by Virgil Huston
Iridescent hues glisten
in morning dew warmth
Walking softly feet wet
Green surrounded by
opaque grey the path
evaporates
Sunday, February 28, 2016
The Wound
By Denny E. Marshall
Day after day, the earth will bleed
With blood of water and of land
Humans born with the gene of greed
Day after day, the earth will bleed
Mostly for our own selfish needs
Not just companies understand
Day after day, the earth will bleed
With blood of water and of land
Day after day, the earth will bleed
With blood of water and of land
Humans born with the gene of greed
Day after day, the earth will bleed
Mostly for our own selfish needs
Not just companies understand
Day after day, the earth will bleed
With blood of water and of land
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Hawk Against The Sky
by Ed Hack
The circling, minute adjustments of
its telltale wings, its ancient circuitry,
black diamond of its brain. Who speaks of love
but all the while neglects the hawk is free
to babble on unmoored from fact, that black
shape circling now. So much summed up in names--
a plunderer, a rapist too, and rapt
in holy light. The hawk's beyond all shame,
like God who breaks us into faith. Against
the gray or sun-dazed light raw hunger guides
its circling flight, impeccable and cleansed,
angelic wings' dark silence as it glides.
Whatever else sky is, it's home to hawks--
implacable and circling, their force.
The circling, minute adjustments of
its telltale wings, its ancient circuitry,
black diamond of its brain. Who speaks of love
but all the while neglects the hawk is free
to babble on unmoored from fact, that black
shape circling now. So much summed up in names--
a plunderer, a rapist too, and rapt
in holy light. The hawk's beyond all shame,
like God who breaks us into faith. Against
the gray or sun-dazed light raw hunger guides
its circling flight, impeccable and cleansed,
angelic wings' dark silence as it glides.
Whatever else sky is, it's home to hawks--
implacable and circling, their force.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
A Farmer Collects Plants for Louis XVI
by Andrea Wyatt
visiting settlements along the tidal reaches of the Chesapeake
André Michaux sketches patches of tiny pale flowers in moss
with bumpy sweet potatoes at the edges
yellow bees in the chestnut tree leaves
“we cannot sett down a foot, but tread on
Strawberries and fallen mulberrie vines,”
he writes in a small pocket diary stained with saltwater and bear grease
meets men & women who trade beaver skins
roast fat red kernelled ears of corn, dry spicy dark tobacco leaves
gather sea lavender & eat oysters till they keel over
as the canvasbacks and mallards obscure the sun
fly through the wet November sky
they have no idea it is past time to leave
as Louis pushes himself away from his royal table
filled with empty oyster shells & corn.
visiting settlements along the tidal reaches of the Chesapeake
André Michaux sketches patches of tiny pale flowers in moss
with bumpy sweet potatoes at the edges
yellow bees in the chestnut tree leaves
“we cannot sett down a foot, but tread on
Strawberries and fallen mulberrie vines,”
he writes in a small pocket diary stained with saltwater and bear grease
meets men & women who trade beaver skins
roast fat red kernelled ears of corn, dry spicy dark tobacco leaves
gather sea lavender & eat oysters till they keel over
as the canvasbacks and mallards obscure the sun
fly through the wet November sky
they have no idea it is past time to leave
as Louis pushes himself away from his royal table
filled with empty oyster shells & corn.
Trails
by David Chorlton
Along a voiceless trail
are the shadows of birds
who once flew over it,
and embedded in the dirt
the tracks a fox left
one full moon’s night
when its tail curled up
behind it with a spark
at the tip of each hair.
Language doesn’t help us
find a way back
to them, only grants
the means to ask where
they have gone, and whether
any other trail leads there.
Along a voiceless trail
are the shadows of birds
who once flew over it,
and embedded in the dirt
the tracks a fox left
one full moon’s night
when its tail curled up
behind it with a spark
at the tip of each hair.
Language doesn’t help us
find a way back
to them, only grants
the means to ask where
they have gone, and whether
any other trail leads there.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Slovenian Lament
by Terrence Sykes
fog cloaks
gray slate roofs
flint & shadows
streets void
stone mute trees
black canvas blank
steady rain
falls upon the autumn
flowers silent at dusk
darkness drapes
muted melancholy
trellising the soul
burja winds announce
death or resurrection
certainty of uncertainty
dissonance & dissension
chapel & steeple
distant tolling
vertigo & vengeance
mistaken towering babel
forgotten in the ruins
fog cloaks
gray slate roofs
flint & shadows
streets void
stone mute trees
black canvas blank
steady rain
falls upon the autumn
flowers silent at dusk
darkness drapes
muted melancholy
trellising the soul
burja winds announce
death or resurrection
certainty of uncertainty
dissonance & dissension
chapel & steeple
distant tolling
vertigo & vengeance
mistaken towering babel
forgotten in the ruins
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
Cloak of Fog
by Tim Staley
The sun picks the scab of night
but clouds foam over the light.
The clouds fling their fingers
against the mountain, glide up
and over or sidle for miles
against the canyon wall.
A mountain lion tiptoes
down the canyon to the spring,
both of us are spooked
by the boom of nuclear bombers
running maneuvers all morning
under the cloak of fog.
The sun picks the scab of night
but clouds foam over the light.
The clouds fling their fingers
against the mountain, glide up
and over or sidle for miles
against the canyon wall.
A mountain lion tiptoes
down the canyon to the spring,
both of us are spooked
by the boom of nuclear bombers
running maneuvers all morning
under the cloak of fog.
The Dance of the Meek Lake
by Mendes Biondo
the meek lake
budges with breeze
stalks of sedge
the factories
on the opposite bank
stand still
too hard to
dance with
the meek lake
the meek lake
budges with breeze
stalks of sedge
the factories
on the opposite bank
stand still
too hard to
dance with
the meek lake
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Acer rubrum for Valentine’s Day
by Karla Linn Merrifield
Swamp maples begin leafing
in February in Central Florida.
Spring is stingy with their crimson
sequins or sparing of sightseers’ eyes.
I catch too few, so squint
into water below doubling the color
upon reflection.
A tree’s sap seems to be flowering
blood across the pond’s still surface.
A single maple in a singular swamp
is just now— now—coming into bud.
I am somehow younger, rubied
in the light, blushing in the shadows:
a girl again, rouged with youth.
Swamp maples begin leafing
in February in Central Florida.
Spring is stingy with their crimson
sequins or sparing of sightseers’ eyes.
I catch too few, so squint
into water below doubling the color
upon reflection.
A tree’s sap seems to be flowering
blood across the pond’s still surface.
A single maple in a singular swamp
is just now— now—coming into bud.
I am somehow younger, rubied
in the light, blushing in the shadows:
a girl again, rouged with youth.
Thursday, February 11, 2016
Another Rainy Day
by Ed Hack
The storm's set free the tree's dark rushing voice,
raw whispering of branches crazed by wind,
of leaves still caught in night. This isn't noise
but language that the silence holds, the kin
of light asleep in stone. The roiling gray
is odd right now, a knot gone slack, as rain
sweeps down and slicks the leaves that drip and sway,
explode, fall limp as wind unwinds its skein.
The knot's undone as air turns gray-glare clear.
The day has taken hold, the rain relents,
though leaves still fly in gouts of wind that shear
then pool, uprear, collapse in wild ferment.
And then a change, vague shadows show, the sun
a broken bulb--it's not quite light but crumbs.
The storm's set free the tree's dark rushing voice,
raw whispering of branches crazed by wind,
of leaves still caught in night. This isn't noise
but language that the silence holds, the kin
of light asleep in stone. The roiling gray
is odd right now, a knot gone slack, as rain
sweeps down and slicks the leaves that drip and sway,
explode, fall limp as wind unwinds its skein.
The knot's undone as air turns gray-glare clear.
The day has taken hold, the rain relents,
though leaves still fly in gouts of wind that shear
then pool, uprear, collapse in wild ferment.
And then a change, vague shadows show, the sun
a broken bulb--it's not quite light but crumbs.
Dog Canyon
by Tim Staley
Darkness unrolls over the west
like black nylons, one over the other.
Fire leaps from the stalks
of the desert spoon.
The breeze massages juniper
and pinyon sticks
into a jag of sparks.
Folding fire into itself for hours
teasing out more flames.
Light spasms of space junk
pierce the atmosphere
and steal attention from the blaze.
Darkness unrolls over the west
like black nylons, one over the other.
Fire leaps from the stalks
of the desert spoon.
The breeze massages juniper
and pinyon sticks
into a jag of sparks.
Folding fire into itself for hours
teasing out more flames.
Light spasms of space junk
pierce the atmosphere
and steal attention from the blaze.
The Park
by Tammy T. Stone
concrete spillage
allowing for no
mighty flowers
to peek through and
rise straight to sun
dumpster flower pots
instead
plastic brocade
plants tended to with
minute care
in this barren space
maybe early
in the morning
maybe by elderly
volunteers
pressing ever forward
in strong constitution
maybe with tweezers,
even, so as not
to miss a thing
the plants in
this here and
this now a mystery
save their
earthly
origins
concrete spillage
allowing for no
mighty flowers
to peek through and
rise straight to sun
dumpster flower pots
instead
plastic brocade
plants tended to with
minute care
in this barren space
maybe early
in the morning
maybe by elderly
volunteers
pressing ever forward
in strong constitution
maybe with tweezers,
even, so as not
to miss a thing
the plants in
this here and
this now a mystery
save their
earthly
origins
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Petals
Directions
Brian Pham
Forward and ahead,
where the birds flew for the spring,
they create new life.
Backwards and behind,
where they fly for the winter,
they try to survive.
Up high and above,
like the sun, their day
starts and ends with time.
Down low and below,
this marks the end of the day,
to repeat again.
Four Seasons
Franchesca Benjamin
Colors of all sorts
are loved by all hummingbirds
nature's cycle comes
The clash of the two
first comes the sweltering sun
then the ocean's wave
A gust of dark leaves
will eventually fall–
a child's playground
White blanket laid out
where all ages lay upon
for angels to form
Changing Times
Nathan Tran
Creatures awaken
to a soft and mellow
some for the first time
Dry or rainy days
fighting for little water
or running from it
Red and orange leaves
scatter across the land
a lonely wind blows
A blanket of white
covering the past mistakes
creatures hibernate
Four Haiku
Isabella Vasquez
The jasmine blossoms
like stars in the growing night
alone and waiting.
The jasmine falling
and leaves glisten in the sun
like naked bodies.
The decaying leaves
turn from green to gold and red
like bursts of flowers.
Leaves give way to ice
and shudders in the white snow,
only sticks remain.
Seasons
Ahjanay Ervin
Tulips awaken,
a hummingbirds melody-
The promise of spring.
Mothers burst with joy
during the summer and play with
their laughing children.
As autumn appears,
colored leaves drift through the wind
till nothing remains.
An ice sickle falls
landing on the white pillows
of snow beneath it.
Two Poems
Megan Lee
Snow
Gently descending
Trees covered in white blankets
Frozen fingertips
Warmth
No signs
As sunlight consumes the cold-
A summer morning
Two Haiku
Steven Singeorzan
Ground slips under me
Running for dear life help me -
Mother wakes me up
In the scorching heat
Many stairs no one here but me
Whistling the tune
Untitled
Amanda Abad
A mouse scurries by
while a hawk swiftly swoops down,
for an early snack
Two Poems
Grace An
Spring Breeze
Fuzzy winds along
the blooming flowers, tickle
my nose very much.
Morning Runs
These morning winds hurt,
it cuts me with its sharp flow.
Mom, can I go home?
Two Poems
Maggie Kung
Spring
Late in the spring night
Dog barks hysterically
Baby bird perish
The Scorpion
Scorpion is trapped,
it tries to find a way out-
stings itself and dies
Two Poems
Kayla Katsuda
Monday Mornings
Bare trees, a new day
in an empty parking lot
a blue sky brightens
Before the Storm
The rain is coming,
the great gray clouds fill the sky
anticipation
Untitled
Angelica Ellerma
The flashes lit trees
chaos took over the town,
lives and homes was lost.
Time of the Season
Ryan Estrella
Leaves slowly unfurl
Pale versions of fall colors
Quickly change to green
No one is sleeping
The nights keep getting shorter
Will they disappear?
The school bell prevails
The swimming pool’s just a dream
Sleep is dearly missed
Cool breezes kiss skin
LA shivers in the wind
Family time begins
Editor's note: the above selections were produced by a workshop for young writers in Cerritos, California. The Tavern is flattered and grateful to have been chosen by the authors for their submissions. The editor especially wishes to recognize 'The jasmine falling' by Isabella Vasquez , 'In the scorching heat' by Steven Singeorzan and "Dry or rainy days' by Nathan Tran for overall excellence.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
One Rabbit
by Ingrid Bruck
Rabbit hops away,
a dandelion held in his mouth
the silver orb of seeds bobs
on the end of the stem it is eating.
Rabbit hops away,
a dandelion held in his mouth
the silver orb of seeds bobs
on the end of the stem it is eating.
Thursday, February 4, 2016
To Start a Wander
by Tricia Knoll
Older than little, here on a threshold
to the woods that reconfigures
what was and is new. A worn duff
path to a next grand possibility,
a tinge of silver tomorrow in my sunset.
Do not speak of jawbones
called out long ago, just looseness
unwinding, how even a furled feather
hovers for footsteps
to start a wander,
a wander into deep green,
resolving the me
that still worships green.
Older than little, here on a threshold
to the woods that reconfigures
what was and is new. A worn duff
path to a next grand possibility,
a tinge of silver tomorrow in my sunset.
Do not speak of jawbones
called out long ago, just looseness
unwinding, how even a furled feather
hovers for footsteps
to start a wander,
a wander into deep green,
resolving the me
that still worships green.
Weather For Hawks
by Ed Hack
White winter light and blue that long ago
forgot what mercy is. A morning for
a hawk. The clouds are silvered gray and glow
a razored glare, raw light you can't ignore,
that blinds the eye that cannot help but look.
The perfect light for hawks. And when it dims
the silver has a wicked gleam, a hook
that skewers nerves, edged pain up to the brim.
The wind is polishing the upper leaves.
Bright points wink on, wink off. We are what is
irrelevant. We are what we believe.
The hawk is real, the rest self-serving myth.
We wake, we work, we love, we war, we talk,
we plan. While high above, the circling hawk.
White winter light and blue that long ago
forgot what mercy is. A morning for
a hawk. The clouds are silvered gray and glow
a razored glare, raw light you can't ignore,
that blinds the eye that cannot help but look.
The perfect light for hawks. And when it dims
the silver has a wicked gleam, a hook
that skewers nerves, edged pain up to the brim.
The wind is polishing the upper leaves.
Bright points wink on, wink off. We are what is
irrelevant. We are what we believe.
The hawk is real, the rest self-serving myth.
We wake, we work, we love, we war, we talk,
we plan. While high above, the circling hawk.
The Black Mother
by Mendes Biondo
do not forget the taste
of the earth that nourished
your lush roots
although sick and sterile
the black mother
was the first source
where you taste the water
do not forget the taste
of the earth that nourished
your lush roots
although sick and sterile
the black mother
was the first source
where you taste the water
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Swimming Deer
by Al Ortolani
A young buck swims the center of Shoal Creek in flood stage. Rains have pummeled the hills for two days. Now, sunlight like yellow flowers patchworks the timber, crosses the lapping waves, climbs the bluff. The buck bobs in and out of dappled shade, felted antlers green in early sun. Spring run-off carries him through the park and under the distant highway bridge. Hawks catch the April wind, rise quickly into the fresh blue. All that ever was, or will be, is now.
dogwood spray
in gray timber, daffodils
clutched in landfill
A young buck swims the center of Shoal Creek in flood stage. Rains have pummeled the hills for two days. Now, sunlight like yellow flowers patchworks the timber, crosses the lapping waves, climbs the bluff. The buck bobs in and out of dappled shade, felted antlers green in early sun. Spring run-off carries him through the park and under the distant highway bridge. Hawks catch the April wind, rise quickly into the fresh blue. All that ever was, or will be, is now.
dogwood spray
in gray timber, daffodils
clutched in landfill
Winter
(for John Nightingale)
by Terrence Sykes
In my garden of regret
seeds of forgotten sorrow
cast with damp ashes
silence already muted spirits
No need to gather
harvest that again
since weeds & crops
now yellowed & strawed
Glazed with frost
contentment & burdens
death & resurrection
indistinguishable
In my garden of regret
seeds of forgotten sorrow
cast with damp ashes
silence already muted spirits
No need to gather
harvest that again
since weeds & crops
now yellowed & strawed
Glazed with frost
contentment & burdens
death & resurrection
indistinguishable
Our Blue Marble
by Kerry Seymour
Our blue marble floats,
perfect
from a distance.
Here, mined and fracked,
aquifers sucked dry,
she quakes
and sinkholes gape;
Continents bake,
yet the coasts drown
in warming waters.
In millennia to come,
our drying orb
of desperate remainders
smolders, beyond thirst.
This was our only blue marble.
Our blue marble floats,
perfect
from a distance.
Here, mined and fracked,
aquifers sucked dry,
she quakes
and sinkholes gape;
Continents bake,
yet the coasts drown
in warming waters.
In millennia to come,
our drying orb
of desperate remainders
smolders, beyond thirst.
This was our only blue marble.
Sunday, January 31, 2016
The Fall
by Mark Danowsky
Up mountain
sky quickens
Clouds gather
O moon
Long days
Color drains
maple veins
Up mountain
sky quickens
Clouds gather
O moon
Long days
Color drains
maple veins
Only a Yew Tree
by Elena Croitoru
The rivers are turning
into bronze clay carcasses
with shrivelled lips which stretch
like the horizon.
The sky is a
mosaic of broken blue glass,
slicing chiffon clouds
with no water to give.
No movement on the flatland.
No snails to drink
colourless blood.
No daffodils to pierce
the Romanian plain.
Only a barren yew tree clings to the earth.
The rivers are turning
into bronze clay carcasses
with shrivelled lips which stretch
like the horizon.
The sky is a
mosaic of broken blue glass,
slicing chiffon clouds
with no water to give.
No movement on the flatland.
No snails to drink
colourless blood.
No daffodils to pierce
the Romanian plain.
Only a barren yew tree clings to the earth.
In the Quapaw Quarter
by Kenneth Salzmann
This redbud sears
and steams when ice
white as an older world
slips over the Quapaw
in new spring.
It is an ember cupped in the verdant
bed of March and smoldering,
spattering promises while poised
to answer anticipated needs
for heat and light.
At flashpoint a cardinal skims across
its purpled fingers, sipping vapor.
This redbud sears
and steams when ice
white as an older world
slips over the Quapaw
in new spring.
It is an ember cupped in the verdant
bed of March and smoldering,
spattering promises while poised
to answer anticipated needs
for heat and light.
At flashpoint a cardinal skims across
its purpled fingers, sipping vapor.
Thursday, January 28, 2016
Ten-Kilowatt Sun
by Taylor Graham
Unshaven Winter goes nattering
the fields and creek-bottoms,
leaving muddy prints; checks his
shadow by the weathercock’s skeleton
that whines to everlasting wind.
Late sun angles down on the single
color-spot, a yellow wheelbarrow
missing its wheel.
The woodpile diminishes.
Only coyote-bush rejoices,
white blossoms buoyant with seed.
Unshaven Winter goes nattering
the fields and creek-bottoms,
leaving muddy prints; checks his
shadow by the weathercock’s skeleton
that whines to everlasting wind.
Late sun angles down on the single
color-spot, a yellow wheelbarrow
missing its wheel.
The woodpile diminishes.
Only coyote-bush rejoices,
white blossoms buoyant with seed.
Heat Advisory
by Susan Summers
bleached skull rises in the east
to a morning of lifeless grey
too depleted for rosy hues
to exhausted for blue
only the white hot
of heat advisories
ozone alerts
bakes bones
to dust
bleached skull rises in the east
to a morning of lifeless grey
too depleted for rosy hues
to exhausted for blue
only the white hot
of heat advisories
ozone alerts
bakes bones
to dust
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Ancient Ash
by Terrence Sykes
ancient ash
along the banks
silent Loire
brambled blackberries
greenbriars
fortress of solitude
hedgehog
peers contentedly
having never
visited Paris
ancient ash
along the banks
silent Loire
brambled blackberries
greenbriars
fortress of solitude
hedgehog
peers contentedly
having never
visited Paris
Climate Change
by Gary Beck
Summer days ended,
battered trees lose their green,
supplanted by urban drear
until life blooms again,
surviving suffocating winter.
Bare skin covered
by confining garments,
curious paradox;
leaves fall off,
clothing goes on,
reversed in springtime;
leaves sprout,
clothing's removed,
unless disaster
alters the cycle.
Summer days ended,
battered trees lose their green,
supplanted by urban drear
until life blooms again,
surviving suffocating winter.
Bare skin covered
by confining garments,
curious paradox;
leaves fall off,
clothing goes on,
reversed in springtime;
leaves sprout,
clothing's removed,
unless disaster
alters the cycle.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Earth Day 2015
by Sarah Frances Moran
Calbuco decided it was past time to make love to the sky
and with a violence reserved for Gods, she did.
How the clouds matured for her.
How they responded with an equal fury.
How the crackle of that spark lit up the world.
Illuminating eyes with a blanket of ash,
she stroked out a picture and put on a dance
for all us devils below.
Calbuco decided it was time to show off the Heavens
How the Earth can reach up to kiss the atmosphere
How the lightning soaked offspring of dueling lovers toss in the wind
How commanding love can be
Distributing glory over a multitude of medias,
She woke and she warned us.
Calbuco decided
It was time for this awakening.
Calbuco decided it was past time to make love to the sky
and with a violence reserved for Gods, she did.
How the clouds matured for her.
How they responded with an equal fury.
How the crackle of that spark lit up the world.
Illuminating eyes with a blanket of ash,
she stroked out a picture and put on a dance
for all us devils below.
Calbuco decided it was time to show off the Heavens
How the Earth can reach up to kiss the atmosphere
How the lightning soaked offspring of dueling lovers toss in the wind
How commanding love can be
Distributing glory over a multitude of medias,
She woke and she warned us.
Calbuco decided
It was time for this awakening.
Prelude To Darkness
by Bruce Mundhenke
Bridge of light
Upon Illinois water,
Pathway to the setting sun,
A murder of crows in a maple,
Fly to the east one by one,
Winging their way
To a winter roost,
Before the darkness comes.
Bridge of light
Upon Illinois water,
Pathway to the setting sun,
A murder of crows in a maple,
Fly to the east one by one,
Winging their way
To a winter roost,
Before the darkness comes.
Before Dawn
by Taylor Graham
It’s dark as oak woods
before junco unravels jitty-song
out of underbush, scrabbing
tangles of new
grass that push up
through the dead.
Morning turns on its axis
at its own good pace.
It’s dark as oak woods
before junco unravels jitty-song
out of underbush, scrabbing
tangles of new
grass that push up
through the dead.
Morning turns on its axis
at its own good pace.
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Mallards on the Washington Channel
by Andrea Wyatt
In the winter light the drakes
sail through the drink,
green heads, yellow beaks,
scoop slugs and snails
caught in the shoreline grass,
river water rushes through the gates
of the inlet bridge, first in,
and when the tide turns, out
and sends the sord* into the air to join the gulls
that sweep the gray December skies.
*a flight of mallards,
from Middle English sorden, or, to surge
In the winter light the drakes
sail through the drink,
green heads, yellow beaks,
scoop slugs and snails
caught in the shoreline grass,
river water rushes through the gates
of the inlet bridge, first in,
and when the tide turns, out
and sends the sord* into the air to join the gulls
that sweep the gray December skies.
*a flight of mallards,
from Middle English sorden, or, to surge
Sunday, January 17, 2016
What I Hear
Late Summer 2014
by Maury Grimm
I hear the mockingbirds scolding
the dart of hummingbirds, a whir
the engine revving, a horses’ snort
Robins returned for ripening fruit
I hear the ripening of currants
a buzz of bees
the horses’ hoof hitting ground
I hear the shift of clouds
I hear the shift of clouds, that high murmur
broken mare’s tails adrift
the cumulus foaming
against the Sangres
I hear the pattern of leaves
the quelites flowering
the earth holding roots of parsnips
daucus and salsify
I hear the wings of butterflies
the hummingbird moth
lighting on the radish blooms
I hear the long probe
The sand moves when I walk
I hear it like doves
I hear the limbs of trees
these old Salix nigra finger
the summer sky
Not only do the bird songs vary
I almost know each one.
I hear how each wing resonates
species to species
I hear their spectacle in flight
Like wasps do not sound like bees
nor even the pesky fly
not one has a similar buzz
even the broad bumble bee has its singular sound
I hear the truck going by
laden with bee hives
an airplane overhead
and the sheep nestling
into the afternoon shade
I hear the yellow roses fading
pentstemons and jump-ups now overtaken
by hollyhocks, rudbeckias
I hear the rain settling into the dry earth
I hear the red-tail hawks, all ways on time, circling above
a fly bumps into the screen, another train
passes through town
I hear my neighbor return
gravel bitten by tires
I hear my heart
my pen across this paper
my eyes struggle to see and make
heeded the words I hear
I hear the follicles of skin the wind raises
that stand on my arms, my face
the truck with its hitch rattling
the distant wanting dog
I hear the heart wanting
the heart, if it could be overheard
with its stories of loss
with stories of hope, the dreams
Wanting to hear the birds
the soft shuffle of hooves
that do not want to eat the milkweed
I hear the jasmine-scented blossoms fading
pods forming seeds
The seeds of shepherd’s purse and amaranth
that come up all summer if I let them
I hear them in places
bursting the ground
A siren, I hear the crows
a conversation between the magpies
and in the night, sometimes a yelp
coyotes or dogs or both
I hear the heat on my toes
when my blood flows too hard
when the heart is quiet
I hear the heart when it pounds
I hear the click of a grasshopper
in the afternoon heat, clatters
grass breaking underfoot
or on the teeth of the sheep
I hear the flies
more restless in this late afternoon
I hear the manure and smell its sweetness
the hay being cut
I hear the sheep
watching me through the fence
and the thunder coming
in this afternoon’s storm
And now the rain
in all its blessings
beating on the windows
my skin, onto leaves
I hear it through nostrils
the leaves sucking this sparse moisture
I hear the smell of ripening currants
the amaranth and purslane winding around old bricks
and the old church, not far
its old bricks empty, decomposing
into the old and overgrown yard
I hear the rust of the old Studebaker
where it rests
I hear the well pump click on
the measure of time like clicks
the hearts’ desire denied
the many times leaving, the many times returning
I hear the presence of the beloved
the child, the lover, the parent
gone, but never gone, I hear them
voices that fill memory
I hear the dust
the demise of rock
ground by water
air and time
And I hear the water
a roar, a pounding over rocks
the crash and then thin vapor
when it returns to cloud
And clouds, I hear the air
its sky colors
from white to black
azure to crimson
I hear the wind in a breeze, the howl
And time
I hear its muffled drive from then to now
to where
to all that is my history
I hear my legs split apart
the birth of my children
my mother’s last breath
my father’s stern voice
grandmothers' lessons
And I hear nothing
only my body moving
through the water
through air, through time
And this morning I hear the poet
breathe then gone voiceless
a hole in the wind
where words once stood.
I hear the mockingbirds scolding
the dart of hummingbirds, a whir
the engine revving, a horses’ snort
Robins returned for ripening fruit
I hear the ripening of currants
a buzz of bees
the horses’ hoof hitting ground
I hear the shift of clouds
I hear the shift of clouds, that high murmur
broken mare’s tails adrift
the cumulus foaming
against the Sangres
I hear the pattern of leaves
the quelites flowering
the earth holding roots of parsnips
daucus and salsify
I hear the wings of butterflies
the hummingbird moth
lighting on the radish blooms
I hear the long probe
The sand moves when I walk
I hear it like doves
I hear the limbs of trees
these old Salix nigra finger
the summer sky
Not only do the bird songs vary
I almost know each one.
I hear how each wing resonates
species to species
I hear their spectacle in flight
Like wasps do not sound like bees
nor even the pesky fly
not one has a similar buzz
even the broad bumble bee has its singular sound
I hear the truck going by
laden with bee hives
an airplane overhead
and the sheep nestling
into the afternoon shade
I hear the yellow roses fading
pentstemons and jump-ups now overtaken
by hollyhocks, rudbeckias
I hear the rain settling into the dry earth
I hear the red-tail hawks, all ways on time, circling above
a fly bumps into the screen, another train
passes through town
I hear my neighbor return
gravel bitten by tires
I hear my heart
my pen across this paper
my eyes struggle to see and make
heeded the words I hear
I hear the follicles of skin the wind raises
that stand on my arms, my face
the truck with its hitch rattling
the distant wanting dog
I hear the heart wanting
the heart, if it could be overheard
with its stories of loss
with stories of hope, the dreams
Wanting to hear the birds
the soft shuffle of hooves
that do not want to eat the milkweed
I hear the jasmine-scented blossoms fading
pods forming seeds
The seeds of shepherd’s purse and amaranth
that come up all summer if I let them
I hear them in places
bursting the ground
A siren, I hear the crows
a conversation between the magpies
and in the night, sometimes a yelp
coyotes or dogs or both
I hear the heat on my toes
when my blood flows too hard
when the heart is quiet
I hear the heart when it pounds
I hear the click of a grasshopper
in the afternoon heat, clatters
grass breaking underfoot
or on the teeth of the sheep
I hear the flies
more restless in this late afternoon
I hear the manure and smell its sweetness
the hay being cut
I hear the sheep
watching me through the fence
and the thunder coming
in this afternoon’s storm
And now the rain
in all its blessings
beating on the windows
my skin, onto leaves
I hear it through nostrils
the leaves sucking this sparse moisture
I hear the smell of ripening currants
the amaranth and purslane winding around old bricks
and the old church, not far
its old bricks empty, decomposing
into the old and overgrown yard
I hear the rust of the old Studebaker
where it rests
I hear the well pump click on
the measure of time like clicks
the hearts’ desire denied
the many times leaving, the many times returning
I hear the presence of the beloved
the child, the lover, the parent
gone, but never gone, I hear them
voices that fill memory
I hear the dust
the demise of rock
ground by water
air and time
And I hear the water
a roar, a pounding over rocks
the crash and then thin vapor
when it returns to cloud
And clouds, I hear the air
its sky colors
from white to black
azure to crimson
I hear the wind in a breeze, the howl
And time
I hear its muffled drive from then to now
to where
to all that is my history
I hear my legs split apart
the birth of my children
my mother’s last breath
my father’s stern voice
grandmothers' lessons
And I hear nothing
only my body moving
through the water
through air, through time
And this morning I hear the poet
breathe then gone voiceless
a hole in the wind
where words once stood.
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Sooty Oystercatcher
by Ion Corcos
Stout feet at low tide
grip an outcrop,
washed by wind and sea.
Long red bill under a limpet,
pries shell off rock,
exposes flesh.
Next, a mussel
probed, stabbed, pierced,
carried to an anvil.
Hammers the crust,
swallows the body,
drinks sea water.
Flies off,
a high pitched call
tleepa
tleepa
Stout feet at low tide
grip an outcrop,
washed by wind and sea.
Long red bill under a limpet,
pries shell off rock,
exposes flesh.
Next, a mussel
probed, stabbed, pierced,
carried to an anvil.
Hammers the crust,
swallows the body,
drinks sea water.
Flies off,
a high pitched call
tleepa
tleepa
An Offering
by Rodney Nelson
the crab tree in an untended yard
held out a weight of ready apples
for what hand or tooth or beak might want
to take
and for nothing if none did
around that crab tree now in the snow
the whole crop fades into entropy
where none has been to want and take it
as if
the end were come already
the crab tree in an untended yard
held out a weight of ready apples
for what hand or tooth or beak might want
to take
and for nothing if none did
around that crab tree now in the snow
the whole crop fades into entropy
where none has been to want and take it
as if
the end were come already
Sunday, January 10, 2016
White Cove
by Ion Corcos
The sea, held in the mountain coast.
At night, swallows from rocks
sweep over water, an orange moon.
The sea, held in the mountain coast.
At night, swallows from rocks
sweep over water, an orange moon.
Whiteout Report
by Patricia Williams
Whiteouts arise
when snow falls dense and fast.
Wind gusts blind, push bodies off course,
cause confusion.
Inner bearings scrambled,
pathways indistinct,
can’t tell sky from ground –
adrift in motion-filled, velvety curtains
impossible to penetrate –
lost a few feet from safety.
Whiteouts can happen
on summer days with minimal wind,
they come in many guises –
all of them dangerous.
Whiteouts arise
when snow falls dense and fast.
Wind gusts blind, push bodies off course,
cause confusion.
Inner bearings scrambled,
pathways indistinct,
can’t tell sky from ground –
adrift in motion-filled, velvety curtains
impossible to penetrate –
lost a few feet from safety.
Whiteouts can happen
on summer days with minimal wind,
they come in many guises –
all of them dangerous.
White
by Tim Duffy
First, an explosion of white tail fur—
the backwards eye of a deer
as it turns away.
There is no ice yet
but they know it is not far away
from the horizon
where bullets and flurries
once flew.
First, an explosion of white tail fur—
the backwards eye of a deer
as it turns away.
There is no ice yet
but they know it is not far away
from the horizon
where bullets and flurries
once flew.
