by Suzanne Cottrell
A hardy tree stands taller
than the two-story house
on the old Garrett Farm
Common American Persimmon Tree
its thick squared bark resembles alligator hide
alternating, slick, leathery, oblong leaves
Pale melon-colored balls
the size of shooter marbles
replaced creamy flowers
Ripened fruit, a deep cinnabar
flesh as soft, juicy, and
sweet as an apricot
Laden tree with fruit
some split and mushy
litters the ground while
Most cling to branches
till winter arrives
once a treasured fruit, now forgotten
Wednesday, October 30, 2019
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Cicada banger
by Coleman Bomar
Red wrapped woods in California
Waiting
Sappy straws gnawed like twizzlers
By maroon-eyed ebony earthen
Cicadas in sync
Billions rise from dirt
Soft skinned
White born
Nymphs
Cling to bark
Climbing green heavens
For wood rebirth
On bloody tree altars
The first in seventeen years
Molting darkly
Brood bred black screamers
Drink love
Roaring rhythmic orgy
A once in forever banger
Then silence conceived joy
Immediately dead
Falling
Shed husks
Quietly
This grand tumble:
The single greatest
Life giving
Party’s over
On silent Earth
Red wrapped woods in California
Waiting
Sappy straws gnawed like twizzlers
By maroon-eyed ebony earthen
Cicadas in sync
Billions rise from dirt
Soft skinned
White born
Nymphs
Cling to bark
Climbing green heavens
For wood rebirth
On bloody tree altars
The first in seventeen years
Molting darkly
Brood bred black screamers
Drink love
Roaring rhythmic orgy
A once in forever banger
Then silence conceived joy
Immediately dead
Falling
Shed husks
Quietly
This grand tumble:
The single greatest
Life giving
Party’s over
On silent Earth
Lines
by Felix Constantinescu
The orchard’s road
Tall, withered thistle.
Wet soil, damp.
Plum-tree bark, red
Vegetable light.
The orchard’s road
Tall, withered thistle.
Wet soil, damp.
Plum-tree bark, red
Vegetable light.
Wednesday, October 23, 2019
Preparation
by Carl Parsons
As aspens quaver
hawthorn hedges bare their
knots of sharpened thorns—
now the spotted fawn gathers
the cold wind in its quick legs.
As aspens quaver
hawthorn hedges bare their
knots of sharpened thorns—
now the spotted fawn gathers
the cold wind in its quick legs.
Tuesday, October 22, 2019
The River Remembers Her Ravines
by Babitha Marina Justin
When the waters came rolling down the hills, they scooped out the last human from the village on a rescue boat and rowed down the hill, which slid down after our flight.
We saw life boats, dinghies, fishing boats; we hoped to be saved clinging on to the last gunny-sack of dreams clamped to our chests, our lives pressed down to a few damp papers.
We plugged our ears to the news of people flowing away like catamarans with a cloud-burst or a landslide; dying prosaic like that, we held on to our lives not distinct from the unguent, unbridled cannonball mud.
We could have saved our huts, hill’s memories, our hearths; we know that the
river remembers her ravines for real long time.
We can go back to our empty hills, begin anew, write our histories on water, reclaim our lands, rake up the slush and reap in gold.
We know for real, Periyar remembers her ravines for a real long time.
When the waters came rolling down the hills, they scooped out the last human from the village on a rescue boat and rowed down the hill, which slid down after our flight.
We saw life boats, dinghies, fishing boats; we hoped to be saved clinging on to the last gunny-sack of dreams clamped to our chests, our lives pressed down to a few damp papers.
We plugged our ears to the news of people flowing away like catamarans with a cloud-burst or a landslide; dying prosaic like that, we held on to our lives not distinct from the unguent, unbridled cannonball mud.
We could have saved our huts, hill’s memories, our hearths; we know that the
river remembers her ravines for real long time.
We can go back to our empty hills, begin anew, write our histories on water, reclaim our lands, rake up the slush and reap in gold.
We know for real, Periyar remembers her ravines for a real long time.
Monday, October 21, 2019
9.21.19
8.01 a.m.
52 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Possessing less and less each day, the banks, like low tide, are exposed,
obstinate dry spell leaving the pond’s bones to dry in the sun.
Neurosis in the landscape, the weight of late summer
discomfits the trees which give in, sag, continue their slow burn.
Possessing less and less each day, the banks, like low tide, are exposed,
obstinate dry spell leaving the pond’s bones to dry in the sun.
Neurosis in the landscape, the weight of late summer
discomfits the trees which give in, sag, continue their slow burn.
Sunday, October 20, 2019
Rock Falls
by AE Reiff
After a flood
the grass will lay
brown as the stump
of a cut back tree
Heaps of stone
have known this change
rock falls when cliffs
and walls give way.
After a flood
the grass will lay
brown as the stump
of a cut back tree
Heaps of stone
have known this change
rock falls when cliffs
and walls give way.
Saturday, October 19, 2019
Spanish Skirts of the Palo Duro
by Judith Ann Muse Robinson
Crenelated strip, stitched to crenelated strip.
Repeat. Azure. Lavender. Maroon. Draped
against these flaring walls. Abandoned. as if
shed by spinning, dancing angels of the Llano
Estacado – on-ramp to Sangre de Cristos,
northward to the Rockies. Levitation courtesy
– not of wings – but of whirling, twirling
Spanish Skirts. Set afire! Vivified by dawn’s first
peek above the eastern rim. Hems pooling
in Red River waters of creation.
In their plunge, vaulting cliffs conceal seamed pockets.
Tiny caves. Comanche shelter. Rising mesas split
the downdraft to whistle through the maw, like blades
of grass held to blowing lip. Swishing moccasin shod
foot travels time astride an ancient echo. Turkey scrabble
in mesquite. Rattle of maracas? No! Beware! The rattler’s
tail. Bleat of restless, shuffling aoudad competing for
siesta sun. East-wall clinging Spanish Skirts live short
on time. An early inky dome of night pierced by one hundred
thousand stars as if to ignite the whirling, twirling Llano
Estacado specters to take flight.
Crenelated strip, stitched to crenelated strip.
Repeat. Azure. Lavender. Maroon. Draped
against these flaring walls. Abandoned. as if
shed by spinning, dancing angels of the Llano
Estacado – on-ramp to Sangre de Cristos,
northward to the Rockies. Levitation courtesy
– not of wings – but of whirling, twirling
Spanish Skirts. Set afire! Vivified by dawn’s first
peek above the eastern rim. Hems pooling
in Red River waters of creation.
In their plunge, vaulting cliffs conceal seamed pockets.
Tiny caves. Comanche shelter. Rising mesas split
the downdraft to whistle through the maw, like blades
of grass held to blowing lip. Swishing moccasin shod
foot travels time astride an ancient echo. Turkey scrabble
in mesquite. Rattle of maracas? No! Beware! The rattler’s
tail. Bleat of restless, shuffling aoudad competing for
siesta sun. East-wall clinging Spanish Skirts live short
on time. An early inky dome of night pierced by one hundred
thousand stars as if to ignite the whirling, twirling Llano
Estacado specters to take flight.
Wednesday, October 16, 2019
Cattle Egrets
by Wesley D. Sims
Late day in Fooshee Pass Cove
near smoothing water’s edge,
swarms of cattle egrets
round the point and curve past
the copse of hardwoods.
The bright, scribbly vees
veer up and cinch into
nightly flight paths
where the flocks bob and drop
in the fading air currents,
wobble up to skim hickory tree tops
as they wing their way
to roosting perches
on high limbs of tall pines.
Late day in Fooshee Pass Cove
near smoothing water’s edge,
swarms of cattle egrets
round the point and curve past
the copse of hardwoods.
The bright, scribbly vees
veer up and cinch into
nightly flight paths
where the flocks bob and drop
in the fading air currents,
wobble up to skim hickory tree tops
as they wing their way
to roosting perches
on high limbs of tall pines.
Sunday, October 13, 2019
Appalachia
by Austin Hehir
Moon light skips
off the rattling creek.
Slowly wandering down the
hills. Fire smolders in our souls as
we climb.
Sucking down the nectar, intoxicated.
Hands viced to the cold bed of the truck.
Headlights off, star lights only to guide the path.
Dimly we race, against the passing of time
and foolishly we think that nights
in the rolling mountains tumbling
metal wagons carelessly down
the hill and through the
creek will last
Forever.
Moon light skips
off the rattling creek.
Slowly wandering down the
hills. Fire smolders in our souls as
we climb.
Sucking down the nectar, intoxicated.
Hands viced to the cold bed of the truck.
Headlights off, star lights only to guide the path.
Dimly we race, against the passing of time
and foolishly we think that nights
in the rolling mountains tumbling
metal wagons carelessly down
the hill and through the
creek will last
Forever.
Saturday, October 12, 2019
9.1.19
8.00 a.m.
58 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Pensive silence this morning, the walk to the pond quiet and still.
Ownership of sound is taken by Fowler’s stream, a bubbling
necklace of clear water into the muddy pond, the only sound
deemed necessary on a morning this soft, this undisturbed.
Pensive silence this morning, the walk to the pond quiet and still.
Ownership of sound is taken by Fowler’s stream, a bubbling
necklace of clear water into the muddy pond, the only sound
deemed necessary on a morning this soft, this undisturbed.
Wednesday, October 9, 2019
Along the Coast
by Ray Greenblatt
No bewitching eyes of seals,
nor intoxicating dolphin songs
here.
Instead etched inlets,
rounded promontories.
The beach is a shelf
offering unique products:
kindling
dead fish
polished glass
seaweed.
The sea paints the surf
gold at dawn,
purple at dusk.
Coastal trees learn the shapes
of local winds.
No bewitching eyes of seals,
nor intoxicating dolphin songs
here.
Instead etched inlets,
rounded promontories.
The beach is a shelf
offering unique products:
kindling
dead fish
polished glass
seaweed.
The sea paints the surf
gold at dawn,
purple at dusk.
Coastal trees learn the shapes
of local winds.
Sunday, October 6, 2019
Cormorants at Yaquina Bay
by Karen Jones
Along the plank connecting old dock pilings,
they stand, ragged, adolescent, legs apart,
lift stubby wings in an arc to dry.
Another flies in, lands too near his neighbor.
They spar for a moment, then sidestep away
in black huffs of disgust.
Spaced like a row of theater luminaires,
the cormorants perch and preen,
open their wings, flap, balance again.
Below them floats a red and white buoy.
Gulls cry, a boat speeds by, its fishing net
flying like a standard in the wind.
Along the plank connecting old dock pilings,
they stand, ragged, adolescent, legs apart,
lift stubby wings in an arc to dry.
Another flies in, lands too near his neighbor.
They spar for a moment, then sidestep away
in black huffs of disgust.
Spaced like a row of theater luminaires,
the cormorants perch and preen,
open their wings, flap, balance again.
Below them floats a red and white buoy.
Gulls cry, a boat speeds by, its fishing net
flying like a standard in the wind.
Lines
by Laurie Wilcox-Meyer
bees fall from blossoms
yellow swallowtail on asphalt
sick skin, the rivers
bees fall from blossoms
yellow swallowtail on asphalt
sick skin, the rivers
Wednesday, October 2, 2019
Missouri River Cottonwoods
by Karen Jones
Thunder growls under Meadowlark song.
Clouds pile the horizon, the river glides.
Cottonwoods, ancient children, lean
along the bank. Their roots seek cool waters.
Rugged bark covers massive trunks.
Limbs, dry old bones, full of gnarls and knobs,
bend to the ground like knees of giants.
Dead twigs tangle in cracks of heartwood.
Young boughs, smooth and limber,
bounce and sway easy as a porch swing.
Leaves spin on long, flattened stems,
rain-patter in breeze. Finest of leather hearts,
they sparkle like sun on water, like haloes
of vibrant atoms, ever green in the drying wind.
Thunder growls under Meadowlark song.
Clouds pile the horizon, the river glides.
Cottonwoods, ancient children, lean
along the bank. Their roots seek cool waters.
Rugged bark covers massive trunks.
Limbs, dry old bones, full of gnarls and knobs,
bend to the ground like knees of giants.
Dead twigs tangle in cracks of heartwood.
Young boughs, smooth and limber,
bounce and sway easy as a porch swing.
Leaves spin on long, flattened stems,
rain-patter in breeze. Finest of leather hearts,
they sparkle like sun on water, like haloes
of vibrant atoms, ever green in the drying wind.
Tuesday, October 1, 2019
Lines
by Wayne Scheer
jackson pollock drips
orange and red and yellow
on a dull canvas--
autumn begins
jackson pollock drips
orange and red and yellow
on a dull canvas--
autumn begins
Sunday, September 29, 2019
FireLight
by Jamel Hall
i.
The evening like a fallow field until ready for harvest
as night descends on a forest of rice.
ii.
Tenggala rises.
Moonless night a metronome
keeping the pace of yesterdays and todays.
Each ancient and flickering star
a moment, a time, a passing.
The brusk blowing brass of grassy winds.
i.
The evening like a fallow field until ready for harvest
as night descends on a forest of rice.
ii.
Tenggala rises.
Moonless night a metronome
keeping the pace of yesterdays and todays.
Each ancient and flickering star
a moment, a time, a passing.
The brusk blowing brass of grassy winds.
Canyon
by Yingtong Guo
Gold and green in the hills
Trickle through the rocks
In gazillions of rainbow droplets,
Run from the flanks
In ribbons of garish streams –
To paint the coral reefs
To dye the sea horses
In the Gulf of California.
An evaporating watercolor,
Unfathomable in its monotony.
Gold and green in the hills
Trickle through the rocks
In gazillions of rainbow droplets,
Run from the flanks
In ribbons of garish streams –
To paint the coral reefs
To dye the sea horses
In the Gulf of California.
An evaporating watercolor,
Unfathomable in its monotony.
Wednesday, September 25, 2019
Claws of the Mighty
by Kufre-Udeme Thompson
Sweating drummers,
Growing so wild;
Anxious crowds,
Expanding like ringworm.
Hefty-hefty,
Like a bunch of palm fruits;
Huge shoulders,
Dancing into the sandy circle.
Smoky clouds,
Drifting across the dying sun;
Human voices,
Chanting their names.
Tough palms,
Clashing like swords;
Heavy legs,
Rooting like Mangrove.
Trickery-trickery,
One plunged the other down;
Roaring crowds,
Lifting him shoulder high.
Sweating drummers,
Growing so wild;
Anxious crowds,
Expanding like ringworm.
Hefty-hefty,
Like a bunch of palm fruits;
Huge shoulders,
Dancing into the sandy circle.
Smoky clouds,
Drifting across the dying sun;
Human voices,
Chanting their names.
Tough palms,
Clashing like swords;
Heavy legs,
Rooting like Mangrove.
Trickery-trickery,
One plunged the other down;
Roaring crowds,
Lifting him shoulder high.
Sunday, September 22, 2019
Lines
by Padmini Krishnan
Drizzle aftermath
How different they smell
young leaves and the dried ones
Drizzle aftermath
How different they smell
young leaves and the dried ones
The moon gives witness
by Joan Eyles Johnson
Crows in a pear tree
pass the moon between them
ripple Lake Gregory
under the branches
Crows in a pear tree
pass the moon between them
ripple Lake Gregory
under the branches
Wednesday, September 18, 2019
Socotra Cormorants, Ahmadi Beach 1991
by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad
three Socotra cormorants lie pinned
in quicksand,
amorphous lumps sinking
in puddles of congealed oil,
beaks and feathers crusted,
stripped of the strength
to extricate their bodies,
burbling breath, life dissolving
in the spill that chokes
the shores of Kuwait City.
through the pyrocumulous clouds,
the occasional patch
of cornflower blue sky peeps,
glimpse of a time before strife -
sands pristine, skies unblemished,
phthalo blue waters, mirror-still,
the shade of cormorants’ eyes.
the Arabian Gulf stretches, a wasteland
bubbling poisonous black,
viscous veins plump with decay
clawing across the waves,
the inferno of the oil fields of Ahmadi
glowing with molten hellfire,
ringed with the bodies of cormorants.
three Socotra cormorants lie pinned
in quicksand,
amorphous lumps sinking
in puddles of congealed oil,
beaks and feathers crusted,
stripped of the strength
to extricate their bodies,
burbling breath, life dissolving
in the spill that chokes
the shores of Kuwait City.
through the pyrocumulous clouds,
the occasional patch
of cornflower blue sky peeps,
glimpse of a time before strife -
sands pristine, skies unblemished,
phthalo blue waters, mirror-still,
the shade of cormorants’ eyes.
the Arabian Gulf stretches, a wasteland
bubbling poisonous black,
viscous veins plump with decay
clawing across the waves,
the inferno of the oil fields of Ahmadi
glowing with molten hellfire,
ringed with the bodies of cormorants.
Fireburst
by Ben Rasnic
Jalapeños, cayennes &
habaneros
hang like Christmas ornaments
in their clay containers;
reds & yellows,
greens & orange
basking in the mid-
Atlantic august sun.
Peppers, waxed & polished,
crave the next eruption
of nor’easter rainfall;
capsaicin branding
the soft inner flesh,
bursting with seeds.
Jalapeños, cayennes &
habaneros
hang like Christmas ornaments
in their clay containers;
reds & yellows,
greens & orange
basking in the mid-
Atlantic august sun.
Peppers, waxed & polished,
crave the next eruption
of nor’easter rainfall;
capsaicin branding
the soft inner flesh,
bursting with seeds.
Sunday, September 15, 2019
there’s no such thing a loneliness
Stephen A. Rozwenc
there’s no such thing a loneliness
weather trembles admirably
the opera glass snake aria
serenades pleasurable rocks
that dapple the river bank
venerable waters sparkle genius
dark bowers wander fearlessly
bleating palm trees
welcome lush adoration
in a breathless hush
there’s no such thing a loneliness
weather trembles admirably
the opera glass snake aria
serenades pleasurable rocks
that dapple the river bank
venerable waters sparkle genius
dark bowers wander fearlessly
bleating palm trees
welcome lush adoration
in a breathless hush
Vortex
by Yuan Changming
Turning, twirling
In ever smaller circles
A vortex in the stream
Seems to be sucking in
All the waters on earth
Like the black hole
Trying to swallow
The whole universe
Turning, twirling
In ever smaller circles
A vortex in the stream
Seems to be sucking in
All the waters on earth
Like the black hole
Trying to swallow
The whole universe
Frank Talk re: the Off Ramp
by Todd Mercer
Going extinct will be tragic enough,
but once we’re there no one
will concern themselves with it
or care to write it down. We should try
harder to avert a needless crash,
but it looks like that’s not what we’ll do.
Disappointing, but no sense in handwringing,
messing up our weekends with the doom.
The end won’t be long. Without people
in the equation, Nature will soldier along
perhaps for quite a while. Until asteroid.
Let’s not sugarcoat the shameful fact
that we know how to save the species,
but we just don’t feel like it. Too much hassle,
no fast cash in it. We’re funny like that.
Going extinct will be tragic enough,
but once we’re there no one
will concern themselves with it
or care to write it down. We should try
harder to avert a needless crash,
but it looks like that’s not what we’ll do.
Disappointing, but no sense in handwringing,
messing up our weekends with the doom.
The end won’t be long. Without people
in the equation, Nature will soldier along
perhaps for quite a while. Until asteroid.
Let’s not sugarcoat the shameful fact
that we know how to save the species,
but we just don’t feel like it. Too much hassle,
no fast cash in it. We’re funny like that.
Wednesday, September 11, 2019
Firefly
by Yuan Changming
Burst with courage
You are flying around, using
Your little light
Like a sharp scissor tip
To rip off the heavy curtain
Of all the darkness
Blown out of frenzy dreams
Burst with courage
You are flying around, using
Your little light
Like a sharp scissor tip
To rip off the heavy curtain
Of all the darkness
Blown out of frenzy dreams
Sunday, September 8, 2019
The Reef (Sattahip, Thailand)
by Ellen Chia
At knee-deep,
The ebbing tide's a semblance
Of an expansive glass aquarium;
Within, a city's vivid lights
Have long since snuffed out;
A gradual dimming culminating
To a washed-out white
Before armies of minuscle greens
Laid seige,
Cleaving to this labyrinthine rubble
Like a skintight cloak
Though muffling not
The echo strains of a requiem.
What remains is this
Museum of shame
Gazing back at us.
At knee-deep,
The ebbing tide's a semblance
Of an expansive glass aquarium;
Within, a city's vivid lights
Have long since snuffed out;
A gradual dimming culminating
To a washed-out white
Before armies of minuscle greens
Laid seige,
Cleaving to this labyrinthine rubble
Like a skintight cloak
Though muffling not
The echo strains of a requiem.
What remains is this
Museum of shame
Gazing back at us.
San Bruno Mountain
by Dan Richman
Looking up
the slope is studded
with Wild Mustard,
Milkweed, Sticky Monkey,
Lantana, Coyote Bush,
Sage,
Yarrow,
Lupine, brutal
but useful
Thistle, and Wild Fennel,
and scattered within the Red Fescue,
the orange kisses
of California
Poppy. And then it
ends and one is struck
by just how
blank
the sky can be.
Looking up
the slope is studded
with Wild Mustard,
Milkweed, Sticky Monkey,
Lantana, Coyote Bush,
Sage,
Yarrow,
Lupine, brutal
but useful
Thistle, and Wild Fennel,
and scattered within the Red Fescue,
the orange kisses
of California
Poppy. And then it
ends and one is struck
by just how
blank
the sky can be.
green so
by Steve Piazza
the piebald fawn grazing conspicuously alone
unaware as we are of the vanity in our projecting insecurities
about outcast and shunning and how does this happen
and
oh the poor thing
cranes effortlessly to reach challenging leaves
while we waver against the steadiness of nature
and resort to clashes over domain and supremacy
and
who wins this time
according its grace before despondent eyes
the piebald fawn grazing conspicuously alone
unaware as we are of the vanity in our projecting insecurities
about outcast and shunning and how does this happen
and
oh the poor thing
cranes effortlessly to reach challenging leaves
while we waver against the steadiness of nature
and resort to clashes over domain and supremacy
and
who wins this time
according its grace before despondent eyes
Friday, September 6, 2019
8.7.19
8.59 a.m.
71 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Privets ragged in the heat begin their late summer droop lifted somewhat by the slow
ooze of Joe Pye’s lanky mauve, and the goldenrod spirals in the humidity, swirls of
nurls reaching through the air, and here, remnant of a drama, more air than substance, a barred owl
deposited a feather, perhaps dropped as he swooped down then up startled frog on the rising.
Privets ragged in the heat begin their late summer droop lifted somewhat by the slow
ooze of Joe Pye’s lanky mauve, and the goldenrod spirals in the humidity, swirls of
nurls reaching through the air, and here, remnant of a drama, more air than substance, a barred owl
deposited a feather, perhaps dropped as he swooped down then up startled frog on the rising.
No Signs of Intelligent Life
by Todd Mercer
Beam me up, Scotty. I’ve seen enough.
This place is devoid of civilization.
Get me the fuck out of here, before
the prevailing madness mires me in muck.
The locals keep voting to abolish
the locals. They think it’s in their interests.
Something went wrong at the schools,
learning is no longer possible.
People like this cheer for meteors
that are streaking straight toward them.
They can’t foresee the destruction,
only focus on the shiny light.
How they’re still here even this long
is a stumping mystery.
Rumor has it the same citizens
used to want what’s good for citizens.
Little proof remains. So who can say?
They must have somewhere to go
after here’s obliterated. No panic
at irreversible damage from
intentional decisions they have made.
They could fix their society and ecosystem
for free, but they reject the effort,
they suspect a darker motive.
Stupid people lack the means to self-assess
and to alter course. Beam me up
and set a course for basic rationality.
Enlightened self-interest prevails
on the higher quality planets. This was
an asylum before the funding ran out.
Beam me up, Scotty. I’ve seen enough.
This place is devoid of civilization.
Get me the fuck out of here, before
the prevailing madness mires me in muck.
The locals keep voting to abolish
the locals. They think it’s in their interests.
Something went wrong at the schools,
learning is no longer possible.
People like this cheer for meteors
that are streaking straight toward them.
They can’t foresee the destruction,
only focus on the shiny light.
How they’re still here even this long
is a stumping mystery.
Rumor has it the same citizens
used to want what’s good for citizens.
Little proof remains. So who can say?
They must have somewhere to go
after here’s obliterated. No panic
at irreversible damage from
intentional decisions they have made.
They could fix their society and ecosystem
for free, but they reject the effort,
they suspect a darker motive.
Stupid people lack the means to self-assess
and to alter course. Beam me up
and set a course for basic rationality.
Enlightened self-interest prevails
on the higher quality planets. This was
an asylum before the funding ran out.
Wednesday, September 4, 2019
Rugged Northern California Wilderness
by Julia Lesel
Grinding. Pulsing. Flashing, dragging, crashing waves.
Rugged, jagged, foggy at various levels.
Bright yellow birch leaves sparkle, dotting through the sequoia forest-scape.
A glen of fat birches, flooded at the bases by creeping moss
Messy sword ferns the edge of a rapid river,
Shaggy, drooping from angular cliff walls, heavily wet.
Cattails elongating from thick spiny bushes
Flanking the winding road out of town.
Glassy silver-green leaf broad clumpy strangling vines,
Large silvery boulders dispersed between a bare spot in the strangling heaps.
Grinding. Pulsing. Flashing, dragging, crashing waves.
Rugged, jagged, foggy at various levels.
Bright yellow birch leaves sparkle, dotting through the sequoia forest-scape.
A glen of fat birches, flooded at the bases by creeping moss
Messy sword ferns the edge of a rapid river,
Shaggy, drooping from angular cliff walls, heavily wet.
Cattails elongating from thick spiny bushes
Flanking the winding road out of town.
Glassy silver-green leaf broad clumpy strangling vines,
Large silvery boulders dispersed between a bare spot in the strangling heaps.
Sunday, September 1, 2019
On Visiting an Unnamed Swamp
by Ahrend Torrey
Amid high brown cypress in thick
dark air, amid the scent of dirt
and fern, Water Moccasin
lurks head-up, through
black water— question mark,
after question mark.
Cicadas in the distance—
buzz, buzz. Some-
where between they merge
with crickets’ chirp
lacing through the dark air:—
what throbs and throbs of faint light.
Amid high brown cypress in thick
dark air, amid the scent of dirt
and fern, Water Moccasin
lurks head-up, through
black water— question mark,
after question mark.
Cicadas in the distance—
buzz, buzz. Some-
where between they merge
with crickets’ chirp
lacing through the dark air:—
what throbs and throbs of faint light.
Wednesday, August 28, 2019
7.14.19
7.22 a.m.
69 degrees
by John Stanizzi,
Pecking the air with their chuck chuck, the grackles worry the trees.
Owl feather floating delicately on the pond, are you part of the reason for the
noise this morning. Was that you whose wide rump I glimpsed
dexterously wheeling through the thick overgrowth, touching nothing, silently.
Pecking the air with their chuck chuck, the grackles worry the trees.
Owl feather floating delicately on the pond, are you part of the reason for the
noise this morning. Was that you whose wide rump I glimpsed
dexterously wheeling through the thick overgrowth, touching nothing, silently.
Monday, August 26, 2019
Newfoundland
Photography by G. Tod Slone
 |
| Monkstown |
 |
| Ile d'Entree |
 |
| Burlington |
 |
| Saint Lewis |
 |
| L'Anse aux Meadows |
Sunday, August 25, 2019
Superluna
It's very nearness changes who I am.
--after Sarah Harwell "Super Moon"
by Judith Ann Muse Robinson
Dark dome of night. Split. Ablaze
at the clerestory. Buona sera,
Superluna of the blood. Welcome. Rest
awhile within our brimful nest
of empty opulence. Creation holds ephemeral
residence enough for you. Clever
hangs its head beneath Niagara's
tongue turned sifting whisper
of Sahara's shifting sands. Distant river
ice explodes a scent of new-mown hay.
Fleshing-out begins of sclerotic bones. Rudder
lost. Dam-breaking floods
expose dry riverbeds draining smelted ore
of sword and shield.
Babble becomes anthem. Becomes
lullaby. This palsied foot taps Tango.
--after Sarah Harwell "Super Moon"
by Judith Ann Muse Robinson
Dark dome of night. Split. Ablaze
at the clerestory. Buona sera,
Superluna of the blood. Welcome. Rest
awhile within our brimful nest
of empty opulence. Creation holds ephemeral
residence enough for you. Clever
hangs its head beneath Niagara's
tongue turned sifting whisper
of Sahara's shifting sands. Distant river
ice explodes a scent of new-mown hay.
Fleshing-out begins of sclerotic bones. Rudder
lost. Dam-breaking floods
expose dry riverbeds draining smelted ore
of sword and shield.
Babble becomes anthem. Becomes
lullaby. This palsied foot taps Tango.
Barred Owl on the Road
by Barbara Brooks
It looked like a rock
until it swiveled its head,
yellow eyes looking at me.
It was sitting on
the side of the road, its drab
wings brushing the ground.
I leaned down to pick
it up, its talons softly
grabbed my arm, its
barred wings fluttered
in the wind of the passing
cars. It clung to my arm.
I tried to cover it with a
bag. It flew instead.
It looked like a rock
until it swiveled its head,
yellow eyes looking at me.
It was sitting on
the side of the road, its drab
wings brushing the ground.
I leaned down to pick
it up, its talons softly
grabbed my arm, its
barred wings fluttered
in the wind of the passing
cars. It clung to my arm.
I tried to cover it with a
bag. It flew instead.
Lunar Eclipse
January 20, 2019
by Jane Richards
8:30
The moon shines pure,
--no ordinary moon, but perigee,
so close to earth it exhales past its boundaries--
glistens the snow,
cuts shadows in crisp lines,
brings clarity to a winter night.
9:46
The moon, smudged at its bottom edge,
--no ordinary smudge, like a passing cloud,
but a stain, a creeping disease over the white face--
lays a dirty cast on the snow,
smearing shadows--
gloom hovers.
10:16
The moon, a feeble frown of light
--nearly overcome with thickening shades,
red stain soaking through the grey--
turns snow into a dark shroud,
shadows into black holes--
the night broods in silence.
10:32
The moon gasps,
--aspirates a last flare of light--
shimmers snow,
recuts shadows
before all illumination dissolves.
10:40
The moon
--in total eclipse, a strange rust-colored beauty,
old blood swirling in murk--
abandons snow and shadows to eerie black--
the earth shoulders a heavy burden,
sinks into itself,
threads to its sun severed.
8:30
The moon shines pure,
--no ordinary moon, but perigee,
so close to earth it exhales past its boundaries--
glistens the snow,
cuts shadows in crisp lines,
brings clarity to a winter night.
9:46
The moon, smudged at its bottom edge,
--no ordinary smudge, like a passing cloud,
but a stain, a creeping disease over the white face--
lays a dirty cast on the snow,
smearing shadows--
gloom hovers.
10:16
The moon, a feeble frown of light
--nearly overcome with thickening shades,
red stain soaking through the grey--
turns snow into a dark shroud,
shadows into black holes--
the night broods in silence.
10:32
The moon gasps,
--aspirates a last flare of light--
shimmers snow,
recuts shadows
before all illumination dissolves.
10:40
The moon
--in total eclipse, a strange rust-colored beauty,
old blood swirling in murk--
abandons snow and shadows to eerie black--
the earth shoulders a heavy burden,
sinks into itself,
threads to its sun severed.
