by Terrence Sykes
ancient ash
along the banks
silent Loire
brambled blackberries
greenbriars
fortress of solitude
hedgehog
peers contentedly
having never
visited Paris
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Climate Change
by Gary Beck
Summer days ended,
battered trees lose their green,
supplanted by urban drear
until life blooms again,
surviving suffocating winter.
Bare skin covered
by confining garments,
curious paradox;
leaves fall off,
clothing goes on,
reversed in springtime;
leaves sprout,
clothing's removed,
unless disaster
alters the cycle.
Summer days ended,
battered trees lose their green,
supplanted by urban drear
until life blooms again,
surviving suffocating winter.
Bare skin covered
by confining garments,
curious paradox;
leaves fall off,
clothing goes on,
reversed in springtime;
leaves sprout,
clothing's removed,
unless disaster
alters the cycle.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Earth Day 2015
by Sarah Frances Moran
Calbuco decided it was past time to make love to the sky
and with a violence reserved for Gods, she did.
How the clouds matured for her.
How they responded with an equal fury.
How the crackle of that spark lit up the world.
Illuminating eyes with a blanket of ash,
she stroked out a picture and put on a dance
for all us devils below.
Calbuco decided it was time to show off the Heavens
How the Earth can reach up to kiss the atmosphere
How the lightning soaked offspring of dueling lovers toss in the wind
How commanding love can be
Distributing glory over a multitude of medias,
She woke and she warned us.
Calbuco decided
It was time for this awakening.
Calbuco decided it was past time to make love to the sky
and with a violence reserved for Gods, she did.
How the clouds matured for her.
How they responded with an equal fury.
How the crackle of that spark lit up the world.
Illuminating eyes with a blanket of ash,
she stroked out a picture and put on a dance
for all us devils below.
Calbuco decided it was time to show off the Heavens
How the Earth can reach up to kiss the atmosphere
How the lightning soaked offspring of dueling lovers toss in the wind
How commanding love can be
Distributing glory over a multitude of medias,
She woke and she warned us.
Calbuco decided
It was time for this awakening.
Prelude To Darkness
by Bruce Mundhenke
Bridge of light
Upon Illinois water,
Pathway to the setting sun,
A murder of crows in a maple,
Fly to the east one by one,
Winging their way
To a winter roost,
Before the darkness comes.
Bridge of light
Upon Illinois water,
Pathway to the setting sun,
A murder of crows in a maple,
Fly to the east one by one,
Winging their way
To a winter roost,
Before the darkness comes.
Before Dawn
by Taylor Graham
It’s dark as oak woods
before junco unravels jitty-song
out of underbush, scrabbing
tangles of new
grass that push up
through the dead.
Morning turns on its axis
at its own good pace.
It’s dark as oak woods
before junco unravels jitty-song
out of underbush, scrabbing
tangles of new
grass that push up
through the dead.
Morning turns on its axis
at its own good pace.
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Mallards on the Washington Channel
by Andrea Wyatt
In the winter light the drakes
sail through the drink,
green heads, yellow beaks,
scoop slugs and snails
caught in the shoreline grass,
river water rushes through the gates
of the inlet bridge, first in,
and when the tide turns, out
and sends the sord* into the air to join the gulls
that sweep the gray December skies.
*a flight of mallards,
from Middle English sorden, or, to surge
In the winter light the drakes
sail through the drink,
green heads, yellow beaks,
scoop slugs and snails
caught in the shoreline grass,
river water rushes through the gates
of the inlet bridge, first in,
and when the tide turns, out
and sends the sord* into the air to join the gulls
that sweep the gray December skies.
*a flight of mallards,
from Middle English sorden, or, to surge
Sunday, January 17, 2016
What I Hear
Late Summer 2014
by Maury Grimm
I hear the mockingbirds scolding
the dart of hummingbirds, a whir
the engine revving, a horses’ snort
Robins returned for ripening fruit
I hear the ripening of currants
a buzz of bees
the horses’ hoof hitting ground
I hear the shift of clouds
I hear the shift of clouds, that high murmur
broken mare’s tails adrift
the cumulus foaming
against the Sangres
I hear the pattern of leaves
the quelites flowering
the earth holding roots of parsnips
daucus and salsify
I hear the wings of butterflies
the hummingbird moth
lighting on the radish blooms
I hear the long probe
The sand moves when I walk
I hear it like doves
I hear the limbs of trees
these old Salix nigra finger
the summer sky
Not only do the bird songs vary
I almost know each one.
I hear how each wing resonates
species to species
I hear their spectacle in flight
Like wasps do not sound like bees
nor even the pesky fly
not one has a similar buzz
even the broad bumble bee has its singular sound
I hear the truck going by
laden with bee hives
an airplane overhead
and the sheep nestling
into the afternoon shade
I hear the yellow roses fading
pentstemons and jump-ups now overtaken
by hollyhocks, rudbeckias
I hear the rain settling into the dry earth
I hear the red-tail hawks, all ways on time, circling above
a fly bumps into the screen, another train
passes through town
I hear my neighbor return
gravel bitten by tires
I hear my heart
my pen across this paper
my eyes struggle to see and make
heeded the words I hear
I hear the follicles of skin the wind raises
that stand on my arms, my face
the truck with its hitch rattling
the distant wanting dog
I hear the heart wanting
the heart, if it could be overheard
with its stories of loss
with stories of hope, the dreams
Wanting to hear the birds
the soft shuffle of hooves
that do not want to eat the milkweed
I hear the jasmine-scented blossoms fading
pods forming seeds
The seeds of shepherd’s purse and amaranth
that come up all summer if I let them
I hear them in places
bursting the ground
A siren, I hear the crows
a conversation between the magpies
and in the night, sometimes a yelp
coyotes or dogs or both
I hear the heat on my toes
when my blood flows too hard
when the heart is quiet
I hear the heart when it pounds
I hear the click of a grasshopper
in the afternoon heat, clatters
grass breaking underfoot
or on the teeth of the sheep
I hear the flies
more restless in this late afternoon
I hear the manure and smell its sweetness
the hay being cut
I hear the sheep
watching me through the fence
and the thunder coming
in this afternoon’s storm
And now the rain
in all its blessings
beating on the windows
my skin, onto leaves
I hear it through nostrils
the leaves sucking this sparse moisture
I hear the smell of ripening currants
the amaranth and purslane winding around old bricks
and the old church, not far
its old bricks empty, decomposing
into the old and overgrown yard
I hear the rust of the old Studebaker
where it rests
I hear the well pump click on
the measure of time like clicks
the hearts’ desire denied
the many times leaving, the many times returning
I hear the presence of the beloved
the child, the lover, the parent
gone, but never gone, I hear them
voices that fill memory
I hear the dust
the demise of rock
ground by water
air and time
And I hear the water
a roar, a pounding over rocks
the crash and then thin vapor
when it returns to cloud
And clouds, I hear the air
its sky colors
from white to black
azure to crimson
I hear the wind in a breeze, the howl
And time
I hear its muffled drive from then to now
to where
to all that is my history
I hear my legs split apart
the birth of my children
my mother’s last breath
my father’s stern voice
grandmothers' lessons
And I hear nothing
only my body moving
through the water
through air, through time
And this morning I hear the poet
breathe then gone voiceless
a hole in the wind
where words once stood.
I hear the mockingbirds scolding
the dart of hummingbirds, a whir
the engine revving, a horses’ snort
Robins returned for ripening fruit
I hear the ripening of currants
a buzz of bees
the horses’ hoof hitting ground
I hear the shift of clouds
I hear the shift of clouds, that high murmur
broken mare’s tails adrift
the cumulus foaming
against the Sangres
I hear the pattern of leaves
the quelites flowering
the earth holding roots of parsnips
daucus and salsify
I hear the wings of butterflies
the hummingbird moth
lighting on the radish blooms
I hear the long probe
The sand moves when I walk
I hear it like doves
I hear the limbs of trees
these old Salix nigra finger
the summer sky
Not only do the bird songs vary
I almost know each one.
I hear how each wing resonates
species to species
I hear their spectacle in flight
Like wasps do not sound like bees
nor even the pesky fly
not one has a similar buzz
even the broad bumble bee has its singular sound
I hear the truck going by
laden with bee hives
an airplane overhead
and the sheep nestling
into the afternoon shade
I hear the yellow roses fading
pentstemons and jump-ups now overtaken
by hollyhocks, rudbeckias
I hear the rain settling into the dry earth
I hear the red-tail hawks, all ways on time, circling above
a fly bumps into the screen, another train
passes through town
I hear my neighbor return
gravel bitten by tires
I hear my heart
my pen across this paper
my eyes struggle to see and make
heeded the words I hear
I hear the follicles of skin the wind raises
that stand on my arms, my face
the truck with its hitch rattling
the distant wanting dog
I hear the heart wanting
the heart, if it could be overheard
with its stories of loss
with stories of hope, the dreams
Wanting to hear the birds
the soft shuffle of hooves
that do not want to eat the milkweed
I hear the jasmine-scented blossoms fading
pods forming seeds
The seeds of shepherd’s purse and amaranth
that come up all summer if I let them
I hear them in places
bursting the ground
A siren, I hear the crows
a conversation between the magpies
and in the night, sometimes a yelp
coyotes or dogs or both
I hear the heat on my toes
when my blood flows too hard
when the heart is quiet
I hear the heart when it pounds
I hear the click of a grasshopper
in the afternoon heat, clatters
grass breaking underfoot
or on the teeth of the sheep
I hear the flies
more restless in this late afternoon
I hear the manure and smell its sweetness
the hay being cut
I hear the sheep
watching me through the fence
and the thunder coming
in this afternoon’s storm
And now the rain
in all its blessings
beating on the windows
my skin, onto leaves
I hear it through nostrils
the leaves sucking this sparse moisture
I hear the smell of ripening currants
the amaranth and purslane winding around old bricks
and the old church, not far
its old bricks empty, decomposing
into the old and overgrown yard
I hear the rust of the old Studebaker
where it rests
I hear the well pump click on
the measure of time like clicks
the hearts’ desire denied
the many times leaving, the many times returning
I hear the presence of the beloved
the child, the lover, the parent
gone, but never gone, I hear them
voices that fill memory
I hear the dust
the demise of rock
ground by water
air and time
And I hear the water
a roar, a pounding over rocks
the crash and then thin vapor
when it returns to cloud
And clouds, I hear the air
its sky colors
from white to black
azure to crimson
I hear the wind in a breeze, the howl
And time
I hear its muffled drive from then to now
to where
to all that is my history
I hear my legs split apart
the birth of my children
my mother’s last breath
my father’s stern voice
grandmothers' lessons
And I hear nothing
only my body moving
through the water
through air, through time
And this morning I hear the poet
breathe then gone voiceless
a hole in the wind
where words once stood.
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Sooty Oystercatcher
by Ion Corcos
Stout feet at low tide
grip an outcrop,
washed by wind and sea.
Long red bill under a limpet,
pries shell off rock,
exposes flesh.
Next, a mussel
probed, stabbed, pierced,
carried to an anvil.
Hammers the crust,
swallows the body,
drinks sea water.
Flies off,
a high pitched call
tleepa
tleepa
Stout feet at low tide
grip an outcrop,
washed by wind and sea.
Long red bill under a limpet,
pries shell off rock,
exposes flesh.
Next, a mussel
probed, stabbed, pierced,
carried to an anvil.
Hammers the crust,
swallows the body,
drinks sea water.
Flies off,
a high pitched call
tleepa
tleepa
An Offering
by Rodney Nelson
the crab tree in an untended yard
held out a weight of ready apples
for what hand or tooth or beak might want
to take
and for nothing if none did
around that crab tree now in the snow
the whole crop fades into entropy
where none has been to want and take it
as if
the end were come already
the crab tree in an untended yard
held out a weight of ready apples
for what hand or tooth or beak might want
to take
and for nothing if none did
around that crab tree now in the snow
the whole crop fades into entropy
where none has been to want and take it
as if
the end were come already
Sunday, January 10, 2016
White Cove
by Ion Corcos
The sea, held in the mountain coast.
At night, swallows from rocks
sweep over water, an orange moon.
The sea, held in the mountain coast.
At night, swallows from rocks
sweep over water, an orange moon.
Whiteout Report
by Patricia Williams
Whiteouts arise
when snow falls dense and fast.
Wind gusts blind, push bodies off course,
cause confusion.
Inner bearings scrambled,
pathways indistinct,
can’t tell sky from ground –
adrift in motion-filled, velvety curtains
impossible to penetrate –
lost a few feet from safety.
Whiteouts can happen
on summer days with minimal wind,
they come in many guises –
all of them dangerous.
Whiteouts arise
when snow falls dense and fast.
Wind gusts blind, push bodies off course,
cause confusion.
Inner bearings scrambled,
pathways indistinct,
can’t tell sky from ground –
adrift in motion-filled, velvety curtains
impossible to penetrate –
lost a few feet from safety.
Whiteouts can happen
on summer days with minimal wind,
they come in many guises –
all of them dangerous.
White
by Tim Duffy
First, an explosion of white tail fur—
the backwards eye of a deer
as it turns away.
There is no ice yet
but they know it is not far away
from the horizon
where bullets and flurries
once flew.
First, an explosion of white tail fur—
the backwards eye of a deer
as it turns away.
There is no ice yet
but they know it is not far away
from the horizon
where bullets and flurries
once flew.
Early Fall
by Alejandro Escudé
Blustery, the moon
like a piece of
white gauze stuck
on a thorny tree.
Blustery, the moon
like a piece of
white gauze stuck
on a thorny tree.
Thursday, January 7, 2016
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Watching the Wind
by Michael H. Brownstein
A frontier of lightning,
a train whistle of cloud,
the thick court of wind
combs brush, limb and leaf
and the rain that was to come
does not.
A frontier of lightning,
a train whistle of cloud,
the thick court of wind
combs brush, limb and leaf
and the rain that was to come
does not.
Hidden Madness
by David Subacchi
In Wales a hundred years back
They mined lead
Beneath mountain pasture
With summer sunlight kissing
The farm animals
Of scattered holdings
Or wintry snow coverings
During the cold months
The shining, lively water
Dancing in streams.
And they made pipes
To carry the water
To homes far and near
Spreading the hidden madness.
In Wales a hundred years back
They mined lead
Beneath mountain pasture
With summer sunlight kissing
The farm animals
Of scattered holdings
Or wintry snow coverings
During the cold months
The shining, lively water
Dancing in streams.
And they made pipes
To carry the water
To homes far and near
Spreading the hidden madness.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
North Kaibab
by Rodney Nelson
the mountain in recline had old woods
on it and under the tanglement
of fir and spruce hung a green so thick
it wanted kneading and modeling
the needles’ odor might have been gum
for the tongue and the quiet had room
to make the chuffing of an elk seem
right here at a rock one mile away
the mountain in recline had old woods
on it and under the tanglement
of fir and spruce hung a green so thick
it wanted kneading and modeling
the needles’ odor might have been gum
for the tongue and the quiet had room
to make the chuffing of an elk seem
right here at a rock one mile away
Black-headed Ibis
by Ion Corcos
Stands on a ridge
in a sodden rice field,
its long, downcurved bill
probes into mud
sifts out
worms,
frogs,
insects
staunch body
soft like a cloud
black legs anchored
in the bog.
At dusk it flies
to roost
flaps its wings
white against the blue-black sky.
Stands on a ridge
in a sodden rice field,
its long, downcurved bill
probes into mud
sifts out
worms,
frogs,
insects
staunch body
soft like a cloud
black legs anchored
in the bog.
At dusk it flies
to roost
flaps its wings
white against the blue-black sky.
Rengetsu (7)
by Ed Hack
The freezing wind
Along the shore
Has frozen the lake:
The ferry boats have
Been captured by ice.
The freezing wind along the shore, she writes,
has seized the lake and captured ferry boats.
There is no place, she knows, that one can hide
from ice. The sleet assaults her hut. No hope
or fear assails her now--death's changed all that.
With nothing left to lose she did not kill
herself but cut her hair to walk the path
the Buddha chose, surrendered to the will
of life, accepted all that is. The cold
blows through her tattered screen, and keeps
her up all night. She ages, she grows old
in life, and in the end it's life she reaps.
Those ferries stuck in ice--they're not what she
became. She chose the hard way to be free.
The freezing wind
Along the shore
Has frozen the lake:
The ferry boats have
Been captured by ice.
The freezing wind along the shore, she writes,
has seized the lake and captured ferry boats.
There is no place, she knows, that one can hide
from ice. The sleet assaults her hut. No hope
or fear assails her now--death's changed all that.
With nothing left to lose she did not kill
herself but cut her hair to walk the path
the Buddha chose, surrendered to the will
of life, accepted all that is. The cold
blows through her tattered screen, and keeps
her up all night. She ages, she grows old
in life, and in the end it's life she reaps.
Those ferries stuck in ice--they're not what she
became. She chose the hard way to be free.
Friday, January 1, 2016
Cosmology
by Stefanie Bennett
My old companion
Takes
Giant steps
To see
That
I am never
Set upon
By mercy’s
Dust
For diamonds.
My old companion
Takes
Giant steps
To see
That
I am never
Set upon
By mercy’s
Dust
For diamonds.
The Word Nursery at New Year’s
by Tricia Knoll
Five words she scratches
in a dusting of snow-frost
below the gorge waterfall
pointing shards of ice –
breath
patience
compassion
endurance
merging
One word the old woman
will choose as her touchstone
for next year, to notice, grab onto
each instance it appears before her,
repeat before sleep.
Past choices – simplicity, love,
witness, and resilience –
guided her bones.
The cold canyon wind
pulls tears and teases silver strands
from her green knit hat.
Sun floods
the low rock bowl
of the canyon,
edges toward her.
She steadies
her scuffed boot
above the frosted cedar duff.
She decides.
Leaning, her fingertip erases
four possibles,
her slate melting, merging.
Five words she scratches
in a dusting of snow-frost
below the gorge waterfall
pointing shards of ice –
breath
patience
compassion
endurance
merging
One word the old woman
will choose as her touchstone
for next year, to notice, grab onto
each instance it appears before her,
repeat before sleep.
Past choices – simplicity, love,
witness, and resilience –
guided her bones.
The cold canyon wind
pulls tears and teases silver strands
from her green knit hat.
Sun floods
the low rock bowl
of the canyon,
edges toward her.
She steadies
her scuffed boot
above the frosted cedar duff.
She decides.
Leaning, her fingertip erases
four possibles,
her slate melting, merging.
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Scrub land, south of AJB Ranch
by Don Thompson
Was it crows in their black
soutanes, relentless Jesuits,
or was it random night prowlers
that picked the fur to pieces,
bit by bit,
and scattered the rabbit’s carcass
across half an acre?
Or was it the finger of God
sorting through flesh and bone
to find something numinous,
something that belongs only to Him?
Was it crows in their black
soutanes, relentless Jesuits,
or was it random night prowlers
that picked the fur to pieces,
bit by bit,
and scattered the rabbit’s carcass
across half an acre?
Or was it the finger of God
sorting through flesh and bone
to find something numinous,
something that belongs only to Him?
Ripe
by Harry Youtt
The vined tomato begins at last
its crimsoning down into color, deeper and finer,
no longer that green-to-fire-engine-red way
it used to have – of trying to seem
all-grown-up – ready too soon.
But now, with a skin-split-yearning to be devoured,
on the verge of having fallen to the dusty ground, yet
stem-clinging by force of its own will – to be perfect.
Praying for discovery. Now! Only now!
Before this, it was too early.
The vined tomato begins at last
its crimsoning down into color, deeper and finer,
no longer that green-to-fire-engine-red way
it used to have – of trying to seem
all-grown-up – ready too soon.
But now, with a skin-split-yearning to be devoured,
on the verge of having fallen to the dusty ground, yet
stem-clinging by force of its own will – to be perfect.
Praying for discovery. Now! Only now!
Before this, it was too early.
Sunday, December 27, 2015
A Word
by Linda Golden
Terebinth, it echoes as it bounces off his tongue
Pulling an ancient memory from the marrow, hiding
Under the wings of forgotten prayers, cascading through
Channels of genetic magma, scorching incarnations
As if they were mere in and out breaths instead of whole
Lifetimes
Dotting the hills of Judea, framing the structure of living
Warming in winter, providing shade in lengthening days
Naming a tree, how far back does that go
Who thought such sounds to go with such a being
Whose rough bark and sinewy roots drink holy water
Holding forever secrets of what they have seen
Terebinth, it echoes as it bounces off his tongue
Pulling an ancient memory from the marrow, hiding
Under the wings of forgotten prayers, cascading through
Channels of genetic magma, scorching incarnations
As if they were mere in and out breaths instead of whole
Lifetimes
Dotting the hills of Judea, framing the structure of living
Warming in winter, providing shade in lengthening days
Naming a tree, how far back does that go
Who thought such sounds to go with such a being
Whose rough bark and sinewy roots drink holy water
Holding forever secrets of what they have seen
The Twelfth Month
by David Chorlton
The sky across the desert
in December darkens; lined with ice
it passes from a mountain’s edge
to a storm of needles
on flat and open land. Each drop
of morning rain
is speared by one as it descends
and holds its place
as long as there is light inside it.
A shower brushes up against
a windgust searching
for a canyon, but which finds
only the frost blackened
hawk taking leave of a cloud.
The sky across the desert
in December darkens; lined with ice
it passes from a mountain’s edge
to a storm of needles
on flat and open land. Each drop
of morning rain
is speared by one as it descends
and holds its place
as long as there is light inside it.
A shower brushes up against
a windgust searching
for a canyon, but which finds
only the frost blackened
hawk taking leave of a cloud.
Niwa, The Garden (for NT)
by Ed Hack
Niwa, she says. The garden always waits
for you, is there inside the silence you
long for. The path will lead you to a gate
where Bamboo chat in dialect the news
the wind conceals. And round into the sun
you'll walk as light leaps into emptiness
where everything is born. There is no sum,
no calculation there, no need to guess,
no right or wrong. There's just the path that flows,
the boulders where the kami live, the stones
that are the water's secret self that glow
in ocean glints and shimmer into foam.
Be still and you'll be there, she says. It waits
for you to walk the path, come through the gate.
Niwa, she says. The garden always waits
for you, is there inside the silence you
long for. The path will lead you to a gate
where Bamboo chat in dialect the news
the wind conceals. And round into the sun
you'll walk as light leaps into emptiness
where everything is born. There is no sum,
no calculation there, no need to guess,
no right or wrong. There's just the path that flows,
the boulders where the kami live, the stones
that are the water's secret self that glow
in ocean glints and shimmer into foam.
Be still and you'll be there, she says. It waits
for you to walk the path, come through the gate.
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
The Uncertainty of Winter
by M.J. Iuppa
No snow blooms on hedges
Everywhere is green— sudden
rash of magnolia buds, tipped
silver, candles morning’s light
Beauty, briefly spent
No snow blooms on hedges
Everywhere is green— sudden
rash of magnolia buds, tipped
silver, candles morning’s light
Beauty, briefly spent
West Side Canal, Freeborn Intake
by Don Thompson
The fog has held off, so far,
clinging to the hills
until it thins to commonplace haze
an hour after dawn.
It’s not quite the season.
But soon, when the oyster white sun
is too feeble to resist,
the fog will close in, will inundate
every solid thing we need
to make sense of ourselves—
blurring our certainties
until we know
how ancient seafarers must have felt
coming at last to the end
of their flat earth.
The fog has held off, so far,
clinging to the hills
until it thins to commonplace haze
an hour after dawn.
It’s not quite the season.
But soon, when the oyster white sun
is too feeble to resist,
the fog will close in, will inundate
every solid thing we need
to make sense of ourselves—
blurring our certainties
until we know
how ancient seafarers must have felt
coming at last to the end
of their flat earth.
Zazen
by Larry Jones
still the mind with meditation
know
you are the universe
then
continue selling vacuum cleaners.
still the mind with meditation
know
you are the universe
then
continue selling vacuum cleaners.
Monday, December 21, 2015
Winter Solstice
by Carl Mayfield
the ravens lift off
from the conifer
when shoes
scrape the gravel
at dawn
intrusion is a failure
of bones rattling
into a presence
which alarms the feathers
into wise flight
who is surprised
at the sound
of two feet emerging
from night's dream
more than me
the ravens lift off
from the conifer
when shoes
scrape the gravel
at dawn
intrusion is a failure
of bones rattling
into a presence
which alarms the feathers
into wise flight
who is surprised
at the sound
of two feet emerging
from night's dream
more than me
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Najimi
by Ed Hack
The winds are busy in the trees. Some give
so easily, the feathered ones. Some nod,
while other's don't, the old, who've outlived
centuries, gnarled and weatherworn, the gods
right after Time began, who gave a shape
to emptiness, perhaps are emptiness,
as Lao Tzu insists. The Garden shows fate's
signature--shadows, ripples, wind's caress
or ripping teeth, najimi, balance, in
what's here--old stone against the water's play,
the light and dark, the soft and fierce, the yin
and yang of all there is, not one lost stray
is possible, and all things on their way
to something else, for nothing ever stays.
The winds are busy in the trees. Some give
so easily, the feathered ones. Some nod,
while other's don't, the old, who've outlived
centuries, gnarled and weatherworn, the gods
right after Time began, who gave a shape
to emptiness, perhaps are emptiness,
as Lao Tzu insists. The Garden shows fate's
signature--shadows, ripples, wind's caress
or ripping teeth, najimi, balance, in
what's here--old stone against the water's play,
the light and dark, the soft and fierce, the yin
and yang of all there is, not one lost stray
is possible, and all things on their way
to something else, for nothing ever stays.
Lines
by Joyce Lorenson
beneath the owl's wings
wintry air
trees lashed with shadow
and at its edge
the river runs slower
beneath the owl's wings
wintry air
trees lashed with shadow
and at its edge
the river runs slower
A Trip to the Ocean
by Julie Ramon
Wind and seagulls make everyone else
seem far away, and the near, only passing
headlights. Here, it rains in the morning.
Waves bring shells and crabs to the shore.
It accepts everything we don’t. Feet are placed
carefully. We have sticks to poke things
we don’t understand. One morning, we found
a horseshoe crab and rolled it over. It’s legs moved
like a typewriter and made us jump.
Without understanding, you picked it up
and chucked it into the water breaking the smooth
surface between waves, understanding
that certain things don’t belong in certain places,
like us. And, you took my hand
worried it would come back and knew
you would be alright if I was there,
and we were walking towards Missouri.
Wind and seagulls make everyone else
seem far away, and the near, only passing
headlights. Here, it rains in the morning.
Waves bring shells and crabs to the shore.
It accepts everything we don’t. Feet are placed
carefully. We have sticks to poke things
we don’t understand. One morning, we found
a horseshoe crab and rolled it over. It’s legs moved
like a typewriter and made us jump.
Without understanding, you picked it up
and chucked it into the water breaking the smooth
surface between waves, understanding
that certain things don’t belong in certain places,
like us. And, you took my hand
worried it would come back and knew
you would be alright if I was there,
and we were walking towards Missouri.
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
The Neighborhood Garden
by Catfish McDaris
Rabbits ate okra
wrens ate tiny sunflowers
chipmunks ate green beans.
Rabbits ate okra
wrens ate tiny sunflowers
chipmunks ate green beans.
Lines
by Joyce Lorenson
white ghosts whirling
towards morning
waking to a cold fire and a dark room
an honest wind rattling the door
and the distance filling with snow
white ghosts whirling
towards morning
waking to a cold fire and a dark room
an honest wind rattling the door
and the distance filling with snow
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Hummingbird
by Carl Mayfield
From olive tree to conifer
across a pale September sky;
he's changing not before my eyes
but behind his, his heart hammering
a portrait faster than any brush
can stroke, his true colors
swimming in iridescence.
From olive tree to conifer
across a pale September sky;
he's changing not before my eyes
but behind his, his heart hammering
a portrait faster than any brush
can stroke, his true colors
swimming in iridescence.
Autumn apocalypse
by Ed Higgins
Beneath maples, oaks, and birches
an autumn apocalypse empties unruly brightness
onto lawns, sidewalks, the shoulders of watchers
and passers by. Whole drifts of madder yellow,
reds, and earth browns loosed to mould and
the gardener’s insufficient rake. By twos, twenties,
more, November jolted branches loose their color.
It is summer’s final uncoiling, fall’s harsh rhetoric
of leaf upon leaf let down, turning apex, flat margin,
base, serrated edges, settling, scattered to ground into
mellifluent lost syntax. Branch, trunk, and root hoard
only green memory now.
Beneath maples, oaks, and birches
an autumn apocalypse empties unruly brightness
onto lawns, sidewalks, the shoulders of watchers
and passers by. Whole drifts of madder yellow,
reds, and earth browns loosed to mould and
the gardener’s insufficient rake. By twos, twenties,
more, November jolted branches loose their color.
It is summer’s final uncoiling, fall’s harsh rhetoric
of leaf upon leaf let down, turning apex, flat margin,
base, serrated edges, settling, scattered to ground into
mellifluent lost syntax. Branch, trunk, and root hoard
only green memory now.
Wednesday, December 9, 2015
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
First Winter Snow
by Catfish McDaris
Birch trees full of black
feathered blue headed grackles
dancing on the wind
Fluttering up down
naked snowy ice branches
all flakes different
Blowing cold smoke rings
my shovel resting awhile
kids make snow angels.
Birch trees full of black
feathered blue headed grackles
dancing on the wind
Fluttering up down
naked snowy ice branches
all flakes different
Blowing cold smoke rings
my shovel resting awhile
kids make snow angels.
Sunday, November 29, 2015
What do you know about water?
by Emily Ramser
Did you know that in 5th grade,
I sang my very first song
in a school presentation
and that it was about transpiration,
and did you know that
my father doesn’t know how to swim
and did you know that my little brother
will only drink soda or sweet tea
and did you know that my mother
lives in a state that doesn’t have any available water
and did you know that there are trees
called tributaries
with branches made of streams?
