by Hayden Bunker
Mercury glows red
as a coal banked in the stars—
rubbing cicadas.
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Corta Brunita
by Fiona Pitt-Kethley
A row of broken houses by the road,
a village of the damned, marks where it lies.
The path winds downwards to a jade green lake,
soft toxic sands gilded with pyrite dust,
marked with the footprints of the last who past. .
They planted trees here years ago…They died.
The withered saplings still have plastic wraps
This soil, it seems, will not rejuvenate.
Yet one thing “grows” here in this barren land,
small crystal sceptres springing from the rocks.
A row of broken houses by the road,
a village of the damned, marks where it lies.
The path winds downwards to a jade green lake,
soft toxic sands gilded with pyrite dust,
marked with the footprints of the last who past. .
They planted trees here years ago…They died.
The withered saplings still have plastic wraps
This soil, it seems, will not rejuvenate.
Yet one thing “grows” here in this barren land,
small crystal sceptres springing from the rocks.
Wednesday, April 6, 2016
Etch
by Alia Hussain Vancrown
A barking pack of coyotes, cacophonous precision
nine distinct yups of the fox that answers me
when wandering the dead of night is an exhaustion
of darker questions.
Frogs overwhelm the swamps
that surround the house and emerge earlier each year
as the planet threatens to boil.
Too much physics to untangle, too much umbilical
to unwind.
Here is a broken thing, here I shape it beautiful
here is a dead brother, here I avoid bones and soil.
Savoring green apples, what sinks gets seeded so deep
gets swallowed, and sprouts—
what lightning does to a willow
how evening rain undoes morning sun
what birds do to their own reflection, here is
something chiseled, here is sound pollution
the erasure
of stone.
What word exists for when the ocean moves us
standing still, for miles, across continents
that are colonized by none other than a soul
what word exists to replace soul with a thing so biological
you can prick its vein and donate platelets
count the leaves, count the loves
what word exists for when the names you scream are names
too raw to be sung at divine, reverberating decibels?
He points out every new hawk that arcs in circles
and now there are twelve, and the clock is rigid
symmetrical, and life goes on, windswept chimes
jangling, noticed in the unnoticing.
A barking pack of coyotes, cacophonous precision
nine distinct yups of the fox that answers me
when wandering the dead of night is an exhaustion
of darker questions.
Frogs overwhelm the swamps
that surround the house and emerge earlier each year
as the planet threatens to boil.
Too much physics to untangle, too much umbilical
to unwind.
Here is a broken thing, here I shape it beautiful
here is a dead brother, here I avoid bones and soil.
Savoring green apples, what sinks gets seeded so deep
gets swallowed, and sprouts—
what lightning does to a willow
how evening rain undoes morning sun
what birds do to their own reflection, here is
something chiseled, here is sound pollution
the erasure
of stone.
What word exists for when the ocean moves us
standing still, for miles, across continents
that are colonized by none other than a soul
what word exists to replace soul with a thing so biological
you can prick its vein and donate platelets
count the leaves, count the loves
what word exists for when the names you scream are names
too raw to be sung at divine, reverberating decibels?
He points out every new hawk that arcs in circles
and now there are twelve, and the clock is rigid
symmetrical, and life goes on, windswept chimes
jangling, noticed in the unnoticing.
Sunday, April 3, 2016
Rare Morning
by Ed Hack
A chatty, misty morning for the birds
between the dawn and brighter light, a kind
of pause before real day begins, disturbs
this balanced and exquisite fragile time.
And here's the gold patina that ignites
the tree, but softly through the mist. A dove
repeats its hooting, dying call as light
clicks up one notch. This is what morning does.
But still no sharpness in the air, no edge
that shows this moment's passed--the day preserves
its gentleness as if this is a sketch
of paradise, which some few might deserve.
Another click, the light is plainer still.
The noise is coming soon. Now, peace, distilled.
A chatty, misty morning for the birds
between the dawn and brighter light, a kind
of pause before real day begins, disturbs
this balanced and exquisite fragile time.
And here's the gold patina that ignites
the tree, but softly through the mist. A dove
repeats its hooting, dying call as light
clicks up one notch. This is what morning does.
But still no sharpness in the air, no edge
that shows this moment's passed--the day preserves
its gentleness as if this is a sketch
of paradise, which some few might deserve.
Another click, the light is plainer still.
The noise is coming soon. Now, peace, distilled.
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
The Bay Rises
by Casey FitzSimons
The trains were first to go, then
the freeway hum.
What I’d expected
was a flood: water’s raucous breach
of coast defenses, the sound of its
incursion on the land. I’d expected
people running from a tsunami
whose surges came at intervals, occasioning
fear and flight, violent and desperate acts.
I’d envisioned familiar establishments
submerged to their transoms, their names
still legible on signs and marquees.
What did happen
was more orderly: discussions
over dinner, debates
in the houses of supposed wisdom
about property ownership, the Magna Carta,
theories of legal performance.
Businesses closed before the water
rose around them, some dismantled
behind plywood panels in tidy
deconstruction sites. There were no
floating palettes, sodden sofas, or gyres
of random debris. What might have become
flotsam and jetsam had already been moved inland,
traded, repurposed, re-situated.
What has happened
is a calm tide of smooth water, seemingly
at my eye level. It is a marsh marked off
by telephone poles and a few pitched roofs
of red tiles surrounded by heaving
unmoored islands of grass and peat. Oil slicks
have given way to marine stench, swooping gulls,
and the dinghies of treasure seekers.
Last to go was the racket of city streets. Quiet
has risen with the water level.
The trains were first to go, then
the freeway hum.
What I’d expected
was a flood: water’s raucous breach
of coast defenses, the sound of its
incursion on the land. I’d expected
people running from a tsunami
whose surges came at intervals, occasioning
fear and flight, violent and desperate acts.
I’d envisioned familiar establishments
submerged to their transoms, their names
still legible on signs and marquees.
What did happen
was more orderly: discussions
over dinner, debates
in the houses of supposed wisdom
about property ownership, the Magna Carta,
theories of legal performance.
Businesses closed before the water
rose around them, some dismantled
behind plywood panels in tidy
deconstruction sites. There were no
floating palettes, sodden sofas, or gyres
of random debris. What might have become
flotsam and jetsam had already been moved inland,
traded, repurposed, re-situated.
What has happened
is a calm tide of smooth water, seemingly
at my eye level. It is a marsh marked off
by telephone poles and a few pitched roofs
of red tiles surrounded by heaving
unmoored islands of grass and peat. Oil slicks
have given way to marine stench, swooping gulls,
and the dinghies of treasure seekers.
Last to go was the racket of city streets. Quiet
has risen with the water level.
Sunday, March 27, 2016
Thursday, March 24, 2016
Apple Tree
the original still stands
bent over now
upon staves
a thousand cuts
have spread the arse-shaped apples
into common crumbles
and king sized tarts
bitter
the wild tempered whip
green
the merry kisses of May
red
the soft sweet fruit of grace
enough
for wasps and beasts
Clywedog Trail
by David Subacchi
From Minera’s dark lead mines to Kings Mills
Nine miles of footpath for relaxation
To be followed without hesitation
Along the river, through the North Wales hills.
Here where sweet birdsong the countryside fills
Iron was once made, first in the nation
When John Wilkinson was at his station
Forging his great girders, hammers and drills.
Now at Nant Mill ancient woodland stands
With later planted beech and sycamore
And on Erddig’s gardens a white dove lands
Undisturbed by the fiery furnace roar
Now we walk Clywedog Trail in silence
Free from dark smoke and industrial violence.
From Minera’s dark lead mines to Kings Mills
Nine miles of footpath for relaxation
To be followed without hesitation
Along the river, through the North Wales hills.
Here where sweet birdsong the countryside fills
Iron was once made, first in the nation
When John Wilkinson was at his station
Forging his great girders, hammers and drills.
Now at Nant Mill ancient woodland stands
With later planted beech and sycamore
And on Erddig’s gardens a white dove lands
Undisturbed by the fiery furnace roar
Now we walk Clywedog Trail in silence
Free from dark smoke and industrial violence.
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
The Price
by Ed Hack
A smear of broken glass is what the ice
is now. It's here because it's in the shade.
The wind-kill twigs, the torn oak leaves, the price
the cold exacts so earth can be remade.
Small bits of night with wings, five black birds land,
make tiny storms of leaves to find some seed
then launch themselves away. The world's unplanned,
except it's not, for need must answer need.
And therein is the paradox of this
catastrophe, this cross-eyed gift of life.
A squirrel ransacks the leaves, the loaves and fish
of all that's left behind the winter's strife.
An atom casts a shadow too. No grist
too small for life, for nothing can't exist.
A smear of broken glass is what the ice
is now. It's here because it's in the shade.
The wind-kill twigs, the torn oak leaves, the price
the cold exacts so earth can be remade.
Small bits of night with wings, five black birds land,
make tiny storms of leaves to find some seed
then launch themselves away. The world's unplanned,
except it's not, for need must answer need.
And therein is the paradox of this
catastrophe, this cross-eyed gift of life.
A squirrel ransacks the leaves, the loaves and fish
of all that's left behind the winter's strife.
An atom casts a shadow too. No grist
too small for life, for nothing can't exist.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Catamount, Late Summer
by Joe Cottonwood
Come with me. Here’s
the secret trail. At the edge
of the potato field, crouch through
the barbed wire fence. Pass the stone
foundation of an old homestead.
Enter the maple forest, the green oven.
Bake, slowly rise like a gingerbread figure.
Follow, it’s fine (there’s no witch).
Release rivulets of sweat.
This is nothing, the foothill.
Listen: the purr, the burble, the rush,
the small canyon of Catamount
Creek. Remove boots, splash yourself.
Splash me. Cup water in hands
to pour over the face. Let water dribble
inside the shirt, drip to the shorts.
Relish the shock of cold
against hot parts.
Work uphill now, at last
out of the trees into the land of
wild blueberry. Pluck, taste
tiny tight nut-like explosions of blue,
so intense, so different from store-bought.
Gorge, let fingers and tongue
turn garish. Fill pockets.
Climb with me now among rocky
outcrops like stair steps to the Funnel,
a crevice where from below
you push my bottom, then from above
I pull your hand. Emerge to a view
of valley, farmland, wrinkles of mountains
like folds of flesh. How far we’ve come.
This is the false top.
Catch your breath, embrace the vista,
then join me in a scramble up bare granite,
farther than you’d think, no trail marked
on the endless stone but simply
navigate toward the opposite of gravity,
upward, to at last a bald dome
chilled by blasts of breeze.
At the top, sit with me, our backs against
the windbreak of a boulder.
Empty your pockets of blueberries. Nibble,
share — above the rivers,
above the lakes, above the hawks,
among the blue chain of peaks
beyond your outstretched tired feet.
Appreciate your muscles
in exhaustion and exhilaration.
We have made love to this mountain.
Hear a sound like a sigh from waves of
alpine grass in the fading warmth
of a lowering sun. Rest.
After this, the return
is so easy.
Come with me. Here’s
the secret trail. At the edge
of the potato field, crouch through
the barbed wire fence. Pass the stone
foundation of an old homestead.
Enter the maple forest, the green oven.
Bake, slowly rise like a gingerbread figure.
Follow, it’s fine (there’s no witch).
Release rivulets of sweat.
This is nothing, the foothill.
Listen: the purr, the burble, the rush,
the small canyon of Catamount
Creek. Remove boots, splash yourself.
Splash me. Cup water in hands
to pour over the face. Let water dribble
inside the shirt, drip to the shorts.
Relish the shock of cold
against hot parts.
Work uphill now, at last
out of the trees into the land of
wild blueberry. Pluck, taste
tiny tight nut-like explosions of blue,
so intense, so different from store-bought.
Gorge, let fingers and tongue
turn garish. Fill pockets.
Climb with me now among rocky
outcrops like stair steps to the Funnel,
a crevice where from below
you push my bottom, then from above
I pull your hand. Emerge to a view
of valley, farmland, wrinkles of mountains
like folds of flesh. How far we’ve come.
This is the false top.
Catch your breath, embrace the vista,
then join me in a scramble up bare granite,
farther than you’d think, no trail marked
on the endless stone but simply
navigate toward the opposite of gravity,
upward, to at last a bald dome
chilled by blasts of breeze.
At the top, sit with me, our backs against
the windbreak of a boulder.
Empty your pockets of blueberries. Nibble,
share — above the rivers,
above the lakes, above the hawks,
among the blue chain of peaks
beyond your outstretched tired feet.
Appreciate your muscles
in exhaustion and exhilaration.
We have made love to this mountain.
Hear a sound like a sigh from waves of
alpine grass in the fading warmth
of a lowering sun. Rest.
After this, the return
is so easy.
Thursday, March 17, 2016
American Beeches
by Ryan Harper
Walking with purpose to the wood’s heart
I have come to consider the pure stand,
set off from the trailhead (so help me god,
I would have stayed). Through congeries
of maple and poplar, through purple flowers
oned-and-manyed into catkins,
through burs and knots of what will be
raspberries, I have come to assume the American
beeches in spectral, undifferentiated mode.
I would have stayed, so help me god.
Under the sawtooth canopy, off white barks tight
on trunks—flexed thighs—the light limes;
aglow in this tract I turn round
a single hulk and find carved
the initials: RH
under the knife the mirror of nature
What uses a species whose skin stays smooth
into old age—cotton-batted,
vivisected to a specimen:
unlobed planetree, eyeless aspen,
swabbed, flush for the marking,
cheap for the practicing omniscient—
hewed arbography, spanning
aureoles—arcade, catalogue,
reliquary of the sacred roundels?
Start and stop your measure at the sought
design and any stand is pure: the first
and last maples, outside by definition; measures
focused until even the lone American
beech dwelling elsewhere in the poplars
grows to exclave; measures taken
until at last there is no elsewhere,
no exclave, only interruptions in the pure stand.
Again I turn round the notched hulk
What is this Titan that has possession of me
missionary of the alien work,
who after the uncircumferenced mandala
compresses properties beyond old native lines
dislocates the unmarkable growths.
What befalls the namer in the woods,
the marker of logs, who esthesic
and aching from a native fever
initializes a singular species: American
beech, surely related to European beech?
We can only say “the same” if we think difference
The day is getting on; the limelight bends—
yellow and green repartitioned in the deepening
shade. O Abendland, arcade
of the burnished hour, reclassify what you will:
considering the stand I take
leave among the maples and poplars,
burs and knots, a little embrowned;
I did not start here, by god—
I will not stop, without intent.
Walking with purpose to the wood’s heart
I have come to consider the pure stand,
set off from the trailhead (so help me god,
I would have stayed). Through congeries
of maple and poplar, through purple flowers
oned-and-manyed into catkins,
through burs and knots of what will be
raspberries, I have come to assume the American
beeches in spectral, undifferentiated mode.
I would have stayed, so help me god.
Under the sawtooth canopy, off white barks tight
on trunks—flexed thighs—the light limes;
aglow in this tract I turn round
a single hulk and find carved
the initials: RH
under the knife the mirror of nature
What uses a species whose skin stays smooth
into old age—cotton-batted,
vivisected to a specimen:
unlobed planetree, eyeless aspen,
swabbed, flush for the marking,
cheap for the practicing omniscient—
hewed arbography, spanning
aureoles—arcade, catalogue,
reliquary of the sacred roundels?
Start and stop your measure at the sought
design and any stand is pure: the first
and last maples, outside by definition; measures
focused until even the lone American
beech dwelling elsewhere in the poplars
grows to exclave; measures taken
until at last there is no elsewhere,
no exclave, only interruptions in the pure stand.
Again I turn round the notched hulk
What is this Titan that has possession of me
missionary of the alien work,
who after the uncircumferenced mandala
compresses properties beyond old native lines
dislocates the unmarkable growths.
What befalls the namer in the woods,
the marker of logs, who esthesic
and aching from a native fever
initializes a singular species: American
beech, surely related to European beech?
We can only say “the same” if we think difference
The day is getting on; the limelight bends—
yellow and green repartitioned in the deepening
shade. O Abendland, arcade
of the burnished hour, reclassify what you will:
considering the stand I take
leave among the maples and poplars,
burs and knots, a little embrowned;
I did not start here, by god—
I will not stop, without intent.
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
Never Mariah
by Catherine McGuire
I.
From my viewpoint on this flat plain
the stormfront’s billows iceberg down the Cascades
like a Titanic-buster wet droplets mass like steel
overhead.
II.
Autumn rakes the fields combs leaves
from alders baring thin branching fingers
that reach toward geese skeins ebbing in waves
across a periwinkle sky.
III.
And why does lonely humanity call the wind names
at all? Why do we hear it weep and mourn
as Tess the rain cries our tears? We want to be big as the sky
stretch our skin miss nothing.
IV.
Dusk’s purple stains the afternoon shrinks the landscape
fade to black to the width of a lamp post’s light
as the field puddles glint like shards
of fallen sky.
V.
With sight gone the voice of wind grows
tumbled clatter of objects unseen sensed as portents
gives wind the ghostly face that deserves demands
a name.
I.
From my viewpoint on this flat plain
the stormfront’s billows iceberg down the Cascades
like a Titanic-buster wet droplets mass like steel
overhead.
II.
Autumn rakes the fields combs leaves
from alders baring thin branching fingers
that reach toward geese skeins ebbing in waves
across a periwinkle sky.
III.
And why does lonely humanity call the wind names
at all? Why do we hear it weep and mourn
as Tess the rain cries our tears? We want to be big as the sky
stretch our skin miss nothing.
IV.
Dusk’s purple stains the afternoon shrinks the landscape
fade to black to the width of a lamp post’s light
as the field puddles glint like shards
of fallen sky.
V.
With sight gone the voice of wind grows
tumbled clatter of objects unseen sensed as portents
gives wind the ghostly face that deserves demands
a name.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
Footprints, Formby Point
by Mantz Yorke
Footprints of horses,
deer, cranes, New Stone Age people:
traces in old mud
exposed at low spring tide, now
being ground away by waves.
Footprints of horses,
deer, cranes, New Stone Age people:
traces in old mud
exposed at low spring tide, now
being ground away by waves.
Brown Thrasher
by Julie Ramon
In Piggott, Arkansas in a cottage
not far from where Hemingway lived,
I watched a bird bounce and bury its long,
curved beak into leaves, pitching them
in all directions. Its song—drop it, drop it,
cover it, cover it, pull it up, pull it up—
tapped at the window like the small bits
of sleet that collected overnight.
Flapping its wings, it revealed its spotted
breast timidly, as it saw me watching,
the way a woman allows herself to be seen
naked the first time. Head tilted—yellow eyes
searching, it sang and waited for a female to join.
I’ve learned a song is different than a call,
in the same way wants differ from needs.
And, when one became two, they disappeared
in the thickets, and I got back into bed.
Here, wants and needs were all the same—
in the form of his body pressed against mine.
In Piggott, Arkansas in a cottage
not far from where Hemingway lived,
I watched a bird bounce and bury its long,
curved beak into leaves, pitching them
in all directions. Its song—drop it, drop it,
cover it, cover it, pull it up, pull it up—
tapped at the window like the small bits
of sleet that collected overnight.
Flapping its wings, it revealed its spotted
breast timidly, as it saw me watching,
the way a woman allows herself to be seen
naked the first time. Head tilted—yellow eyes
searching, it sang and waited for a female to join.
I’ve learned a song is different than a call,
in the same way wants differ from needs.
And, when one became two, they disappeared
in the thickets, and I got back into bed.
Here, wants and needs were all the same—
in the form of his body pressed against mine.
Wednesday, March 9, 2016
The Clearing
by Ryan Harper
Each morning walk reminds Elijah he forgets
how many trees grow in his town—how covered, groved,
and leaved the passages, the hiking trails, the yards.
Always he starts early enough to be almost
alone in the morning, sharing passages and paths
only with the joggers, the bodies he has come
to know as well as voiceless passing will allow:
the man who wears shorts all year round, the small
flourescent woman he supposes is his age
who breathes like an alarm clock—A in summer, B
or B flat in winter. In autumn he slides to the side of the trail,
the thorny side, when he hears someone striding through
the leaves, predicting who’s approaching from behind
by the pace, the running foot’s brush stroke. Your ear is strange,
Lorraine had told him when he noted in passing one day
the small caesura in her breathing as they lay
in bed. He was the first to notice. He forgets
to think about the thickness of the growth, each walk,
until he finds himself in the clearing in the midst
of the pine grove north of his house some half a mile. The light
falls on him as new despite his daily visitations,
despite his knowing this is the open space at which
his usual trail ends—grassy, warm, nothing to hear.
Routinely lit with absence, remembering shadows, here
Elijah looks up—only when there is nothing
to see except a blue vacuum, an ancient sun
that will not be engaged directly, and scabs—
white vapor trails flaking from flights that may as well
be all departing. Every morning, Elijah stops,
weeps here a moment in full light, then turns around,
walks back through the grove, listening behind him for footsteps.
Each morning walk reminds Elijah he forgets
how many trees grow in his town—how covered, groved,
and leaved the passages, the hiking trails, the yards.
Always he starts early enough to be almost
alone in the morning, sharing passages and paths
only with the joggers, the bodies he has come
to know as well as voiceless passing will allow:
the man who wears shorts all year round, the small
flourescent woman he supposes is his age
who breathes like an alarm clock—A in summer, B
or B flat in winter. In autumn he slides to the side of the trail,
the thorny side, when he hears someone striding through
the leaves, predicting who’s approaching from behind
by the pace, the running foot’s brush stroke. Your ear is strange,
Lorraine had told him when he noted in passing one day
the small caesura in her breathing as they lay
in bed. He was the first to notice. He forgets
to think about the thickness of the growth, each walk,
until he finds himself in the clearing in the midst
of the pine grove north of his house some half a mile. The light
falls on him as new despite his daily visitations,
despite his knowing this is the open space at which
his usual trail ends—grassy, warm, nothing to hear.
Routinely lit with absence, remembering shadows, here
Elijah looks up—only when there is nothing
to see except a blue vacuum, an ancient sun
that will not be engaged directly, and scabs—
white vapor trails flaking from flights that may as well
be all departing. Every morning, Elijah stops,
weeps here a moment in full light, then turns around,
walks back through the grove, listening behind him for footsteps.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
Snow Light
by Kara Douglass Thom
The clouds stretch and resist
across the sun, the snow
hums like fluorescent lights
strung along the ground.
Flickering, buzzing. Yellow
then blue.
The clouds stretch and resist
across the sun, the snow
hums like fluorescent lights
strung along the ground.
Flickering, buzzing. Yellow
then blue.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Morning Dew
by Virgil Huston
Iridescent hues glisten
in morning dew warmth
Walking softly feet wet
Green surrounded by
opaque grey the path
evaporates
Iridescent hues glisten
in morning dew warmth
Walking softly feet wet
Green surrounded by
opaque grey the path
evaporates
The Wound
By Denny E. Marshall
Day after day, the earth will bleed
With blood of water and of land
Humans born with the gene of greed
Day after day, the earth will bleed
Mostly for our own selfish needs
Not just companies understand
Day after day, the earth will bleed
With blood of water and of land
Day after day, the earth will bleed
With blood of water and of land
Humans born with the gene of greed
Day after day, the earth will bleed
Mostly for our own selfish needs
Not just companies understand
Day after day, the earth will bleed
With blood of water and of land
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Hawk Against The Sky
by Ed Hack
The circling, minute adjustments of
its telltale wings, its ancient circuitry,
black diamond of its brain. Who speaks of love
but all the while neglects the hawk is free
to babble on unmoored from fact, that black
shape circling now. So much summed up in names--
a plunderer, a rapist too, and rapt
in holy light. The hawk's beyond all shame,
like God who breaks us into faith. Against
the gray or sun-dazed light raw hunger guides
its circling flight, impeccable and cleansed,
angelic wings' dark silence as it glides.
Whatever else sky is, it's home to hawks--
implacable and circling, their force.
The circling, minute adjustments of
its telltale wings, its ancient circuitry,
black diamond of its brain. Who speaks of love
but all the while neglects the hawk is free
to babble on unmoored from fact, that black
shape circling now. So much summed up in names--
a plunderer, a rapist too, and rapt
in holy light. The hawk's beyond all shame,
like God who breaks us into faith. Against
the gray or sun-dazed light raw hunger guides
its circling flight, impeccable and cleansed,
angelic wings' dark silence as it glides.
Whatever else sky is, it's home to hawks--
implacable and circling, their force.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
A Farmer Collects Plants for Louis XVI
by Andrea Wyatt
visiting settlements along the tidal reaches of the Chesapeake
André Michaux sketches patches of tiny pale flowers in moss
with bumpy sweet potatoes at the edges
yellow bees in the chestnut tree leaves
“we cannot sett down a foot, but tread on
Strawberries and fallen mulberrie vines,”
he writes in a small pocket diary stained with saltwater and bear grease
meets men & women who trade beaver skins
roast fat red kernelled ears of corn, dry spicy dark tobacco leaves
gather sea lavender & eat oysters till they keel over
as the canvasbacks and mallards obscure the sun
fly through the wet November sky
they have no idea it is past time to leave
as Louis pushes himself away from his royal table
filled with empty oyster shells & corn.
visiting settlements along the tidal reaches of the Chesapeake
André Michaux sketches patches of tiny pale flowers in moss
with bumpy sweet potatoes at the edges
yellow bees in the chestnut tree leaves
“we cannot sett down a foot, but tread on
Strawberries and fallen mulberrie vines,”
he writes in a small pocket diary stained with saltwater and bear grease
meets men & women who trade beaver skins
roast fat red kernelled ears of corn, dry spicy dark tobacco leaves
gather sea lavender & eat oysters till they keel over
as the canvasbacks and mallards obscure the sun
fly through the wet November sky
they have no idea it is past time to leave
as Louis pushes himself away from his royal table
filled with empty oyster shells & corn.
Trails
by David Chorlton
Along a voiceless trail
are the shadows of birds
who once flew over it,
and embedded in the dirt
the tracks a fox left
one full moon’s night
when its tail curled up
behind it with a spark
at the tip of each hair.
Language doesn’t help us
find a way back
to them, only grants
the means to ask where
they have gone, and whether
any other trail leads there.
Along a voiceless trail
are the shadows of birds
who once flew over it,
and embedded in the dirt
the tracks a fox left
one full moon’s night
when its tail curled up
behind it with a spark
at the tip of each hair.
Language doesn’t help us
find a way back
to them, only grants
the means to ask where
they have gone, and whether
any other trail leads there.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Slovenian Lament
by Terrence Sykes
fog cloaks
gray slate roofs
flint & shadows
streets void
stone mute trees
black canvas blank
steady rain
falls upon the autumn
flowers silent at dusk
darkness drapes
muted melancholy
trellising the soul
burja winds announce
death or resurrection
certainty of uncertainty
dissonance & dissension
chapel & steeple
distant tolling
vertigo & vengeance
mistaken towering babel
forgotten in the ruins
fog cloaks
gray slate roofs
flint & shadows
streets void
stone mute trees
black canvas blank
steady rain
falls upon the autumn
flowers silent at dusk
darkness drapes
muted melancholy
trellising the soul
burja winds announce
death or resurrection
certainty of uncertainty
dissonance & dissension
chapel & steeple
distant tolling
vertigo & vengeance
mistaken towering babel
forgotten in the ruins
Wednesday, February 17, 2016
Cloak of Fog
by Tim Staley
The sun picks the scab of night
but clouds foam over the light.
The clouds fling their fingers
against the mountain, glide up
and over or sidle for miles
against the canyon wall.
A mountain lion tiptoes
down the canyon to the spring,
both of us are spooked
by the boom of nuclear bombers
running maneuvers all morning
under the cloak of fog.
The sun picks the scab of night
but clouds foam over the light.
The clouds fling their fingers
against the mountain, glide up
and over or sidle for miles
against the canyon wall.
A mountain lion tiptoes
down the canyon to the spring,
both of us are spooked
by the boom of nuclear bombers
running maneuvers all morning
under the cloak of fog.
The Dance of the Meek Lake
by Mendes Biondo
the meek lake
budges with breeze
stalks of sedge
the factories
on the opposite bank
stand still
too hard to
dance with
the meek lake
the meek lake
budges with breeze
stalks of sedge
the factories
on the opposite bank
stand still
too hard to
dance with
the meek lake
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Acer rubrum for Valentine’s Day
by Karla Linn Merrifield
Swamp maples begin leafing
in February in Central Florida.
Spring is stingy with their crimson
sequins or sparing of sightseers’ eyes.
I catch too few, so squint
into water below doubling the color
upon reflection.
A tree’s sap seems to be flowering
blood across the pond’s still surface.
A single maple in a singular swamp
is just now— now—coming into bud.
I am somehow younger, rubied
in the light, blushing in the shadows:
a girl again, rouged with youth.
Swamp maples begin leafing
in February in Central Florida.
Spring is stingy with their crimson
sequins or sparing of sightseers’ eyes.
I catch too few, so squint
into water below doubling the color
upon reflection.
A tree’s sap seems to be flowering
blood across the pond’s still surface.
A single maple in a singular swamp
is just now— now—coming into bud.
I am somehow younger, rubied
in the light, blushing in the shadows:
a girl again, rouged with youth.
Thursday, February 11, 2016
Another Rainy Day
by Ed Hack
The storm's set free the tree's dark rushing voice,
raw whispering of branches crazed by wind,
of leaves still caught in night. This isn't noise
but language that the silence holds, the kin
of light asleep in stone. The roiling gray
is odd right now, a knot gone slack, as rain
sweeps down and slicks the leaves that drip and sway,
explode, fall limp as wind unwinds its skein.
The knot's undone as air turns gray-glare clear.
The day has taken hold, the rain relents,
though leaves still fly in gouts of wind that shear
then pool, uprear, collapse in wild ferment.
And then a change, vague shadows show, the sun
a broken bulb--it's not quite light but crumbs.
The storm's set free the tree's dark rushing voice,
raw whispering of branches crazed by wind,
of leaves still caught in night. This isn't noise
but language that the silence holds, the kin
of light asleep in stone. The roiling gray
is odd right now, a knot gone slack, as rain
sweeps down and slicks the leaves that drip and sway,
explode, fall limp as wind unwinds its skein.
The knot's undone as air turns gray-glare clear.
The day has taken hold, the rain relents,
though leaves still fly in gouts of wind that shear
then pool, uprear, collapse in wild ferment.
And then a change, vague shadows show, the sun
a broken bulb--it's not quite light but crumbs.
Dog Canyon
by Tim Staley
Darkness unrolls over the west
like black nylons, one over the other.
Fire leaps from the stalks
of the desert spoon.
The breeze massages juniper
and pinyon sticks
into a jag of sparks.
Folding fire into itself for hours
teasing out more flames.
Light spasms of space junk
pierce the atmosphere
and steal attention from the blaze.
Darkness unrolls over the west
like black nylons, one over the other.
Fire leaps from the stalks
of the desert spoon.
The breeze massages juniper
and pinyon sticks
into a jag of sparks.
Folding fire into itself for hours
teasing out more flames.
Light spasms of space junk
pierce the atmosphere
and steal attention from the blaze.
The Park
by Tammy T. Stone
concrete spillage
allowing for no
mighty flowers
to peek through and
rise straight to sun
dumpster flower pots
instead
plastic brocade
plants tended to with
minute care
in this barren space
maybe early
in the morning
maybe by elderly
volunteers
pressing ever forward
in strong constitution
maybe with tweezers,
even, so as not
to miss a thing
the plants in
this here and
this now a mystery
save their
earthly
origins
concrete spillage
allowing for no
mighty flowers
to peek through and
rise straight to sun
dumpster flower pots
instead
plastic brocade
plants tended to with
minute care
in this barren space
maybe early
in the morning
maybe by elderly
volunteers
pressing ever forward
in strong constitution
maybe with tweezers,
even, so as not
to miss a thing
the plants in
this here and
this now a mystery
save their
earthly
origins
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Petals
Directions
Brian Pham
Forward and ahead,
where the birds flew for the spring,
they create new life.
Backwards and behind,
where they fly for the winter,
they try to survive.
Up high and above,
like the sun, their day
starts and ends with time.
Down low and below,
this marks the end of the day,
to repeat again.
Four Seasons
Franchesca Benjamin
Colors of all sorts
are loved by all hummingbirds
nature's cycle comes
The clash of the two
first comes the sweltering sun
then the ocean's wave
A gust of dark leaves
will eventually fall–
a child's playground
White blanket laid out
where all ages lay upon
for angels to form
Changing Times
Nathan Tran
Creatures awaken
to a soft and mellow
some for the first time
Dry or rainy days
fighting for little water
or running from it
Red and orange leaves
scatter across the land
a lonely wind blows
A blanket of white
covering the past mistakes
creatures hibernate
Four Haiku
Isabella Vasquez
The jasmine blossoms
like stars in the growing night
alone and waiting.
The jasmine falling
and leaves glisten in the sun
like naked bodies.
The decaying leaves
turn from green to gold and red
like bursts of flowers.
Leaves give way to ice
and shudders in the white snow,
only sticks remain.
Seasons
Ahjanay Ervin
Tulips awaken,
a hummingbirds melody-
The promise of spring.
Mothers burst with joy
during the summer and play with
their laughing children.
As autumn appears,
colored leaves drift through the wind
till nothing remains.
An ice sickle falls
landing on the white pillows
of snow beneath it.
Two Poems
Megan Lee
Snow
Gently descending
Trees covered in white blankets
Frozen fingertips
Warmth
No signs
As sunlight consumes the cold-
A summer morning
Two Haiku
Steven Singeorzan
Ground slips under me
Running for dear life help me -
Mother wakes me up
In the scorching heat
Many stairs no one here but me
Whistling the tune
Untitled
Amanda Abad
A mouse scurries by
while a hawk swiftly swoops down,
for an early snack
Two Poems
Grace An
Spring Breeze
Fuzzy winds along
the blooming flowers, tickle
my nose very much.
Morning Runs
These morning winds hurt,
it cuts me with its sharp flow.
Mom, can I go home?
Two Poems
Maggie Kung
Spring
Late in the spring night
Dog barks hysterically
Baby bird perish
The Scorpion
Scorpion is trapped,
it tries to find a way out-
stings itself and dies
Two Poems
Kayla Katsuda
Monday Mornings
Bare trees, a new day
in an empty parking lot
a blue sky brightens
Before the Storm
The rain is coming,
the great gray clouds fill the sky
anticipation
Untitled
Angelica Ellerma
The flashes lit trees
chaos took over the town,
lives and homes was lost.
Time of the Season
Ryan Estrella
Leaves slowly unfurl
Pale versions of fall colors
Quickly change to green
No one is sleeping
The nights keep getting shorter
Will they disappear?
The school bell prevails
The swimming pool’s just a dream
Sleep is dearly missed
Cool breezes kiss skin
LA shivers in the wind
Family time begins
Editor's note: the above selections were produced by a workshop for young writers in Cerritos, California. The Tavern is flattered and grateful to have been chosen by the authors for their submissions. The editor especially wishes to recognize 'The jasmine falling' by Isabella Vasquez , 'In the scorching heat' by Steven Singeorzan and "Dry or rainy days' by Nathan Tran for overall excellence.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
One Rabbit
by Ingrid Bruck
Rabbit hops away,
a dandelion held in his mouth
the silver orb of seeds bobs
on the end of the stem it is eating.
Rabbit hops away,
a dandelion held in his mouth
the silver orb of seeds bobs
on the end of the stem it is eating.
Thursday, February 4, 2016
To Start a Wander
by Tricia Knoll
Older than little, here on a threshold
to the woods that reconfigures
what was and is new. A worn duff
path to a next grand possibility,
a tinge of silver tomorrow in my sunset.
Do not speak of jawbones
called out long ago, just looseness
unwinding, how even a furled feather
hovers for footsteps
to start a wander,
a wander into deep green,
resolving the me
that still worships green.
Older than little, here on a threshold
to the woods that reconfigures
what was and is new. A worn duff
path to a next grand possibility,
a tinge of silver tomorrow in my sunset.
Do not speak of jawbones
called out long ago, just looseness
unwinding, how even a furled feather
hovers for footsteps
to start a wander,
a wander into deep green,
resolving the me
that still worships green.
Weather For Hawks
by Ed Hack
White winter light and blue that long ago
forgot what mercy is. A morning for
a hawk. The clouds are silvered gray and glow
a razored glare, raw light you can't ignore,
that blinds the eye that cannot help but look.
The perfect light for hawks. And when it dims
the silver has a wicked gleam, a hook
that skewers nerves, edged pain up to the brim.
The wind is polishing the upper leaves.
Bright points wink on, wink off. We are what is
irrelevant. We are what we believe.
The hawk is real, the rest self-serving myth.
We wake, we work, we love, we war, we talk,
we plan. While high above, the circling hawk.
White winter light and blue that long ago
forgot what mercy is. A morning for
a hawk. The clouds are silvered gray and glow
a razored glare, raw light you can't ignore,
that blinds the eye that cannot help but look.
The perfect light for hawks. And when it dims
the silver has a wicked gleam, a hook
that skewers nerves, edged pain up to the brim.
The wind is polishing the upper leaves.
Bright points wink on, wink off. We are what is
irrelevant. We are what we believe.
The hawk is real, the rest self-serving myth.
We wake, we work, we love, we war, we talk,
we plan. While high above, the circling hawk.
The Black Mother
by Mendes Biondo
do not forget the taste
of the earth that nourished
your lush roots
although sick and sterile
the black mother
was the first source
where you taste the water
do not forget the taste
of the earth that nourished
your lush roots
although sick and sterile
the black mother
was the first source
where you taste the water
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Swimming Deer
by Al Ortolani
A young buck swims the center of Shoal Creek in flood stage. Rains have pummeled the hills for two days. Now, sunlight like yellow flowers patchworks the timber, crosses the lapping waves, climbs the bluff. The buck bobs in and out of dappled shade, felted antlers green in early sun. Spring run-off carries him through the park and under the distant highway bridge. Hawks catch the April wind, rise quickly into the fresh blue. All that ever was, or will be, is now.
dogwood spray
in gray timber, daffodils
clutched in landfill
A young buck swims the center of Shoal Creek in flood stage. Rains have pummeled the hills for two days. Now, sunlight like yellow flowers patchworks the timber, crosses the lapping waves, climbs the bluff. The buck bobs in and out of dappled shade, felted antlers green in early sun. Spring run-off carries him through the park and under the distant highway bridge. Hawks catch the April wind, rise quickly into the fresh blue. All that ever was, or will be, is now.
dogwood spray
in gray timber, daffodils
clutched in landfill
Winter
(for John Nightingale)
by Terrence Sykes
In my garden of regret
seeds of forgotten sorrow
cast with damp ashes
silence already muted spirits
No need to gather
harvest that again
since weeds & crops
now yellowed & strawed
Glazed with frost
contentment & burdens
death & resurrection
indistinguishable
In my garden of regret
seeds of forgotten sorrow
cast with damp ashes
silence already muted spirits
No need to gather
harvest that again
since weeds & crops
now yellowed & strawed
Glazed with frost
contentment & burdens
death & resurrection
indistinguishable
Our Blue Marble
by Kerry Seymour
Our blue marble floats,
perfect
from a distance.
Here, mined and fracked,
aquifers sucked dry,
she quakes
and sinkholes gape;
Continents bake,
yet the coasts drown
in warming waters.
In millennia to come,
our drying orb
of desperate remainders
smolders, beyond thirst.
This was our only blue marble.
Our blue marble floats,
perfect
from a distance.
Here, mined and fracked,
aquifers sucked dry,
she quakes
and sinkholes gape;
Continents bake,
yet the coasts drown
in warming waters.
In millennia to come,
our drying orb
of desperate remainders
smolders, beyond thirst.
This was our only blue marble.
Sunday, January 31, 2016
The Fall
by Mark Danowsky
Up mountain
sky quickens
Clouds gather
O moon
Long days
Color drains
maple veins
Up mountain
sky quickens
Clouds gather
O moon
Long days
Color drains
maple veins
Only a Yew Tree
by Elena Croitoru
The rivers are turning
into bronze clay carcasses
with shrivelled lips which stretch
like the horizon.
The sky is a
mosaic of broken blue glass,
slicing chiffon clouds
with no water to give.
No movement on the flatland.
No snails to drink
colourless blood.
No daffodils to pierce
the Romanian plain.
Only a barren yew tree clings to the earth.
The rivers are turning
into bronze clay carcasses
with shrivelled lips which stretch
like the horizon.
The sky is a
mosaic of broken blue glass,
slicing chiffon clouds
with no water to give.
No movement on the flatland.
No snails to drink
colourless blood.
No daffodils to pierce
the Romanian plain.
Only a barren yew tree clings to the earth.
