by Stephen A. Rozwenc
as close
as sweet jasmine scents
perfume each evening selfless
my love
Sunday, March 31, 2019
lemures
by Alison McBain
ghosts of gidro
(in Malagasy)
a lemur by any other name
would smell as sweet
as the tamarinds eaten
while sleeping through extinction
ghosts of gidro
(in Malagasy)
a lemur by any other name
would smell as sweet
as the tamarinds eaten
while sleeping through extinction
Water Wheel
by Maureen Teresa McCarthy
Gray gulls lift and glide
Wings spread
Floating on winter winds
Easily as on water.
White against gray sky
Song silenced
They sink to earth
Where fields of winter wheat
Harvested
Are golden as the beaches
They call home.
Water birds, shore birds
Riders of the great streams
Swimmers in the endless waters
Which churn our days away
Yet hold this fragile earth
This finite place
In endless space.
Gray gulls lift and glide
Wings spread
Floating on winter winds
Easily as on water.
White against gray sky
Song silenced
They sink to earth
Where fields of winter wheat
Harvested
Are golden as the beaches
They call home.
Water birds, shore birds
Riders of the great streams
Swimmers in the endless waters
Which churn our days away
Yet hold this fragile earth
This finite place
In endless space.
Wednesday, March 27, 2019
In the Woods We Talk What Matters
by James Croal Jackson
Ghost from rural America,
we relay atoms as body beams,
intrigued fireflies. The creek, crusted
mud at the bottoms of boots, the vines;
I see necessitudes tangled
in flashlights, reflected glasses ice,
we could not agree on politics.
We shiver the rest of the night.
Ghost from rural America,
we relay atoms as body beams,
intrigued fireflies. The creek, crusted
mud at the bottoms of boots, the vines;
I see necessitudes tangled
in flashlights, reflected glasses ice,
we could not agree on politics.
We shiver the rest of the night.
Sunday, March 24, 2019
About Ten Thousand Years Old
by Sarah Henry
Lightning strikes cattle
in fields, those soft targets.
It kills them. In Sweden,
the world’s oldest tree
has always cheated death.
The spruce lives defensively.
The trunk grows longer.
The crown fattens.
The tree stands alone
in an open field, exposed
to threats from violent
weather. Attempts on its
life remain unsuccessful.
Lightning strikes cattle
in fields, those soft targets.
It kills them. In Sweden,
the world’s oldest tree
has always cheated death.
The spruce lives defensively.
The trunk grows longer.
The crown fattens.
The tree stands alone
in an open field, exposed
to threats from violent
weather. Attempts on its
life remain unsuccessful.
2.24.19
8.11 a.m.
25 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Pious with its mellow hissing in the trees,
onomatopoetic voice of the rain, a sound
nearly silent; more vision than sound is the rain
drumming on the melting skin of the pond.
Pious with its mellow hissing in the trees,
onomatopoetic voice of the rain, a sound
nearly silent; more vision than sound is the rain
drumming on the melting skin of the pond.
Wind in the Dell
by Khalilah Okeke
The wind
travels into -
weeping white clouds
finds silver-frosted skies
waiting.
In the rusted flush of dawn
through steep-walled cliffs
rain splashes on siltstones.
Raptors rouse
in mudstone caves -
canyons peaking beyond
the bosky dells.
The wind
travels into -
weeping white clouds
finds silver-frosted skies
waiting.
In the rusted flush of dawn
through steep-walled cliffs
rain splashes on siltstones.
Raptors rouse
in mudstone caves -
canyons peaking beyond
the bosky dells.
Saturday, March 23, 2019
Wednesday, March 20, 2019
Slivers of Silver River
by Satvika Menon
The hum of the river
Spills into the dark green of the mountains
Petrichor plunging into the paper-thin air
The ground cracks its broken back
As carp weave swirls in the silver water
The hum of the river
Spills into the dark green of the mountains
Petrichor plunging into the paper-thin air
The ground cracks its broken back
As carp weave swirls in the silver water
Sunday, March 17, 2019
Mission Bells for Sex
by Jake Sheff
Earth’s deficient light, devoid
of devotion. Full of loving
isotopes to fill the night. Bridge
of fire, sunlight through shy
curtains on a bed of hours.
Polymers of prayer ring. The wet
weight of entrepreneurial
white against a field of green.
Earth’s deficient light, devoid
of devotion. Full of loving
isotopes to fill the night. Bridge
of fire, sunlight through shy
curtains on a bed of hours.
Polymers of prayer ring. The wet
weight of entrepreneurial
white against a field of green.
Fly Agaric
by Jonathan K. Rice
the brook dawdles
over rocks and fallen limbs
pine needles blanket the trail
through the quiet forest
dark red mushrooms with white flecks
appear among the roots of trees
gift of shamans
an owl croons at dusk
the brook dawdles
over rocks and fallen limbs
pine needles blanket the trail
through the quiet forest
dark red mushrooms with white flecks
appear among the roots of trees
gift of shamans
an owl croons at dusk
12.8.18
6.17 p.m.
21 degrees
by John Stanizzi
--Yesterday the pond was frozen.
This evening it has thawed.
But it is 21 degrees,
so that tomorrow…
…yes, winter’s changeability has arrived…
Prodigious conversion from that which we may peer through,
opening our vision to a strangeness like Frost’s,
nuanced and misshapen, to this glazed and shifting surface,
damascene transformation more closely related to stone than to water.
--Yesterday the pond was frozen.
This evening it has thawed.
But it is 21 degrees,
so that tomorrow…
…yes, winter’s changeability has arrived…
Prodigious conversion from that which we may peer through,
opening our vision to a strangeness like Frost’s,
nuanced and misshapen, to this glazed and shifting surface,
damascene transformation more closely related to stone than to water.
Saturday, March 16, 2019
Wednesday, March 13, 2019
A Tree-Book
by Susie Gharib
Sitting between the toes of a fir-tree,
D. H. Lawrence penned his psychoanalytic theories
of states and plexus.
He could almost hear the sap,
the tree-blood,
pulsating in those round, faceless presences.
Among those silent beings of earth and air,
he began to intuit tree-worship
and wished he could be a tree
to possess root-lust and be thought-free,
a blood-conscious entity.
That haven of Lady Chatterley
was Lawrence’s own sanctuary
on whose altar he could sacrifice
his self-conscious personality
and make his intuited tree-book
the arboreal lore of centuries.
Sitting between the toes of a fir-tree,
D. H. Lawrence penned his psychoanalytic theories
of states and plexus.
He could almost hear the sap,
the tree-blood,
pulsating in those round, faceless presences.
Among those silent beings of earth and air,
he began to intuit tree-worship
and wished he could be a tree
to possess root-lust and be thought-free,
a blood-conscious entity.
That haven of Lady Chatterley
was Lawrence’s own sanctuary
on whose altar he could sacrifice
his self-conscious personality
and make his intuited tree-book
the arboreal lore of centuries.
Monday, March 11, 2019
12.1.18
1.34 p.m.
41 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Proposals of clouds in an otherwise 9/11 sky;
overnight squall’s remnants resemble Queen Anne’s Lace,
nighttime blossoms in the grass. The geometry of an island of ice is
drawn toward the middle of the pond, its shoreline thawing.
Proposals of clouds in an otherwise 9/11 sky;
overnight squall’s remnants resemble Queen Anne’s Lace,
nighttime blossoms in the grass. The geometry of an island of ice is
drawn toward the middle of the pond, its shoreline thawing.
Sunday, March 10, 2019
Look Up, Slowly
by M.J. Iuppa
Exhausted: the clump-drag of horse hooves striking
the pocked dirt road. Yellow dust eddies— small clouds.
Mountains rise in their encampment. The wide desert sky
palls purple and pink:
by nightfall
earth exhales
a cache of stars
Exhausted: the clump-drag of horse hooves striking
the pocked dirt road. Yellow dust eddies— small clouds.
Mountains rise in their encampment. The wide desert sky
palls purple and pink:
by nightfall
earth exhales
a cache of stars
After the Winter Storm, the Clouds Melted into Rain
by Michael H. Brownstein
The slipshod ice of clarity,
Daylight dripping snow into pellets
Opaque and clear, off white with an essence
Of ash tree, clouds, a spirit within wind.
On the dunes, scrub brush, sand thorn,
And stacked on the piles of crusted ice,
Herring gulls each with a piece of fish
Waiting patiently for the long spray of spring.
The slipshod ice of clarity,
Daylight dripping snow into pellets
Opaque and clear, off white with an essence
Of ash tree, clouds, a spirit within wind.
On the dunes, scrub brush, sand thorn,
And stacked on the piles of crusted ice,
Herring gulls each with a piece of fish
Waiting patiently for the long spray of spring.
Yggdrasil
by Bill Arnott
Yggdrasil – the world tree, mother ash
stands astride a Nordic knoll
beyond Uppsala’s temples
where every god – the real ones
take meat and mead amongst the Norns
Wyrd, Verðandi, Skuld
atop the tree the eagle with no name resides
witness to our lives and spindle whorls of fate
an eyrie shared with a hawk called Veðrfölnir
witherer of wind
from a drifting wooden ark I saw the eagle
through looming crags of crystal leaded ice
“Nattoralik,” whispered the Greenlander
aurora eyes squinting into cloudless Arctic sky
following the nameless one in flight
high overhead the giant sailed
across a canvas of calcium blue
the hawk invisible to us
its presence though we felt
in the eagle’s sweeping gaze
removing every trace of wind
breath sucked silent from our lungs
a contour feather whoosh the only sound
Yggdrasil – the world tree, mother ash
stands astride a Nordic knoll
beyond Uppsala’s temples
where every god – the real ones
take meat and mead amongst the Norns
Wyrd, Verðandi, Skuld
atop the tree the eagle with no name resides
witness to our lives and spindle whorls of fate
an eyrie shared with a hawk called Veðrfölnir
witherer of wind
from a drifting wooden ark I saw the eagle
through looming crags of crystal leaded ice
“Nattoralik,” whispered the Greenlander
aurora eyes squinting into cloudless Arctic sky
following the nameless one in flight
high overhead the giant sailed
across a canvas of calcium blue
the hawk invisible to us
its presence though we felt
in the eagle’s sweeping gaze
removing every trace of wind
breath sucked silent from our lungs
a contour feather whoosh the only sound
Wednesday, March 6, 2019
Carved in Red Bryce Canyon
Utah, 2007
by Amy Uyematsu
Delicate arches, spires, and castles
giant robed goddesses of stone
await our arrival
~ ~ ~
Unimagined,
this stark red beauty -
almost cruel
~ ~ ~
Mountaintop arch - where
stone, raven, lovers
touch sky
~ ~ ~
Endless walls of red -
now pink then orange -
whose sly paintbrush
~ ~ ~
One more juniper -
desert sandstone gives birth
to evergreen
~ ~ ~
Just enough hardness,
just enough balance -
local secret for survival
~ ~ ~
Stone keeps asking
whose voice will sing
our stories
Delicate arches, spires, and castles
giant robed goddesses of stone
await our arrival
~ ~ ~
Unimagined,
this stark red beauty -
almost cruel
~ ~ ~
Mountaintop arch - where
stone, raven, lovers
touch sky
~ ~ ~
Endless walls of red -
now pink then orange -
whose sly paintbrush
~ ~ ~
One more juniper -
desert sandstone gives birth
to evergreen
~ ~ ~
Just enough hardness,
just enough balance -
local secret for survival
~ ~ ~
Stone keeps asking
whose voice will sing
our stories
Monday, March 4, 2019
11.13.2018
2.46 p.m.
39 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Piety arrives with a female evening grosbeak.
Offed by chill wind, the leaves cover the wet forest ground.
Nearby, the look of running water
dazzles like a miniature Topajos, miniature Amazon.
Piety arrives with a female evening grosbeak.
Offed by chill wind, the leaves cover the wet forest ground.
Nearby, the look of running water
dazzles like a miniature Topajos, miniature Amazon.
Sunday, March 3, 2019
Winterwoods
by Carl Parsons
The doe and fawn have lost their hiding place.
Swept clean by wind and rain, the forest now
is bare and bears no fruit for famished mouths.
No trace of summer dalliance here remains
where bee and blossom kissed above the humid
garden ground. The chance not seized now is lost.
Summer’s cost, the recompense for that warm
sweetness that we knew, now in full is due.
Now the roaring cold has come again;
we cluster about repentant fires and wrap
ourselves in shawls and shrouds while we
tell ourselves again the holy days.
We praise the orchard apples that we saved
and hang them in the snow-filled garden where
the doe and fawn may browse. Yesterday
at nightfall we thought we saw them moving,
faint and brown, rousing the winterwoods.
The doe and fawn have lost their hiding place.
Swept clean by wind and rain, the forest now
is bare and bears no fruit for famished mouths.
No trace of summer dalliance here remains
where bee and blossom kissed above the humid
garden ground. The chance not seized now is lost.
Summer’s cost, the recompense for that warm
sweetness that we knew, now in full is due.
Now the roaring cold has come again;
we cluster about repentant fires and wrap
ourselves in shawls and shrouds while we
tell ourselves again the holy days.
We praise the orchard apples that we saved
and hang them in the snow-filled garden where
the doe and fawn may browse. Yesterday
at nightfall we thought we saw them moving,
faint and brown, rousing the winterwoods.
Awaiting Aesop
by John Grey
Jackrabbit’s scat is nothing much but,
under the circumstances, it’s the best that he can do.
But it invokes all kind of activity.
Like the dung-beetle that appears from nowhere.
rolls the crap into a little ball,
gets it moving with the power
of its feathery hind legs.
The pride-bound hare has no appetite for dung,
boasts long ears instead of a hard carapace,
flutters whiskers like a lord at high tea
while his stomach hungers like the living for the dead.
Meanwhile, the ball forces the beetle vertical,
threatens to roll back, crush its body,
but tenacious, unyielding, it nudges the treasure forward,
over pebble, in and out of small ditch,
until both insect and ball disappear from the jackrabbit’s view
into its underground den..
Dung-beetle no longer of interest, reader and hare
dart off into ribbons of heat, fur like stubble,
chest made slender by the lack of good grasses,
the tough dry chew of the few that survive the oppressiveness,
No succulent carrots. No celery. No apples fallen from a tree.
And all the while, his crap is fueling who knows
how many of these insignificant creatures.
As if being outrun by a tortoise wasn’t enough.
Now, as far as the desert is concerned,
Leporidae has been out-evolved by the dung-beetle.
He rests by a rock, salivating on better times.
His sensitive hearing can almost hear the fable being written.
Jackrabbit’s scat is nothing much but,
under the circumstances, it’s the best that he can do.
But it invokes all kind of activity.
Like the dung-beetle that appears from nowhere.
rolls the crap into a little ball,
gets it moving with the power
of its feathery hind legs.
The pride-bound hare has no appetite for dung,
boasts long ears instead of a hard carapace,
flutters whiskers like a lord at high tea
while his stomach hungers like the living for the dead.
Meanwhile, the ball forces the beetle vertical,
threatens to roll back, crush its body,
but tenacious, unyielding, it nudges the treasure forward,
over pebble, in and out of small ditch,
until both insect and ball disappear from the jackrabbit’s view
into its underground den..
Dung-beetle no longer of interest, reader and hare
dart off into ribbons of heat, fur like stubble,
chest made slender by the lack of good grasses,
the tough dry chew of the few that survive the oppressiveness,
No succulent carrots. No celery. No apples fallen from a tree.
And all the while, his crap is fueling who knows
how many of these insignificant creatures.
As if being outrun by a tortoise wasn’t enough.
Now, as far as the desert is concerned,
Leporidae has been out-evolved by the dung-beetle.
He rests by a rock, salivating on better times.
His sensitive hearing can almost hear the fable being written.
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
Boats at Sunrise
by Wesley D. Sims
First light unveils two empty
round-a-bout boats, nuzzling
the shore, tethered like horses
to their hitching posts,
sweet gum trees standing watch.
Fiberglass hulls sparkle
and glint as they bob and rock
in the low-slapping waves.
Shroud of fog cataracts the scene
light gray and velvety smooth,
the pale orange orb of sun
flashlights through the cove
to illuminate beginnings
of a new day on Watts Bar Lake,
and fresh possibilities
of the open water.
First light unveils two empty
round-a-bout boats, nuzzling
the shore, tethered like horses
to their hitching posts,
sweet gum trees standing watch.
Fiberglass hulls sparkle
and glint as they bob and rock
in the low-slapping waves.
Shroud of fog cataracts the scene
light gray and velvety smooth,
the pale orange orb of sun
flashlights through the cove
to illuminate beginnings
of a new day on Watts Bar Lake,
and fresh possibilities
of the open water.
Monday, February 25, 2019
11.11.2018
3.11 p.m.
39 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Ponds’ conflux – run-off from Fowler’s pond
overflows the small stone wall along with street run-off;
nozzling, they warble a crystal duet in the birdless
dusk beginning to bear down on the half-buried bullheads sleeping.
Ponds’ conflux – run-off from Fowler’s pond
overflows the small stone wall along with street run-off;
nozzling, they warble a crystal duet in the birdless
dusk beginning to bear down on the half-buried bullheads sleeping.
Sunday, February 24, 2019
At Artist's Point
Yellowstone Park
by Amy Uyematsu
A pine tree breaks through the hard red surface -
in what hidden places did the granite body
receive pine’s unexpected seed?
And how long the reach
of unseen roots
bearing so much green
inside stone?
Muir Woods - California
by Alisha Ahmed
Scents of spring dew, earth.
Trees that graze the clouds with their
thick rings of wisdom.
Scents of spring dew, earth.
Trees that graze the clouds with their
thick rings of wisdom.
"Dried remains in the garden. Incisors protrude from"
by Nicholas Alexander Hayes
Dried remains in the garden. Incisors protrude from
a gapping jaw, barely covered by red-grey fur. Grave goods revealed
as snow melts. Purple crocus pierce the earth’s dampness.
Dried remains in the garden. Incisors protrude from
a gapping jaw, barely covered by red-grey fur. Grave goods revealed
as snow melts. Purple crocus pierce the earth’s dampness.
"Smoke stacks"
by Shelly Sitzer
Smoke stacks
And oil rigs color the views
Pigs are getting fatter
But not the animal kind.
Not the pretty pink pigs
With curly tails
But the ones with pink skins
And short hair
They work near the oil rigs
Some work to extract gold
They all take, take, take
Depleting mother nature's soil.
What do they give back,
Gold coins at the market place
Where some cannot buy
Because the good things are scarce.
Things like sweet apples
Are disappearing from trees
Too hot for their blossoms
They wither and die.
Smoke stacks
And oil rigs color the views
Pigs are getting fatter
But not the animal kind.
Not the pretty pink pigs
With curly tails
But the ones with pink skins
And short hair
They work near the oil rigs
Some work to extract gold
They all take, take, take
Depleting mother nature's soil.
What do they give back,
Gold coins at the market place
Where some cannot buy
Because the good things are scarce.
Things like sweet apples
Are disappearing from trees
Too hot for their blossoms
They wither and die.
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
Not Enough, Too Much
by Joan Hofmann
hot
dry
drought
insect infestation
timberland damage
clear cut acres scrub
grasslands expand
ignite
aquifer dropping
battles: urban versus farming
rationing limits
people more spreading
so much to protect
wildfire more burning
burning
hot
dry
drought
insect infestation
timberland damage
clear cut acres scrub
grasslands expand
ignite
aquifer dropping
battles: urban versus farming
rationing limits
people more spreading
so much to protect
wildfire more burning
burning
Monday, February 18, 2019
11.10.2018
10.06 a.m.
34 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Pitchy dark where winter has just this moment arrived
out of the north hills; it crawls up under my shirt,
naturally and unfazed, as if it were trying to warm itself --
daguerrean-downstream rush of the brook gossips with its cold voice.
Pitchy dark where winter has just this moment arrived
out of the north hills; it crawls up under my shirt,
naturally and unfazed, as if it were trying to warm itself --
daguerrean-downstream rush of the brook gossips with its cold voice.
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Summer Danger (Triolet)
by Joanna M. Weston
the air tastes of wood smoke
fires burning on the hills
making asthmatics choke
on drifts of dangerous smoke
an ember then the fire awoke
to bring on our breathing ills
with inhaling ash-laden smoke
drifting from blackened hills
the air tastes of wood smoke
fires burning on the hills
making asthmatics choke
on drifts of dangerous smoke
an ember then the fire awoke
to bring on our breathing ills
with inhaling ash-laden smoke
drifting from blackened hills
Chile, Winter 2017
by Joan Hofmann
In the Patagonia fiords
I looked but didn't find
the frigate-bird,
his red chest pouch
inflated. Girls like red
balloons, and I imagine
one wanting one enough
to join him as he gyrates
silly near his nest. Here,
in the Atacama Desert
Andean flamingoes
stand knee to knee,
pink in altiplano salt flats.
Unlike grouped males
strutting back and forth,
they're singular now
and just a few necks jerk
black beaks to the sky--
like seeds flecked airborn
in reckless release
or ebony notes across
a music score,
the individual tenors
scatter the landscape.
In the Patagonia fiords
I looked but didn't find
the frigate-bird,
his red chest pouch
inflated. Girls like red
balloons, and I imagine
one wanting one enough
to join him as he gyrates
silly near his nest. Here,
in the Atacama Desert
Andean flamingoes
stand knee to knee,
pink in altiplano salt flats.
Unlike grouped males
strutting back and forth,
they're singular now
and just a few necks jerk
black beaks to the sky--
like seeds flecked airborn
in reckless release
or ebony notes across
a music score,
the individual tenors
scatter the landscape.
Friday, February 15, 2019
2.15.19
11.06 a.m.
42 degrees
Paltry mist, slush, gray on gray on gray, birdsong drowned out by the
operose nuthatch’s ratchet and ratchet from the overcast, and
nymph-haze sheer as air rises from the pure melting and the ice is
dressy in crystal sheets alive now with beads of tender rain.
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
"rain sharpens"
by Stephen A. Rozwenc
rain sharpens
the latest infatuation
with clemency
palm trees lining the avenue
sway with death sacrament vertigo
sidewalk angels
schoolgirls from another time
costumed in dark blue pleated skirts
and frilly white blouses
glow like perfect criminal flowers
forbidden and thus exalted
by the magic tongue
that twinkles from the universal mind
rain sharpens
the latest infatuation
with clemency
palm trees lining the avenue
sway with death sacrament vertigo
sidewalk angels
schoolgirls from another time
costumed in dark blue pleated skirts
and frilly white blouses
glow like perfect criminal flowers
forbidden and thus exalted
by the magic tongue
that twinkles from the universal mind
Sunday, February 10, 2019
Winter Bites
by Warren Paul Glover
Wearing a tabard of blood
the robin stands as winter’s warrior;
watchful as the snow serpent snakes its way
across land no longer green,
her frost fangs plunging deep into the skin of the earth.
Casting her spell, winter bewitches,
hugging as tightly and close as the death of strangled light;
her kiss as cold and sharp as cracked crystal.
As that pagan plant, the vampire mistletoe,
insinuates and flatters her way into the homes
and hopes of a thousand Christmas fools,
holly stabs like a pang of guilt.
And all the while the white blanket covers the ground,
coaxing the land to sleep.
Wearing a tabard of blood
the robin stands as winter’s warrior;
watchful as the snow serpent snakes its way
across land no longer green,
her frost fangs plunging deep into the skin of the earth.
Casting her spell, winter bewitches,
hugging as tightly and close as the death of strangled light;
her kiss as cold and sharp as cracked crystal.
As that pagan plant, the vampire mistletoe,
insinuates and flatters her way into the homes
and hopes of a thousand Christmas fools,
holly stabs like a pang of guilt.
And all the while the white blanket covers the ground,
coaxing the land to sleep.
Indifferent Eviction
by Gary Beck
When I was young
I walked unblemished Florida shores
and saw flights of pelicans
50-100 strong,
going about their business
in orderly vees.
Large flocks of sandpipers
scurried along water’s edge
in complete unison,
feeding in rhythmic pecks,
suddenly taking flight
in organized formation
the military would envy.
Few of us notice
the departure of our neighbors
from proximity
to man-made nests,
inhabitants too territorial
to allow coexistence.
When I was young
I walked unblemished Florida shores
and saw flights of pelicans
50-100 strong,
going about their business
in orderly vees.
Large flocks of sandpipers
scurried along water’s edge
in complete unison,
feeding in rhythmic pecks,
suddenly taking flight
in organized formation
the military would envy.
Few of us notice
the departure of our neighbors
from proximity
to man-made nests,
inhabitants too territorial
to allow coexistence.
Wednesday, February 6, 2019
Full Moon: A Winter Sequence
by Carl Mayfield
clearing the ridge slowly--
fir tree shadows
across the snow
edge of city--
bare redbud branches
cradling the light
a few clouds
passing
leaving brightness behind
towards daylight
radiance touching
the cold horizon
clearing the ridge slowly--
fir tree shadows
across the snow
edge of city--
bare redbud branches
cradling the light
a few clouds
passing
leaving brightness behind
towards daylight
radiance touching
the cold horizon
Sunday, February 3, 2019
Kingfishers
by Jonti Marks
A summer evening, by the Dordogne:
A blink of movement and
Two kingfishers flash past -
Irridescent topaz streaks
Slicing the evening shadows
On the day’s last sunlight.
The river bends;
They bank and turn together,
Out of sight.
Dusk deepens.
A fish ripples the darkening water.
A summer evening, by the Dordogne:
A blink of movement and
Two kingfishers flash past -
Irridescent topaz streaks
Slicing the evening shadows
On the day’s last sunlight.
The river bends;
They bank and turn together,
Out of sight.
Dusk deepens.
A fish ripples the darkening water.
Baltic
by Terrence Sykes
worn guidebook
found on a bench
in the park in that
foreign town
byzantine framed
icon’d memories
baltic forests
flower laden
marsh mints
finch amongst
linden & autumn
nettles not yet
gathered by village women
whose family always lacked
simmering amongst
rutabagas for dinner
some night before
those waters flowed
almost like moonlight
turned its back
eclipsed & failed
to guide the tides to
the last stop
of that ragged
paperback
worn guidebook
found on a bench
in the park in that
foreign town
byzantine framed
icon’d memories
baltic forests
flower laden
marsh mints
finch amongst
linden & autumn
nettles not yet
gathered by village women
whose family always lacked
simmering amongst
rutabagas for dinner
some night before
those waters flowed
almost like moonlight
turned its back
eclipsed & failed
to guide the tides to
the last stop
of that ragged
paperback
Wednesday, January 30, 2019
Sunday, January 27, 2019
Patterned Ground
by Pepper Trail
Even on this flattest ground
The buried giant of water
will not rest
Flexes his shoulder against
The old enemy, earth
Breaks free rocks
Makes circles of stones
In spring, fills brief, clear pools
Once again, speaks to the sky
Even on this flattest ground
The buried giant of water
will not rest
Flexes his shoulder against
The old enemy, earth
Breaks free rocks
Makes circles of stones
In spring, fills brief, clear pools
Once again, speaks to the sky
Meanwhile in the Wild Places
by Jonti Marks
Meanwhile,
In the wild places –
Beyond the houses and the supermarkets
And the industrial parks,
Where the fumes and plumes
Of diesel and steam
Infect the high clear sky;
Where the noise and incessant clatter
And chatter
Shatter the calm;
Beyond the foolish vanity
And trumperies of fad and fashion;
Far from the fear of the sound of boots
That march in the night –
A gust of wind stirs the purple heather
And the tall grasses bend beneath
Seed-heavy heads.
Under dark clouds and approaching rain
The peaks of distant mountains
Rise in ash and beech.
Meanwhile,
In the wild places –
Beyond the houses and the supermarkets
And the industrial parks,
Where the fumes and plumes
Of diesel and steam
Infect the high clear sky;
Where the noise and incessant clatter
And chatter
Shatter the calm;
Beyond the foolish vanity
And trumperies of fad and fashion;
Far from the fear of the sound of boots
That march in the night –
A gust of wind stirs the purple heather
And the tall grasses bend beneath
Seed-heavy heads.
Under dark clouds and approaching rain
The peaks of distant mountains
Rise in ash and beech.
Turn Off the Lights
by Khalilah Okeke
Over there
the Black Sea is a jellyfish
shipwrecks pile on shores
building boneyards
moonlight wanes through
a sooty stratosphere
Earth recedes into her bellows.
We crowd in dim-lit houses
porches sodden with ocean water
shaken streets scatter.
Over here
we plant broad-leaved-palm-lilies
in summer
eat backyard crops by candlelight
whiz through city lanes by bike
peg laundry on the washing line.
Our heart chakras
are solar panels -
breathing in the sun
unfurling flowers.
Over there
the Black Sea is a jellyfish
shipwrecks pile on shores
building boneyards
moonlight wanes through
a sooty stratosphere
Earth recedes into her bellows.
We crowd in dim-lit houses
porches sodden with ocean water
shaken streets scatter.
Over here
we plant broad-leaved-palm-lilies
in summer
eat backyard crops by candlelight
whiz through city lanes by bike
peg laundry on the washing line.
Our heart chakras
are solar panels -
breathing in the sun
unfurling flowers.
Wednesday, January 23, 2019
Serious Business
by Kate Rose
It’s difficult to wear the sun.
The crow knows.
I haven’t tasted your tiramisu.
Footnotes fade.
The engine hasn’t started
its pouting south –
ocean’s open mouth.
A destination like desire, or destiny –
an old, old place always new.
We must be who we are.
Only the sandy strand knows
how to vanish.
It’s difficult to wear the sun.
The crow knows.
I haven’t tasted your tiramisu.
Footnotes fade.
The engine hasn’t started
its pouting south –
ocean’s open mouth.
A destination like desire, or destiny –
an old, old place always new.
We must be who we are.
Only the sandy strand knows
how to vanish.
Sunday, January 20, 2019
A small pagoda monkey considers
by Devon Balwit
a feather, lighter than his lightest
leaping, barbules able to lift
a body beyond peaks, higher
than any stone-throwing boy.
The monkey curves the shed shaft
in his palms and dreams himself
above squabble and scavenge,
the light lazing gradations
of knuckle and vane, silvering
the Buddha eyes of his stupa.
a feather, lighter than his lightest
leaping, barbules able to lift
a body beyond peaks, higher
than any stone-throwing boy.
The monkey curves the shed shaft
in his palms and dreams himself
above squabble and scavenge,
the light lazing gradations
of knuckle and vane, silvering
the Buddha eyes of his stupa.
Moonrise
by Lorraine Caputo
Over the silhouette mountain
the light of
the full moon
shines, stars fading in
her brilliance
She crests the summit
a perfect white orb etched
with distant valleys & seas
& this sea, a silhouette
crested by the
evening breeze
under a deep sky
etched with stars
Over the silhouette mountain
the light of
the full moon
shines, stars fading in
her brilliance
She crests the summit
a perfect white orb etched
with distant valleys & seas
& this sea, a silhouette
crested by the
evening breeze
under a deep sky
etched with stars
Utility
by Amy Soricelli
There is a correct way to use the sun
and you must find this in the early moments before
your mind gets filled up with everything the sun is not.
There is a science for the things that are filled by hollow stories
and pie shells.
The crawl across the earth in a maddening rush of love
can be explained with numbers, maps,
and mushrooms forced from the earth and then cleared softly with a brush.
There is a correct way to use the planets and the barks from trees.
Words are not dirt they do not trail across the footprint
of your life.
There is a correct way to use the air and nothing but the edge of the universe
can hear the soundless sounds in every blade of grass.
There is a correct way to use the sun
and you must find this in the early moments before
your mind gets filled up with everything the sun is not.
There is a science for the things that are filled by hollow stories
and pie shells.
The crawl across the earth in a maddening rush of love
can be explained with numbers, maps,
and mushrooms forced from the earth and then cleared softly with a brush.
There is a correct way to use the planets and the barks from trees.
Words are not dirt they do not trail across the footprint
of your life.
There is a correct way to use the air and nothing but the edge of the universe
can hear the soundless sounds in every blade of grass.
