by Susan N Aassahde,
billiard toast flock
cask sneaker
tambourine peak hunt
Wednesday, November 27, 2019
Sunday, November 24, 2019
The Buff-Rumped Thornbill
by Frances Roberts
Hidden by the leaf of a Red Olive Plum
a Buff-Rumped Thornbill
sends a high wisp of song
into open forest.
A piping voice calls back
from Lane Cove Valley below.
Hidden by the leaf of a Red Olive Plum
a Buff-Rumped Thornbill
sends a high wisp of song
into open forest.
A piping voice calls back
from Lane Cove Valley below.
Praying Mantis
by Lucy Zhang
There’s a Mantis
in the middle
of Wolfe Road
raptorial forelegs folded
not praying but
waiting.
How did the butterfly
fall victim
when all it needed to do
was complete an upstroke
in a lift-producing vortex
and tumble
through the sky?
But the Mantis stalked,
struck out, tore off
extraneous Bushbrown wings
and held the butterfly close
like it’d never
let go.
There’s a Mantis
in the middle
of Wolfe Road
raptorial forelegs folded
not praying but
waiting.
How did the butterfly
fall victim
when all it needed to do
was complete an upstroke
in a lift-producing vortex
and tumble
through the sky?
But the Mantis stalked,
struck out, tore off
extraneous Bushbrown wings
and held the butterfly close
like it’d never
let go.
Wednesday, November 20, 2019
Light and shade
by Lillian Good
Kookaburras
mark the changing light.
In-between, dark flies buzz
interferingly over red dust
sprinkled with dung.
Kookaburras
mark the changing light.
In-between, dark flies buzz
interferingly over red dust
sprinkled with dung.
Sunday, November 17, 2019
Route 109
by Tom Lagasse
Wandering through the Litchfield Hills
In his battered red Chevy Malibu
Its odometer nearly tipping to 100K
Li Bai drunk from one too many
with his friends at the GW Tavern
pulls his car to the shoulder
Near Sunny Ridge Road.
On the back of an envelope
From an unpaid bill he scratches:
The mist rests
on the pines
above
as they lean
with the weight
of Route 109.
Wandering through the Litchfield Hills
In his battered red Chevy Malibu
Its odometer nearly tipping to 100K
Li Bai drunk from one too many
with his friends at the GW Tavern
pulls his car to the shoulder
Near Sunny Ridge Road.
On the back of an envelope
From an unpaid bill he scratches:
The mist rests
on the pines
above
as they lean
with the weight
of Route 109.
Over the Lake
by Ray Greenblatt
Winds scour Marsh Creek Lake
and rip at stray stone walls
no longer knowing what
they kept out or in.
Myth has it that fish
lie on the bottom
disguised as mud balls.
Trees have dropped all their
summer camouflage.
Four old crows each on
brittle tree branch
talk things over in
their raspy argot.
Fox out of its den
forages for short time
before snowflakes whirl.
Tomorrow lake surface
might be walkable.
Winds scour Marsh Creek Lake
and rip at stray stone walls
no longer knowing what
they kept out or in.
Myth has it that fish
lie on the bottom
disguised as mud balls.
Trees have dropped all their
summer camouflage.
Four old crows each on
brittle tree branch
talk things over in
their raspy argot.
Fox out of its den
forages for short time
before snowflakes whirl.
Tomorrow lake surface
might be walkable.
(Corn) Husk In The Wind
by Randall Rogers
It's true in the end ashes do look best.
Or the new beautiful
compressed-bone art deco white oval
I saw advertised on TV the other day.
Creamy it looked like a bar of Dove soap.
A large burial mushroom pod
where your remains sprout
new fungi (or fun-guys!), perhaps? Heh-heh
So many options,
so much to look forward to
getting old, croaking, and being buried in
the quaint little cemetery
around the church
of the small town
on the prairie
in southern Minnesota
where all the farms
are neat and orderly
and there are towns
like Truman
where industrious Germans and Swedes
mow their lawns on Sunday
now that weed's legal
and there's decent internet
it's okay to live there.
It's true in the end ashes do look best.
Or the new beautiful
compressed-bone art deco white oval
I saw advertised on TV the other day.
Creamy it looked like a bar of Dove soap.
A large burial mushroom pod
where your remains sprout
new fungi (or fun-guys!), perhaps? Heh-heh
So many options,
so much to look forward to
getting old, croaking, and being buried in
the quaint little cemetery
around the church
of the small town
on the prairie
in southern Minnesota
where all the farms
are neat and orderly
and there are towns
like Truman
where industrious Germans and Swedes
mow their lawns on Sunday
now that weed's legal
and there's decent internet
it's okay to live there.
Wednesday, November 13, 2019
ebb tide
by Martha Landman
last night the moon was in your hair
but the day is vast around us now
the horizon further away
islands and mountains hold
the infinity of this place
the ocean peels away from the shore
large circles of brown and blue
thin layers of water lying still, a flat bed
we walk on the ocean floor
a white-bellied sea eagle swoops
a fiddler’s bow playing Spiegel im Spiegel
but last night the moon was in your hair
last night the moon was in your hair
but the day is vast around us now
the horizon further away
islands and mountains hold
the infinity of this place
the ocean peels away from the shore
large circles of brown and blue
thin layers of water lying still, a flat bed
we walk on the ocean floor
a white-bellied sea eagle swoops
a fiddler’s bow playing Spiegel im Spiegel
but last night the moon was in your hair
Sunday, November 10, 2019
Prodigious Plumes
by Suzanne Cottrell
Dragon’s Breath proclaims its presence
spreads burgundy streaked, olive foliage
presents its fiery bouquet of
feathery crimson blooms
hints of spicy fragrance
dominates floral landscape
summer through autumn
Dragon’s Breath proclaims its presence
spreads burgundy streaked, olive foliage
presents its fiery bouquet of
feathery crimson blooms
hints of spicy fragrance
dominates floral landscape
summer through autumn
Friday, November 8, 2019
November 8, 2019
7.02 a.m.
29 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Panoplied in cold, fall has charred the entire landscape, as memories
overtake my thoughts – visions of dragonfly days,
and on the first morning the
and on the first morning the
notification by the great blue heron on the
far side of the pond that the
far side of the pond that the
dawns ahead would be filled with myriad marvels; he was right.
Wednesday, November 6, 2019
Consider This
by Mary Innes
Consider how it is
we eat the air:
Sunlight touches green,
turning spirit into matter,
becoming us
who breathe our spirits back to air.
Consider how the grasses' green
becomes our skin, our heart, our hair.
Carbon marries light
and we appear.
Consider how it is
we eat the air:
Sunlight touches green,
turning spirit into matter,
becoming us
who breathe our spirits back to air.
Consider how the grasses' green
becomes our skin, our heart, our hair.
Carbon marries light
and we appear.
Sunday, November 3, 2019
Nightfall at Minnamurra
by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad
At the foot of Minnamurra Falls
the maples heave in the gale,
wind drawing applause
rich with sudden confetti,
whirling bushels
of umber, gold, sienna.
the trees arch skyward,
upper reaches shorn
as the windstorm shuffles away,
balm of autumn night
settles eggshell, tranquil,
the forests of Illawarra
lit by a smudge of fireflies.
At the foot of Minnamurra Falls
the maples heave in the gale,
wind drawing applause
rich with sudden confetti,
whirling bushels
of umber, gold, sienna.
the trees arch skyward,
upper reaches shorn
as the windstorm shuffles away,
balm of autumn night
settles eggshell, tranquil,
the forests of Illawarra
lit by a smudge of fireflies.
Saturday, November 2, 2019
Wednesday, October 30, 2019
Forgotten Fruit
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
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
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
