fleeting;
as it melts and hides inside the earth
leaving faces brown and ocher.
Leave the rose and buttercup to those who love the spring.
Naked landscape cold and barren, bring to us delight.
Sometimes things treasured least, conceived through frosted pane
muted colors of the fall, attendant once again.
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Plums in August
by Dawn Claflin
This year, our plums
ripen early, unruly summer sun
maturing them by mid-August.
We are not ready.
But, the magnetic draw of tree-ripe fruit
attracts us,
to stand outside on rickety chairs and race
spiders and bees and wasps for
every oval, lovely under their silver blush,
secreted among so many leaves.
Each plum serves:
jammed, dried, or eaten whole,
our house transformed into a perfumery of fruit,
the smell clinging to our hair, our clothes, our skin,
sheets of our beds and even shower water
thick with the heady scent
of plums,
two weeks early.
This year, our plums
ripen early, unruly summer sun
maturing them by mid-August.
We are not ready.
But, the magnetic draw of tree-ripe fruit
attracts us,
to stand outside on rickety chairs and race
spiders and bees and wasps for
every oval, lovely under their silver blush,
secreted among so many leaves.
Each plum serves:
jammed, dried, or eaten whole,
our house transformed into a perfumery of fruit,
the smell clinging to our hair, our clothes, our skin,
sheets of our beds and even shower water
thick with the heady scent
of plums,
two weeks early.
Hays Coppices
by Peter Branson
Where youth is drilled in ranks, green copse, as yet
un-thinned, or cropped at root, or pruned head height,
stands proud, where Mulch-Dick, elfric, dryad, hob-
thrush, Churnmilk Peg abide, rouse loud hosan-
nas for the lord of light, I raise this psalm.
Late autumn, dawn, a hostage to the night,
has broken bounds, line dancing wild delight
with darkness in retreat, his coppered feet
stirred embers glowing on a charging breeze,
like flick’ring pages from the Book of Kells.
Each step resolves a moving screen, sun strobe
between gaunt, pewter-clad George Greens, wall-eyed
young squaddies on crusade, who guard, straight-bat,
defy importunate desire, this blind-
ing woodland glade, the midnight fox on fire.
Where youth is drilled in ranks, green copse, as yet
un-thinned, or cropped at root, or pruned head height,
stands proud, where Mulch-Dick, elfric, dryad, hob-
thrush, Churnmilk Peg abide, rouse loud hosan-
nas for the lord of light, I raise this psalm.
Late autumn, dawn, a hostage to the night,
has broken bounds, line dancing wild delight
with darkness in retreat, his coppered feet
stirred embers glowing on a charging breeze,
like flick’ring pages from the Book of Kells.
Each step resolves a moving screen, sun strobe
between gaunt, pewter-clad George Greens, wall-eyed
young squaddies on crusade, who guard, straight-bat,
defy importunate desire, this blind-
ing woodland glade, the midnight fox on fire.
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Cosmic Quiet
by KJ Hannah Greenberg
In space, all is still.
Distant stars twinkle brightly
The cosmos spins life.
In space, all is still.
Distant stars twinkle brightly
The cosmos spins life.
Sunday, November 1, 2015
A Promised Meeting by the Riverbank
by Taufiq Abdul Khalid
Bring your bigotry and your hooded hate,
And I will find us a spot on the riverbank,
Bring your usury and their collateralized tears,
And I will find us a spot on the riverbank,
Bring your religion and other excuse for hubris,
And I will find us a spot on the riverbank,
Bring your guns and trophies of the hunt,
And I will find us a spot on the riverbank,
Bring your carbon credit and other deceits,
And I will find us a spot on the riverbank,
Bring your good and your bad,
Your cloudy skies and your sunshine,
Bring all your rights and your wrongs,
To a spot I will find on the riverbank,
In the Garden of mercy
Where we all belong.
Bring your bigotry and your hooded hate,
And I will find us a spot on the riverbank,
Bring your usury and their collateralized tears,
And I will find us a spot on the riverbank,
Bring your religion and other excuse for hubris,
And I will find us a spot on the riverbank,
Bring your guns and trophies of the hunt,
And I will find us a spot on the riverbank,
Bring your carbon credit and other deceits,
And I will find us a spot on the riverbank,
Bring your good and your bad,
Your cloudy skies and your sunshine,
Bring all your rights and your wrongs,
To a spot I will find on the riverbank,
In the Garden of mercy
Where we all belong.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Piece of Quartz
by Taylor Graham
Glittering in autumn light, it recommends
silence. This October morning,
everything seems to wait like the loneliness
of stones. The dry creek dreams
of sipping water in tiny song. Rain leaves it
alone. Sun sublimates the water-dish
put out for lizards and frogs, too shallow
a trough. No matter to stones,
a decade of drought. Crystal remembers
the longest tales. How young
these creekbanks, undercut, re-carved
each time a flood tears out fences,
overwhelms the swale, digs up old bones.
Ancient naturalist, this stone.
Glittering in autumn light, it recommends
silence. This October morning,
everything seems to wait like the loneliness
of stones. The dry creek dreams
of sipping water in tiny song. Rain leaves it
alone. Sun sublimates the water-dish
put out for lizards and frogs, too shallow
a trough. No matter to stones,
a decade of drought. Crystal remembers
the longest tales. How young
these creekbanks, undercut, re-carved
each time a flood tears out fences,
overwhelms the swale, digs up old bones.
Ancient naturalist, this stone.
Green House Harvest
by Ed Higgins
Rich tilth of organic mushroom compost
from the large pile near the barn. Delivered
twice yearly from the mushroom farm
two miles upwind from us.
An attentive courtesy for when summer breezes
drift our way, bringing dark scents of mixed
straw and chicken manure. This morning’s harvest
snap peas, beets and lemon tomatoes
growing in this fertile medium. Through my
fingertips I diligently fill my garden trug:
peas first, then beets (shaking off the soil), finally
lush yellow tomatoes from fruit-heavy vines.
Rich tilth of organic mushroom compost
from the large pile near the barn. Delivered
twice yearly from the mushroom farm
two miles upwind from us.
An attentive courtesy for when summer breezes
drift our way, bringing dark scents of mixed
straw and chicken manure. This morning’s harvest
snap peas, beets and lemon tomatoes
growing in this fertile medium. Through my
fingertips I diligently fill my garden trug:
peas first, then beets (shaking off the soil), finally
lush yellow tomatoes from fruit-heavy vines.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Sunday, October 25, 2015
Anticipating winter
by Ed Higgins
Today there are definite signs:
grey sky and clouds
their core dark as sorrow
torrent rain driven aslant
against the barn’s side
swollen Yamhill creek
furious with water
another v of geese
over the farm this morning
the plowed field soggy underfoot
fixed on distant May
a hawk hung in chill October air
like a narrow winged thought.
Today there are definite signs:
grey sky and clouds
their core dark as sorrow
torrent rain driven aslant
against the barn’s side
swollen Yamhill creek
furious with water
another v of geese
over the farm this morning
the plowed field soggy underfoot
fixed on distant May
a hawk hung in chill October air
like a narrow winged thought.
Goldfinch
by Terrence Sykes
pentecostal
cloaked
laden
maple tree
nested
goldfinch
obese
from fallen
caraway harvest
obsidian wings
feathered flock
wild mustard
dancing amongst
evening breezes
pentecostal
cloaked
laden
maple tree
nested
goldfinch
obese
from fallen
caraway harvest
obsidian wings
feathered flock
wild mustard
dancing amongst
evening breezes
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Filling The Silo
by Joyce Lorenson
from every farm
up and down the valley
the long drawn out whine
of corn choppers
still air in
a state of fermentation
flurries of fodder fall
from the auger
a ripe liquor drains
from the trembling chute
the season's harvest
from the cows
a flush of fresh milk
from every farm
up and down the valley
the long drawn out whine
of corn choppers
still air in
a state of fermentation
flurries of fodder fall
from the auger
a ripe liquor drains
from the trembling chute
the season's harvest
from the cows
a flush of fresh milk
Long shadows cross the fields
by Maury Grimm
Long shadows cross the fields, gold against the grey sky. The days shorten with a color so intense even the cottonwoods stark green and intricate blacks of branches stand like sculptures in the slow evening light.
The chickens scratch about in the garden. I talk to them through the open window. We have made some sort of bond now, even Łizhiní cocks his head when I speak to them. I tell him he is a good boy and he relaxes, closes his eyes. He is an amazingly good rooster.
The wind is up now. The newly planted hoop with winter vegetables shivers and the sudden cold makes me think of closing windows.
But I am not ready yet, to close out the wind, the light.
Long shadows cross the fields, gold against the grey sky. The days shorten with a color so intense even the cottonwoods stark green and intricate blacks of branches stand like sculptures in the slow evening light.
The chickens scratch about in the garden. I talk to them through the open window. We have made some sort of bond now, even Łizhiní cocks his head when I speak to them. I tell him he is a good boy and he relaxes, closes his eyes. He is an amazingly good rooster.
The wind is up now. The newly planted hoop with winter vegetables shivers and the sudden cold makes me think of closing windows.
But I am not ready yet, to close out the wind, the light.
