by Kersten Christianson
Paws reach for salmon-
berry branch, rough tongue brushes
against spring greens, cane
and bud. Verb: to consume, eat
of the earth’s deep good.
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
Sunday, August 27, 2017
Home Woods
byTaylor Graham
Standing off my dog in the swale,
a young pointed buck. Morning too dim
to say how many seasons he’s circled
us in his rounds, and bedded down
under the buckeye’s twisted limbs. Bent
grasses, weight of sleep and waking.
My dog’s on guard-dance with what lives
among us. The buck advances
by inches, drawn magnetic to our north
fence. One sprung haunch-leap over
the wire’s wild side; dawn caught antler-
gold for a moment, gone.
Standing off my dog in the swale,
a young pointed buck. Morning too dim
to say how many seasons he’s circled
us in his rounds, and bedded down
under the buckeye’s twisted limbs. Bent
grasses, weight of sleep and waking.
My dog’s on guard-dance with what lives
among us. The buck advances
by inches, drawn magnetic to our north
fence. One sprung haunch-leap over
the wire’s wild side; dawn caught antler-
gold for a moment, gone.
Sparkle of the Mica
by Tricia Knoll
Running the arroyo as the sun rises,
too many perfect stones to pocket
in no-pocket shorts.
Horse hoof prints sprawl under the sun,
and prickly pears hang over the eroded lip.
I dodge boulders and cowpies.
The miracle this morning –
a slab of weathered pinyon
shaped like a fish with a glass eye
swimming the drought arroyo.
Running the arroyo as the sun rises,
too many perfect stones to pocket
in no-pocket shorts.
Horse hoof prints sprawl under the sun,
and prickly pears hang over the eroded lip.
I dodge boulders and cowpies.
The miracle this morning –
a slab of weathered pinyon
shaped like a fish with a glass eye
swimming the drought arroyo.
Forest Fire
by David Subacchi
The smell of burning pine comes first
Before black smoke columns
Twisting upwards
Appear on the horizon
And even at a distance
A warmth is felt
Warning of danger
And flushing the cheek.
Summer brings
The picnic people
Discarded smokes
Bored souls
Experimenting
Under cover
Of the timber
Cathedrals
Lighting candles
Before wooden images
Igniting passions
Mistaking trees for gods.
The smell of burning pine comes first
Before black smoke columns
Twisting upwards
Appear on the horizon
And even at a distance
A warmth is felt
Warning of danger
And flushing the cheek.
Summer brings
The picnic people
Discarded smokes
Bored souls
Experimenting
Under cover
Of the timber
Cathedrals
Lighting candles
Before wooden images
Igniting passions
Mistaking trees for gods.
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
Soon, Blueberry Moon
by Kersten Christianson
Soon
those blue-
berry moon picking
fingers will stain bright
violet hues. You forage in the light
of the berry moon, drop fruit in a Folgers
can fastened by rope, buffered by the curve
of your body. Pulled into the dream of a bear
sharing its abundant crop, blue shadows
in wild moonlight, the moon so round you could reach
into the night sky
and pick it.
Soon
those blue-
berry moon picking
fingers will stain bright
violet hues. You forage in the light
of the berry moon, drop fruit in a Folgers
can fastened by rope, buffered by the curve
of your body. Pulled into the dream of a bear
sharing its abundant crop, blue shadows
in wild moonlight, the moon so round you could reach
into the night sky
and pick it.
Little Dry Canyon, Late April
by Tim Staley
3 lean coyotes blend in
to the blond canyon.
Their heads are low
between their shoulders.
No people are here.
A weak little wrinkle
of water and light
wags the floor.
3 lean coyotes blend in
to the blond canyon.
Their heads are low
between their shoulders.
No people are here.
A weak little wrinkle
of water and light
wags the floor.
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
Coloring Book
by Chris Butler
Color outside the lines
with magical markers
to create new hues
of bruised black and blue,
graffiti city property
by spraying paint
onto walls, ceilings
and cracked sidewalks.
Trace your veins
with a razor blade
for a perfect shade
of red.
And scribble every
color together for a
perfect double vision
rainbow.
Color outside the lines
with magical markers
to create new hues
of bruised black and blue,
graffiti city property
by spraying paint
onto walls, ceilings
and cracked sidewalks.
Trace your veins
with a razor blade
for a perfect shade
of red.
And scribble every
color together for a
perfect double vision
rainbow.
Sunday, August 20, 2017
Prelude
by Trivarna Hariharan
In the branches
of a blossoming
amaranth—
there is a bird
chafed by whose
song,
even stones
begin to move
like rivers.
In the branches
of a blossoming
amaranth—
there is a bird
chafed by whose
song,
even stones
begin to move
like rivers.
A Love Poem for the Giant Sequoia
by A.K. Kelly
when she comes at you in full force,
take her beauty in strides.
when you go, leave her as she was.
in fact, leave nothing of yourself.
remember that in between all the wonder, in between
all that you experience when you are with her,
she exists without you.
she lives permanently in a wild and free place.
while you, you only belong temporarily.
the most painful truth for her
is also what she desires most--
to look inside when it's over, and find
no lingering trace of you.
when she comes at you in full force,
take her beauty in strides.
when you go, leave her as she was.
in fact, leave nothing of yourself.
remember that in between all the wonder, in between
all that you experience when you are with her,
she exists without you.
she lives permanently in a wild and free place.
while you, you only belong temporarily.
the most painful truth for her
is also what she desires most--
to look inside when it's over, and find
no lingering trace of you.
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
Rio Mora Valley, New Mexico
by Jari Thymian
inside
forest service greenhouses
thousands
of two-inch seedlings
hope like wind through mountains
a stump
in the ponderosa forest
the thin
tree ring of my birth year --
invisible from the trail’s peak
deep, deep
scars in her wide trunk
even
in death her branches twist
skyward with strength
inside
forest service greenhouses
thousands
of two-inch seedlings
hope like wind through mountains
a stump
in the ponderosa forest
the thin
tree ring of my birth year --
invisible from the trail’s peak
deep, deep
scars in her wide trunk
even
in death her branches twist
skyward with strength
Sunday, August 13, 2017
White-bellied Sea Eagle
by Ion Corcos
Broad wings slow,
white breast swoop,
over grassland, dunes,
and rugged beach.
Feet thrust forward,
it dives, nears
the ocean’s surface,
snatches a fish
from the splash;
in its talons, the fish
to a rock ledge;
silver scales,
and red, stripped flesh,
against stone.
Broad wings slow,
white breast swoop,
over grassland, dunes,
and rugged beach.
Feet thrust forward,
it dives, nears
the ocean’s surface,
snatches a fish
from the splash;
in its talons, the fish
to a rock ledge;
silver scales,
and red, stripped flesh,
against stone.
Leaving Lake Havasu, Arizona
by Stefanie Bennett
If the sky had a voice
I envisage
We’d buckle under
The bent-over
Exit wounds
Just as
The willow
Does
In bright water...
If the sky had a voice
I envisage
We’d buckle under
The bent-over
Exit wounds
Just as
The willow
Does
In bright water...
Wednesday, August 9, 2017
becoming your job
by C. Z. Heyward
it was time to leave
wings of the sparrow
loping through juniper berries
caress my lids into submission
she's nesting
as I've fed her soft grain
as an afterthought
one pint at a time
zoophilous screams of the quartet
wane on down the boulevard
I jump in a taxi
less I'm seduced back inside
He asks me
Where to my brother
In the moment
it was only cue I needed
I ask him
What brings you here
Bad dreams
his reply
About my children
orphans all them
I ask
civil war
Worse
Poachers
How worse
Their mothers can't fight back
Because elephants can't shoot rifles
Orphans have nightmares
Crying well into the night
Then through the sunrise
And sunset
He tells me
He bedded with them
No more than straw
And a blanket
but the screams of infants
fell like mourning stars
in between the cackles of hyenas
Feasting on the flesh of their mothers
So he left
No longer able to soothe
innocence mutilated
he's trying to remember to forget
but he's like them now
nothing is forgotten
it was time to leave
wings of the sparrow
loping through juniper berries
caress my lids into submission
she's nesting
as I've fed her soft grain
as an afterthought
one pint at a time
zoophilous screams of the quartet
wane on down the boulevard
I jump in a taxi
less I'm seduced back inside
He asks me
Where to my brother
In the moment
it was only cue I needed
I ask him
What brings you here
Bad dreams
his reply
About my children
orphans all them
I ask
civil war
Worse
Poachers
How worse
Their mothers can't fight back
Because elephants can't shoot rifles
Orphans have nightmares
Crying well into the night
Then through the sunrise
And sunset
He tells me
He bedded with them
No more than straw
And a blanket
but the screams of infants
fell like mourning stars
in between the cackles of hyenas
Feasting on the flesh of their mothers
So he left
No longer able to soothe
innocence mutilated
he's trying to remember to forget
but he's like them now
nothing is forgotten
Delicate in this Storm
by Megan Merchant
The rain sheets. Mud lips over blacktop,
washing out our road.
I wake before he stirs, before he warms
an arm around my ribs, adds breath
to this hour in which I am leaning
against in order to forgive.
I crack an egg and in it
a spider,
a sprig of aster,
a split-yolk moon.
I whisk each omen until it yellows—
a bruise where blood
pooled weeks before,
but has hued toward healing.
From my window, an unkindness of ravens
slink between branches.
They hold out for a softening,
or opening of light,
their black feathers show no hint of damp,
no heavy, or glisten.
The rain sheets. Mud lips over blacktop,
washing out our road.
I wake before he stirs, before he warms
an arm around my ribs, adds breath
to this hour in which I am leaning
against in order to forgive.
I crack an egg and in it
a spider,
a sprig of aster,
a split-yolk moon.
I whisk each omen until it yellows—
a bruise where blood
pooled weeks before,
but has hued toward healing.
From my window, an unkindness of ravens
slink between branches.
They hold out for a softening,
or opening of light,
their black feathers show no hint of damp,
no heavy, or glisten.
A Walk in the Park
by Chris Butler
The old
go for a brisk morning
walk in the park
covered in tombstones
in the greatest waste
of real estate space
since causing
golf coursed curses,
to forget their long lost
friendly neighbors or
to remember
where they are buried.
The old
go for a brisk morning
walk in the park
covered in tombstones
in the greatest waste
of real estate space
since causing
golf coursed curses,
to forget their long lost
friendly neighbors or
to remember
where they are buried.
Sunday, August 6, 2017
Butcherbird
by Ion Corcos
A lizard
lies impaled
on a snapped twig,
its dead body
slight in the silver
of the bark, the crevice
of the branch
a larder.
Black sap stains
the pale bark.
Butcherbird shifts
low on a tree,
searches
the woodland floor,
ready to pounce.
It does not sing.
Grey legs push
into the air,
wings outstretched
to land soft
on the floor.
Stabs the ground.
Thunder strikes
the nearby hills.
A lizard hangs
splayed in beak.
Watchful,
the butcher sings,
echoes
between trees.
A lizard
lies impaled
on a snapped twig,
its dead body
slight in the silver
of the bark, the crevice
of the branch
a larder.
Black sap stains
the pale bark.
Butcherbird shifts
low on a tree,
searches
the woodland floor,
ready to pounce.
It does not sing.
Grey legs push
into the air,
wings outstretched
to land soft
on the floor.
Stabs the ground.
Thunder strikes
the nearby hills.
A lizard hangs
splayed in beak.
Watchful,
the butcher sings,
echoes
between trees.
Out(side)
by M.J. Iuppa
Sitting quietly in our canoe, we
cast our thoughts upon the pond’s
mirror caught in consolation
of clouds, searching for
the hole in its puzzle,
the hole in the monument
of another day. We’re
broken by desire
to make life, some-
how worthy of
its consequences.
Sitting quietly in our canoe, we
cast our thoughts upon the pond’s
mirror caught in consolation
of clouds, searching for
the hole in its puzzle,
the hole in the monument
of another day. We’re
broken by desire
to make life, some-
how worthy of
its consequences.
Sunset Over the Chesapeake
by Ben Rasnic
A golden glow
emanates from white sails
& the breaking waves
against the fading sky.
Burnt orange spawns
atomic rings of fiery
red and vibrant
yellow veiled
in watercolor mists
immersing
into the deep
blue horizon.
A golden glow
emanates from white sails
& the breaking waves
against the fading sky.
Burnt orange spawns
atomic rings of fiery
red and vibrant
yellow veiled
in watercolor mists
immersing
into the deep
blue horizon.
Saturday, August 5, 2017
Wednesday, August 2, 2017
Brand New Home
by Dan Fecht
A hermit crab traverses the sands
Of driftwood
On a beach of sea debris.
Crab has a new shell; old root beer soda cap
A hermit crab traverses the sands
Of driftwood
On a beach of sea debris.
Crab has a new shell; old root beer soda cap
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Forest Light
by Suzanne Cottrell
Hiking Holly Point Trail
Sunlight streams through
Slippery Elm, Black Walnut,
Water Oak, Bitternut Hickory
Hiking Holly Point Trail
Sunlight streams through
Slippery Elm, Black Walnut,
Water Oak, Bitternut Hickory
Wednesday, July 26, 2017
Dance of the Tree
by Gary Beck
Evolution trained the ballerina tree
to dance when the wind
blew music to its leaves.
The arboreal ballet,
as elegant as Swan Lake,
may not have an audience,
but the performance goes on,
as long as there is wind.
Evolution trained the ballerina tree
to dance when the wind
blew music to its leaves.
The arboreal ballet,
as elegant as Swan Lake,
may not have an audience,
but the performance goes on,
as long as there is wind.
Sunday, July 23, 2017
Red Rose
by Michael Estabrook
In the back yard a ragged row
of rose bushes stretches
from fence to fence
salmon, yellow, orange, pink, pinker,
white, orange, pink again
In the middle of the pinkest bush
a single wine-red rose reflects the sun
Monet painted
with a final spurt of color
as a bluebird streaks by
In the back yard a ragged row
of rose bushes stretches
from fence to fence
salmon, yellow, orange, pink, pinker,
white, orange, pink again
In the middle of the pinkest bush
a single wine-red rose reflects the sun
Monet painted
with a final spurt of color
as a bluebird streaks by
Evening
by Eric Fram
In day's dissolve
orange squares
slap with blue
through dull
grains of
graying
dusk.
In day's dissolve
orange squares
slap with blue
through dull
grains of
graying
dusk.
Northern Lights Over Yellowknife
by Adrian Slonaker
Dazzling, zigzagging zests
of pearly-soft seafoam green, gracing
the homecoming of starlit blue-blackness
after its estival escape,
vibrating through shivery September air
over the delicious undulating dances of
the Great Slave Lake flirting with
defiantly rough noses, teeth and fingers of rock,
the pride of the Canadian Shield,
and more poplars and birches and willows than could be counted
in a score of tortoise's lifetimes.
Dazzling, zigzagging zests
of pearly-soft seafoam green, gracing
the homecoming of starlit blue-blackness
after its estival escape,
vibrating through shivery September air
over the delicious undulating dances of
the Great Slave Lake flirting with
defiantly rough noses, teeth and fingers of rock,
the pride of the Canadian Shield,
and more poplars and birches and willows than could be counted
in a score of tortoise's lifetimes.
Saturday, July 22, 2017
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
Valles Caldera
by Michelle Holland
The young, Walatowa ranger talks about his discovery,
a gangly tangle of twin elk calves in late spring.
The prairie dogs chirp and scurry, stand and stare
beside their dark tunnels. Under the curve of sky,
the miles of fescue and June grass, blanket flowers,
and marsh irises roll out the landscape that healed the wound
of a monstrous explosion, which left a vast rim of caldera,
inside a bowl of high altitude meadows, aspen copse, and ponderosa,
filled with elk and bear, mountain lions, native coyotes
and floating turkey vultures. A swooping kestrel
catches an unsuspecting frog and flies off,
while the lone mallard in a small pond sends smooth ripples
that push gently against the cat tails near the shore.
His hen must be close by, because the ranger said they mate for life.
The young, Walatowa ranger talks about his discovery,
a gangly tangle of twin elk calves in late spring.
The prairie dogs chirp and scurry, stand and stare
beside their dark tunnels. Under the curve of sky,
the miles of fescue and June grass, blanket flowers,
and marsh irises roll out the landscape that healed the wound
of a monstrous explosion, which left a vast rim of caldera,
inside a bowl of high altitude meadows, aspen copse, and ponderosa,
filled with elk and bear, mountain lions, native coyotes
and floating turkey vultures. A swooping kestrel
catches an unsuspecting frog and flies off,
while the lone mallard in a small pond sends smooth ripples
that push gently against the cat tails near the shore.
His hen must be close by, because the ranger said they mate for life.
Sunday, July 16, 2017
Grandchildren in Trees
by Al Ortolani
I try to spot for the youngest climber
as I stand below the thickest fork
where I think if he’s going to fall
he will. The two older ones
have monkeyed on, hurrying
to outdo one another, spiraling up
the main trunk, and then away from it
to the edge of thinness
where they perch like crows. I have
taught them to secure three points of contact
before reaching for the fourth,
to test limbs before trusting them,
but they move with such speed
they barely listen,
climbing with a sense of balance
more innate than learned, taught
not from what I remember in climbing,
but from what they already know.
I try to spot for the youngest climber
as I stand below the thickest fork
where I think if he’s going to fall
he will. The two older ones
have monkeyed on, hurrying
to outdo one another, spiraling up
the main trunk, and then away from it
to the edge of thinness
where they perch like crows. I have
taught them to secure three points of contact
before reaching for the fourth,
to test limbs before trusting them,
but they move with such speed
they barely listen,
climbing with a sense of balance
more innate than learned, taught
not from what I remember in climbing,
but from what they already know.
July heat
by Ed Higgins
Lithe in one another’s arms
beneath tall grey-green eucalyptus
their porcelain smooth trunks
shedding sun-peeled bark,
long cloth-like ribbons drifting
in afternoon July heat.
These fragrant windbreaks
against Santa Ana’s whispered
hot winds, leaves rattling slowly
within the canopy.
In summer-sweet desire
we too once swayed together
the soft deception
of seasons.
Lithe in one another’s arms
beneath tall grey-green eucalyptus
their porcelain smooth trunks
shedding sun-peeled bark,
long cloth-like ribbons drifting
in afternoon July heat.
These fragrant windbreaks
against Santa Ana’s whispered
hot winds, leaves rattling slowly
within the canopy.
In summer-sweet desire
we too once swayed together
the soft deception
of seasons.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
International Falls, Minnesota, Winter
(a few decades from now, a century)
based on the writings of David Auerbach
by Michael H. Brownstein
In the sweet wish of day,
a scone of buttercup and dew,
a lisp of cloud, a wash of sky—
in the heat of the valley,
in the heat of the rock lines,
in the heat of Kabetogama,
in the heat of broken asphalt—
the song of the scarlet macaw,
vibrating toad, blue lipped frog,
and lantern bug. Everywhere
water lily, wild rose, snakes with limbs,
lists and lists of whitewashed bone.
In the sweet wish of day,
a scone of buttercup and dew,
a lisp of cloud, a wash of sky—
in the heat of the valley,
in the heat of the rock lines,
in the heat of Kabetogama,
in the heat of broken asphalt—
the song of the scarlet macaw,
vibrating toad, blue lipped frog,
and lantern bug. Everywhere
water lily, wild rose, snakes with limbs,
lists and lists of whitewashed bone.
'limitless space'
by Stephen A. Rozwenc
limitless space
through which to pursue
the divine healing mystery
beyond thought
feeling
language and form
the tenderest one
that does not pretend
to own the land
as if it were a child sex slave
limitless space
through which to pursue
the divine healing mystery
beyond thought
feeling
language and form
the tenderest one
that does not pretend
to own the land
as if it were a child sex slave
Sunday, July 9, 2017
These are Ruins
by Michelle Holland
Above the year round spring, lush with grass
and cat tails, even in this dry season,
the path flattens onto a small mesa
where the Jemez Mountains, smoky
from another fire, sit to the west.
These are ruins, up here, in perpetual breeze.
Even with abundant water, people disappeared.
What's left is a concrete dam,
a foundation for a house, some stray Indian artifacts,
and in this early summer, the pink roses, irises,
and daisies that were maybe
planted and tended by a pioneer wife.
The Cañada Ancha spreads out far below,
the trail curves through the barrancas to this spring.
Pretend there are no ATV tracks,
no crushed beer cans in random piles.
The night hawks are out this early morning,
and when I turn back to the trail, one flies
speckled face and small dark eyes,
wings out, like a miniature airplane, right at me,
then a whoosh of wind as he flies down into the next ravine.
Above the year round spring, lush with grass
and cat tails, even in this dry season,
the path flattens onto a small mesa
where the Jemez Mountains, smoky
from another fire, sit to the west.
These are ruins, up here, in perpetual breeze.
Even with abundant water, people disappeared.
What's left is a concrete dam,
a foundation for a house, some stray Indian artifacts,
and in this early summer, the pink roses, irises,
and daisies that were maybe
planted and tended by a pioneer wife.
The Cañada Ancha spreads out far below,
the trail curves through the barrancas to this spring.
Pretend there are no ATV tracks,
no crushed beer cans in random piles.
The night hawks are out this early morning,
and when I turn back to the trail, one flies
speckled face and small dark eyes,
wings out, like a miniature airplane, right at me,
then a whoosh of wind as he flies down into the next ravine.
That Which I Saw Today
by Divya Manikandan
Today I see the heavens have their dalliance with the waves
Provocative, capricious, fervent and everything in between.
I witness the clandestine emotion tucked away
under depths and miles of open interaction.
Today I see the earth break open into two
the rambunctious mantle
rises and shows its flawless ruby demeanour
and as it did, I see the world around me shift.
Today I see a mountain reach its zenith,
the pinnacle of its dispositions, the mastery of the universe.
I see the skies part in embrace to allow the peak to
lay its jurisdiction- one among the clouds and one among the woes.
Today I see the leaves escape their fuscous branches
I see their souls floating away, to greener landscapes and
sunlit domes in distant earths.
I fly away with them, unwearied and emerald, like a
sparkling gemstone- lifted by my own weight of nothingness.
Today I see the heavens have their dalliance with the waves
Provocative, capricious, fervent and everything in between.
I witness the clandestine emotion tucked away
under depths and miles of open interaction.
Today I see the earth break open into two
the rambunctious mantle
rises and shows its flawless ruby demeanour
and as it did, I see the world around me shift.
Today I see a mountain reach its zenith,
the pinnacle of its dispositions, the mastery of the universe.
I see the skies part in embrace to allow the peak to
lay its jurisdiction- one among the clouds and one among the woes.
Today I see the leaves escape their fuscous branches
I see their souls floating away, to greener landscapes and
sunlit domes in distant earths.
I fly away with them, unwearied and emerald, like a
sparkling gemstone- lifted by my own weight of nothingness.
Saturday, July 8, 2017
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
Sunday, July 2, 2017
Hulk
by Joe Cottonwood
Walk north from here
at low tide
you’ll see a truck frame tumbled
from atop the cliff
sunk in sand, washed in surf
size of a gray whale
which you’ll also see
blowing, breaching off shore
Each winter as beach recedes
sucked by storm
the Freightliner appears
haunt of Highway One
ruddy jagged blades of metal
settling lower
inch by inch, weld by weld
decade by decade
salt, oxygen at work
as gulls perch on chassis
crabs gather, starfish wander
seals care not
Walk north from here
at low tide
you’ll see a truck frame tumbled
from atop the cliff
sunk in sand, washed in surf
size of a gray whale
which you’ll also see
blowing, breaching off shore
Each winter as beach recedes
sucked by storm
the Freightliner appears
haunt of Highway One
ruddy jagged blades of metal
settling lower
inch by inch, weld by weld
decade by decade
salt, oxygen at work
as gulls perch on chassis
crabs gather, starfish wander
seals care not
Watching the Dolphins
by Marianne Szlyk
The dolphins are swimming
past the cruise ships
and fishing boats.
The harbor is slick with motor oil.
The coral beyond is bleached white,
the color of vinyl siding
and new concrete.
It crumbles as the tourists watch
the dolphins dive over and over.
The dolphins are swimming
past the cruise ships
and fishing boats.
The harbor is slick with motor oil.
The coral beyond is bleached white,
the color of vinyl siding
and new concrete.
It crumbles as the tourists watch
the dolphins dive over and over.
Saturday, July 1, 2017
The Trees of Italy: Mulberry
by Terrence Sykes
---morus nigra – sanctus dominus---
The mulberry struggles
through bricks in the
corner of the piazza
Santa Maria del Carmine
pass the Ponte Vecchio
just across the Arno
cusp of day
left then left
prophecy of
double damnation
stepping into darkness
candles & incense
Masaccio fresco
Expulsion
birth of the Renaissance
stillness in the church
laden with history
has my past followed me
Adam & Eve
pastel chiaroscuro
nakedness
sworded angel damning
driven from the Garden
not even a fig leaf
shamed & exiting Eden
priestly voices
echoing annunciations
closure foretold
escorted by robes
cast upon
cobblestone
verdant shadows
dappled light
forbidden fruit
gathered & palmed
sweeter than any apple
temptation on the lips
stigmata hands
marked like Cain
meandering lost
mist & fog upon
streets of Florence
---morus nigra – sanctus dominus---
The mulberry struggles
through bricks in the
corner of the piazza
Santa Maria del Carmine
pass the Ponte Vecchio
just across the Arno
cusp of day
left then left
prophecy of
double damnation
stepping into darkness
candles & incense
Masaccio fresco
Expulsion
birth of the Renaissance
stillness in the church
laden with history
has my past followed me
Adam & Eve
pastel chiaroscuro
nakedness
sworded angel damning
driven from the Garden
not even a fig leaf
shamed & exiting Eden
priestly voices
echoing annunciations
closure foretold
escorted by robes
cast upon
cobblestone
verdant shadows
dappled light
forbidden fruit
gathered & palmed
sweeter than any apple
temptation on the lips
stigmata hands
marked like Cain
meandering lost
mist & fog upon
streets of Florence
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Sunday, June 25, 2017
Brown Pelican
by Andrea Wyatt
these days, stretched like desert,
sun-blinded.
abandoned earth, its gray fruit, winter.
animals leave the dead ground,
torn mountain, for the sea;
dead deer in the leaves,
fish heads on rock,
hundreds of small, dying animals
on the edge of the sea, in a glare
of light and dark and light and
dark.
your fingers too clumsy to heal,
your fingers moving too slowly
over the brown bodies, the black
bodies, the soft wings.
rainbow—
in dark oils.
we lie in the sun together,
reading about the buffalo,
these days, stretched like desert,
sun-blinded.
abandoned earth, its gray fruit, winter.
animals leave the dead ground,
torn mountain, for the sea;
dead deer in the leaves,
fish heads on rock,
hundreds of small, dying animals
on the edge of the sea, in a glare
of light and dark and light and
dark.
your fingers too clumsy to heal,
your fingers moving too slowly
over the brown bodies, the black
bodies, the soft wings.
rainbow—
in dark oils.
we lie in the sun together,
reading about the buffalo,
Beachcombing the Great Plains
by Maureen Kingston
“I love forms beyond my own and regret the borders between us” -- Loren Eiseley
She’s out pilgrimaging again, searching for a peaceful place to kneel, to take stock. The wind blows her to a familiar dent in the Sandhills, a trove of ruin hidden by tallgrass and dune. Blood-and-flesh folk lived here once, a settlement of clay houses and lean-tos. Only a stand of graves remains: larger than a family plot, smaller than a cemetery.
She steps around the fading slabs, steers to the misfit, the object of her obsession. The first time she saw it she thought it was a Christmas ham studded with cloves. She wanted to tear off a piece of crackle, let its juice run down her chin. Later, in a different mood, she imagined the blob to be the petrified remains of a dinosaur sneeze. A science pal eventually set her straight, identified the errant rock as chondrite, a spongy meteorite.
Mystery solved. And not solved. She still doesn’t know why the chunk of char brings comfort; why stroking its alien Braille calms her mind. The settlers must’ve been comforted by it, too, or why bury their dead around it?
summertime reading . . .
alone, never alone
stone rubbing
“I love forms beyond my own and regret the borders between us” -- Loren Eiseley
She’s out pilgrimaging again, searching for a peaceful place to kneel, to take stock. The wind blows her to a familiar dent in the Sandhills, a trove of ruin hidden by tallgrass and dune. Blood-and-flesh folk lived here once, a settlement of clay houses and lean-tos. Only a stand of graves remains: larger than a family plot, smaller than a cemetery.
She steps around the fading slabs, steers to the misfit, the object of her obsession. The first time she saw it she thought it was a Christmas ham studded with cloves. She wanted to tear off a piece of crackle, let its juice run down her chin. Later, in a different mood, she imagined the blob to be the petrified remains of a dinosaur sneeze. A science pal eventually set her straight, identified the errant rock as chondrite, a spongy meteorite.
Mystery solved. And not solved. She still doesn’t know why the chunk of char brings comfort; why stroking its alien Braille calms her mind. The settlers must’ve been comforted by it, too, or why bury their dead around it?
summertime reading . . .
alone, never alone
stone rubbing
