by Carl Mayfield
afternoon sun
the lizard
once again
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Sunday, June 26, 2016
The Mutts of Dhaka are Survivors
by Sayeeda T Ahmad
These mutts lap up spilled tea or snack crumbles on the footpath,
curl up in a spot of sun near a streetside tong,
till the tong owner kicks them away
for disturbing his customers.
These mutts trot down every alley and road they know,
next to and through piles of rotting refuse,
till nearly or fully run over by careless chauffeurs,
driving their owners’ to the next NGO meeting.
These mutts scramble under empty pull carts in the rain,
till chased away by goons or street kids
intent on cutting off their tails for kicks.
Just another nonentity, infested with fleas and welts.
Just another beggar with no bowl.
Just another carcass among the millions.
These mutts lap up spilled tea or snack crumbles on the footpath,
curl up in a spot of sun near a streetside tong,
till the tong owner kicks them away
for disturbing his customers.
These mutts trot down every alley and road they know,
next to and through piles of rotting refuse,
till nearly or fully run over by careless chauffeurs,
driving their owners’ to the next NGO meeting.
These mutts scramble under empty pull carts in the rain,
till chased away by goons or street kids
intent on cutting off their tails for kicks.
Just another nonentity, infested with fleas and welts.
Just another beggar with no bowl.
Just another carcass among the millions.
Call for Clean Water
by Ingrid Bruck
The lit upper levels
of the world’s oceans
produce most of the oxygen
earth needs for life.
Wet uninhabitable deserts grow,
five great sea patches of desolation,
405 dead zones,
the whale-path littered with plastic that whales choke on.
Dirty water smothers
algae, diatoms, plankton,
fowl, flowers and fish
gasp for air.
The lit upper levels
of the world’s oceans
produce most of the oxygen
earth needs for life.
Water is holy, blessing optional. Life began in water. Come quench your thirst at the open faucet, drink mouthfuls of water straight from the tap. Dawn braids a sparkling rope of light from sun to sea to shore, the setting sun a pale mirror on the ocean.
Wet uninhabitable deserts grow,
five great sea patches of desolation,
405 dead zones,
the whale-path littered with plastic that whales choke on.
The surface crackles, white flames dance on lit upper levels of the world’s oceans. Whales sing joy for the light show, a lung deep hum, a pulse that spirals and echoes between each other under water.
Dirty water smothers
algae, diatoms, plankton,
fowl, flowers and fish
gasp for air.
A fish gets caught on a hook, mouth open agape, lungs on fire, a silent scream for clean water. He can’t pull oxygen-rich water through his mouth and pump it over his gills so he can breathe. Lidless black eyes spark terror. The color of the ocean echoes a silver scaled sky on a stormy day.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
The After-Light
by Ed Hack
The after-light, late afternoon, a spill
of silvered glow as clear as ice that holds
the world before light leaves. The tree is still
as breath when something mortal has been told,
or beauty has just caught you by surprise--
a red, thin Cheshire Moon in early spring,
or Dogwood ghostly as the evening sighs
before the world goes black and stars can sing
their silver song of Time more quietly
than snow. You blink. You can't believe
your eyes. This is a kind of piety,
this haunted glow that cannot last, reprieve
from change's avalanche that pours and roars
each second's tick on life's storm-pounded shores.
The after-light, late afternoon, a spill
of silvered glow as clear as ice that holds
the world before light leaves. The tree is still
as breath when something mortal has been told,
or beauty has just caught you by surprise--
a red, thin Cheshire Moon in early spring,
or Dogwood ghostly as the evening sighs
before the world goes black and stars can sing
their silver song of Time more quietly
than snow. You blink. You can't believe
your eyes. This is a kind of piety,
this haunted glow that cannot last, reprieve
from change's avalanche that pours and roars
each second's tick on life's storm-pounded shores.
Monday, June 20, 2016
Sunday, June 19, 2016
April
by Sayeeda T Ahmad
The perfect time to hike the trails of the Bandarbans,
“dam of monkeys” in Bangla.
Be wary of capped leaf monkeys, and capped langur,
as you clamber up the grassy peaks of Keokaradong and Saka Haphong.
Goat on nimble feet,
thickset branch clasped in one hand,
instinct in the fingertips of the other.
You must know to skip past the rotting leaves,
hiding python or king cobra princelings beneath,
on your way down to Sangu River, and back on the trail.
Thin spirals of smoke linger in the air as the jhum chaash goes on,
slash and burn, slash and burn.
Better to hike now, climb now in the dryness,
than let the monsoon mudslide kill you next season.
The perfect time to hike the trails of the Bandarbans,
“dam of monkeys” in Bangla.
Be wary of capped leaf monkeys, and capped langur,
as you clamber up the grassy peaks of Keokaradong and Saka Haphong.
Goat on nimble feet,
thickset branch clasped in one hand,
instinct in the fingertips of the other.
You must know to skip past the rotting leaves,
hiding python or king cobra princelings beneath,
on your way down to Sangu River, and back on the trail.
Thin spirals of smoke linger in the air as the jhum chaash goes on,
slash and burn, slash and burn.
Better to hike now, climb now in the dryness,
than let the monsoon mudslide kill you next season.
Night Watering
by Stephen Jarrell Williams
Yet firm
Soil saturated
Roots engorged
Lifting again in morning sun
Bent down by rain
Grasslands.
Yet firm
Soil saturated
Roots engorged
Lifting again in morning sun
Bent down by rain
Grasslands.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Taking Place
by Stefanie Bennett
... Babble along
With
The mendican
Brook
And look how
Eccentric
The risen sun
Shines.
... Babble along
With
The mendican
Brook
And look how
Eccentric
The risen sun
Shines.
For the Raven
by David Chorlton
The stone light on a slow road
runs straight past a raven
who bounces from a fence post
with a bone held shining in his beak.
The stone light on a slow road
runs straight past a raven
who bounces from a fence post
with a bone held shining in his beak.
Sunday, June 12, 2016
The yard is full of ice
by Sarah Henry
when the hail storm comes.
Ice bounces hard on the grass.
They say an oak feels pain
when another falls in the forest.
Both trees collapse, screaming.
In the spruce, a nest like spun
glass holds an uneasy finch.
Songbirds navigate by radar
and the stars at night.
The storm was all
a big mistake.
The yard is full of ice.
when the hail storm comes.
Ice bounces hard on the grass.
They say an oak feels pain
when another falls in the forest.
Both trees collapse, screaming.
In the spruce, a nest like spun
glass holds an uneasy finch.
Songbirds navigate by radar
and the stars at night.
The storm was all
a big mistake.
The yard is full of ice.
Mother Earth, am I your daughter?
by Emily Ramser
Mother, just before I fall asleep each night,
I can almost see
your rivers beneath my skin
rippling with each breath I take
and your rushes swaying
on my boney banks,
their roots entangled with my veins
and the backs of your silver
fish flashing as they swim amongst
my blood cells and antibodies,
and Mother, I can almost see
your wheat growing
in my skin between the blonde hairs,
waving back and forth
in the light breeze
that tickles my goosebumps.
Mother, just before I fall asleep each night,
I can almost see
your rivers beneath my skin
rippling with each breath I take
and your rushes swaying
on my boney banks,
their roots entangled with my veins
and the backs of your silver
fish flashing as they swim amongst
my blood cells and antibodies,
and Mother, I can almost see
your wheat growing
in my skin between the blonde hairs,
waving back and forth
in the light breeze
that tickles my goosebumps.
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
May Day Hook-up
by Jan Hamlett
Dressed in mousy brown,
she perches confidently on the cable
and raises her tail feathers.
The fiery male cardinal swoops down
to share the swinging wire.
Facing her, he begins his dance.
He hops over her,
first one side, then the other,
and back again.
Furiously flapping his wings,
he is above her.
In less than a heartbeat, it's over.
She flies east; he flies west.
Dressed in mousy brown,
she perches confidently on the cable
and raises her tail feathers.
The fiery male cardinal swoops down
to share the swinging wire.
Facing her, he begins his dance.
He hops over her,
first one side, then the other,
and back again.
Furiously flapping his wings,
he is above her.
In less than a heartbeat, it's over.
She flies east; he flies west.
Mother Owl
by Kel McNeal
Universally solitary
Til her beak locks his
Monogamously mating
Epitomizing gender dichotomy
She lays and waits
For him
Fiercely protecting
What is theirs
Universally solitary
Til her beak locks his
Monogamously mating
Epitomizing gender dichotomy
She lays and waits
For him
Fiercely protecting
What is theirs
Sunday, June 5, 2016
That’s Actually Oregano
by Todd Mercer
Some people know what thyme it is—lemony or savory.
Most take a guess or else they generalize.
Eagle-eyed forestry scholars can name each species of tree—
Latin terms or popular. Others lose the Linneaen distinctions
at level of class or phylum. They’re content to know
a leaf-dropper from an evergreen. Adam (no last name),
busy crafting Genesis myth, made a word for every creature.
They probably appreciated it, new titles.
His average descendant can’t remember
what they ate for breakfast or where their keys are.
They couldn’t tell you where they’ve been.
since the Garden closed for maintenance.
Some know a grouse from a mourning dove.
If it flies, most people just say, bird.
Some people know what thyme it is—lemony or savory.
Most take a guess or else they generalize.
Eagle-eyed forestry scholars can name each species of tree—
Latin terms or popular. Others lose the Linneaen distinctions
at level of class or phylum. They’re content to know
a leaf-dropper from an evergreen. Adam (no last name),
busy crafting Genesis myth, made a word for every creature.
They probably appreciated it, new titles.
His average descendant can’t remember
what they ate for breakfast or where their keys are.
They couldn’t tell you where they’ve been.
since the Garden closed for maintenance.
Some know a grouse from a mourning dove.
If it flies, most people just say, bird.
Pine Pollen
by Michael Friedman
Yellow dust from yellow pines
wring loose
and mist across a paved road.
The intense strain of immobile
copulation. Unbridled from
from cones, not pumped and spilled,
but shaken forth,
smeared onto the lips of another.
Yellow dust from yellow pines
wring loose
and mist across a paved road.
The intense strain of immobile
copulation. Unbridled from
from cones, not pumped and spilled,
but shaken forth,
smeared onto the lips of another.
Wednesday, June 1, 2016
Twilight Brings The Renaissance
by Narendra Kumar Arya
Beside my house
Flows a river
In the nights it has cold
At the noons it has fever.
There are trees
that are unfamiliar to me
And I ask the botanist
And they say, we?
Too much old, Very tall,
Teaching me lessons in recent history.
And twilight brings the Renaissance
About the nests and birds
Of too many tongues,
Which are dying for lack of many
I yearned I were Salim Ali
They sing, I observe
Clouds rush following
Each other’s cacophony.
Beside my house
Flows a river
In the nights it has cold
At the noons it has fever.
There are trees
that are unfamiliar to me
And I ask the botanist
And they say, we?
Too much old, Very tall,
Teaching me lessons in recent history.
And twilight brings the Renaissance
About the nests and birds
Of too many tongues,
Which are dying for lack of many
I yearned I were Salim Ali
They sing, I observe
Clouds rush following
Each other’s cacophony.
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Thursday, May 26, 2016
A Home for World's Clouds
by Narendra Kumar Arya
Last month I travelled a place
Said home to world's clouds
Floating there in measures unknown
In forms and feature so versatile
As if they had their proper names.
Sometimes they appeared from the next turn of road
And like a sweet stranger asked to share the space
We were three people in the car,
Many a times they walked like neighbors
And after long walk said, " dear let us return,
It seems heavy rains
Want our company;
But oh! we have forgotten to bring parasols."
It was cold and it started raining
And when the trees started shivering
Clouds brought their thick blankets closer
Wrapping the trees as if children innocent
Drenched in waters from heavens
Lest they fall ill
Tomorrow they might have to attend schools.
Sometimes they ascended like airplanes
From green grassy valleys
As if they have to travel to other lands
Where people might be waiting to see
Relatives from distant lands
Full of tears.
In the place called clouds' abode I knew
Clouds are moving mind of Nature.
Sometimes these lovely creatures retained ugly memories
Inflicted by invisible wounds
When they cried to say goodbye
I felt it was not tears
It was gasoline on my face
Mucked with Middle East's airs.
Last month I travelled a place
Said home to world's clouds
Floating there in measures unknown
In forms and feature so versatile
As if they had their proper names.
Sometimes they appeared from the next turn of road
And like a sweet stranger asked to share the space
We were three people in the car,
Many a times they walked like neighbors
And after long walk said, " dear let us return,
It seems heavy rains
Want our company;
But oh! we have forgotten to bring parasols."
It was cold and it started raining
And when the trees started shivering
Clouds brought their thick blankets closer
Wrapping the trees as if children innocent
Drenched in waters from heavens
Lest they fall ill
Tomorrow they might have to attend schools.
Sometimes they ascended like airplanes
From green grassy valleys
As if they have to travel to other lands
Where people might be waiting to see
Relatives from distant lands
Full of tears.
In the place called clouds' abode I knew
Clouds are moving mind of Nature.
Sometimes these lovely creatures retained ugly memories
Inflicted by invisible wounds
When they cried to say goodbye
I felt it was not tears
It was gasoline on my face
Mucked with Middle East's airs.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Who Killed the Honeybees?
by Ingrid Bruck
grass no longer hums
flowers don’t buzz
and you stop looking down
when you walk barefoot in clover
the sting of silence
each third mouthful of food
depends on bees for pollination,
they sustain the food chain
and are dying
the sting of silence
when bees starve for lack of flowers
or get lost going home and vanish,
when thirty countries ban American food
and GMOs enter our DNA
the sting of silence
when bees rain down in a parking lot at Walmart,
red wing blackbirds fall from the sky on highways,
and a million fish die in the Arkansas River,
when captive dolphins and whales turn killers
the sting of silence
half the world’s animals have perished since the 70s,
six gulls in a flock, instead of wheeling hundreds,
when only one Monarch visits your garden in a year
and few bats rake insects on the currents of night
the sting of silence
oceans turn to deserts, fishermen left jobless,
acid rain drains life out of lakes and rivers.
only a quarter of the frogs are left
to croak a night song of coming death
kill-offs, die-offs, honeybees vanished
the sting
grass no longer hums
flowers don’t buzz
and you stop looking down
when you walk barefoot in clover
the sting of silence
each third mouthful of food
depends on bees for pollination,
they sustain the food chain
and are dying
the sting of silence
when bees starve for lack of flowers
or get lost going home and vanish,
when thirty countries ban American food
and GMOs enter our DNA
the sting of silence
when bees rain down in a parking lot at Walmart,
red wing blackbirds fall from the sky on highways,
and a million fish die in the Arkansas River,
when captive dolphins and whales turn killers
the sting of silence
half the world’s animals have perished since the 70s,
six gulls in a flock, instead of wheeling hundreds,
when only one Monarch visits your garden in a year
and few bats rake insects on the currents of night
the sting of silence
oceans turn to deserts, fishermen left jobless,
acid rain drains life out of lakes and rivers.
only a quarter of the frogs are left
to croak a night song of coming death
kill-offs, die-offs, honeybees vanished
the sting
Sunday, May 22, 2016
In May the Santa Fe River is Alive
by Carl Mayfield
In the month of melting snow
the burgeoning river gathers itself
west of Baldy, flowing past fir
and spruce to ponderosa pines,
to gambel oaks, locust trees with thorns
to die for, the sound of moving water
muted once it reaches town, a steady
downslope all the way to Cochiti Pueblo
where no one even listens any more
to the dry stories of what was left behind.
In the month of melting snow
the burgeoning river gathers itself
west of Baldy, flowing past fir
and spruce to ponderosa pines,
to gambel oaks, locust trees with thorns
to die for, the sound of moving water
muted once it reaches town, a steady
downslope all the way to Cochiti Pueblo
where no one even listens any more
to the dry stories of what was left behind.
In the Garden in May
by g emil reutter
It is a dreary day in May as rain has fallen for days but today
is a day to visit the garden under cloudy skies that do not drip.
Squirrels scamper up the face of the dogwood that drops pink
blossoms onto the damp lawn. Around the old stump of mimosa
peonies sprout from the soil. Stalks of Tiger Lilies, Day Lilies fill
the bed as velvet blue flowers of Irises bend and bow. Neat pinks
and reds of Azalea are joined by dazzling purple of Rhododendron.
Thick leaves of Black Eyed Susan lift off mulch, grand basal leaves
of Hosta unfold and within prepare the racemes of white and violet.
Full blossoms of red peak out through thick leaves of Camellia as
roses bloom along the fence line where just below blue bells sway
silently in breeze. . Just past the green of Forsythia in pots along
the steps, Snap Dragons, Geraniums bloom in reds, pinks, whites
and yellows. Within the colors of this beautiful display those rascally
squirrels dig in soil for bulbs of tulips and hyacinth, robins pull worms
from the soaked lawn never noticing the hawk gliding, hunting from
above.
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Misty Morning
by Ed Hack
It's all quite still in mist--the distant pines,
full-grown and dark, the bare, thin dying tree,
the purplish winter brush en masse, a line
behind the still-wet grass. The day's decree
is gray, again, light shrouded in a veil
spring trees glow through, banked fires that seem to purr
through misted air. White dogwoods float as pale
as ghosts; around them nothing wants to stir.
This silence is as deep as Time, a gap
between that doesn't need a single thing.
This is a land for which there is no map,
and what it gives is only what you bring.
Two pair of geese fly low, fly side-by-side,
honk twice, are gone. Their echoes quickly die.
It's all quite still in mist--the distant pines,
full-grown and dark, the bare, thin dying tree,
the purplish winter brush en masse, a line
behind the still-wet grass. The day's decree
is gray, again, light shrouded in a veil
spring trees glow through, banked fires that seem to purr
through misted air. White dogwoods float as pale
as ghosts; around them nothing wants to stir.
This silence is as deep as Time, a gap
between that doesn't need a single thing.
This is a land for which there is no map,
and what it gives is only what you bring.
Two pair of geese fly low, fly side-by-side,
honk twice, are gone. Their echoes quickly die.
Gestalt: Landlocked
by Karla Linn Merrifield
Sagemothsavor
batsilence
owllight
coyotenight
If I am not among
the all-consumed,
I will become
a rogue ocean wave.
Sagemothsavor
batsilence
owllight
coyotenight
If I am not among
the all-consumed,
I will become
a rogue ocean wave.
Sunday, May 15, 2016
Lines
by Denny E. Marshall
lands body and hands
wrapped tightly with barbed wire
of roads and bridges
lands body and hands
wrapped tightly with barbed wire
of roads and bridges
Untitled
by Stephen A. Rozwenc
brick after brick
sown in harkened earth
by anonymous monks
this stairwell of silent prayers
ascends straight up
the puckered mountainside
where unutterable genius
envelopes the highest peak
in palpable mist
a gold leaved temple
beholds the green valley far below
bluer than the simple ability
to accept love
without the paraplegic futility
of desire
brick after brick
sown in harkened earth
by anonymous monks
this stairwell of silent prayers
ascends straight up
the puckered mountainside
where unutterable genius
envelopes the highest peak
in palpable mist
a gold leaved temple
beholds the green valley far below
bluer than the simple ability
to accept love
without the paraplegic futility
of desire
Wednesday, May 11, 2016
Double Helix
by Mark Danowsky
two red tails lock
in spiral descent
after a crow chase
fall with the sun
glinting off feather
two red tails lock
in spiral descent
after a crow chase
fall with the sun
glinting off feather
A Lizard
by Taylor Graham
Under chickweed, foxtail, thistle bursting
green between rocks where I cut a path, trying
to clear defensible-space around my house
against wildfire – a glimpse of silver
wrinkles fast away from the spin of my weed-
eater, a flash of darting dark that disappears
into uncut grass, safety; invisible now.
I’ll leave a wide wild swath in my mowing,
to remind how uncertain and ragged
is the world we share, alligator lizard and I,
between fire and the clearing line.
Under chickweed, foxtail, thistle bursting
green between rocks where I cut a path, trying
to clear defensible-space around my house
against wildfire – a glimpse of silver
wrinkles fast away from the spin of my weed-
eater, a flash of darting dark that disappears
into uncut grass, safety; invisible now.
I’ll leave a wide wild swath in my mowing,
to remind how uncertain and ragged
is the world we share, alligator lizard and I,
between fire and the clearing line.
Sunday, May 8, 2016
The Avian and the Cetacean
for Beau Cutts
by Karla Linn Merrifield
He is the wandering albatross flying
every thermal of my great heart
in ceaseless flight, effortlessly driving
on great wingèd beats this steady rhythm
I pulse with him, his humpback;
he is the bird; I am the whale.
We are pelagic creatures of synchronicity,
at one with the sea and the sky.
It is a scientific fact; it is a myth.
He is the wandering albatross flying
every thermal of my great heart
in ceaseless flight, effortlessly driving
on great wingèd beats this steady rhythm
I pulse with him, his humpback;
he is the bird; I am the whale.
We are pelagic creatures of synchronicity,
at one with the sea and the sky.
It is a scientific fact; it is a myth.
Sand Harbor, Nevada
by Stefanie Bennett
When nobody’s shore-
Watching
The unspoken
Stones
Wing it
And sing...
When nobody’s shore-
Watching
The unspoken
Stones
Wing it
And sing...
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
Summer Fun
by Jimmy Pappas
The neighborhood
children scurry
down the sidewalk
to see tiny crabs
emptied from
a toy pail
clatter around
searching for the ocean.
The neighborhood
children scurry
down the sidewalk
to see tiny crabs
emptied from
a toy pail
clatter around
searching for the ocean.
Seascape
by Ed Higgins
Eased by this rising moon,
the tide’s darkening stain surges
onto wet waiting sand. Thrust inward
toward the yielding reluctant shore.
Tentative, at first, this receding/inflowing
discourse of wave, sand, and cleft-split rock.
The ambiguous edge barely perceptible
now against the sea’s widening urge.
The surf out there like a quickened pulse
to the heart.
Eased by this rising moon,
the tide’s darkening stain surges
onto wet waiting sand. Thrust inward
toward the yielding reluctant shore.
Tentative, at first, this receding/inflowing
discourse of wave, sand, and cleft-split rock.
The ambiguous edge barely perceptible
now against the sea’s widening urge.
The surf out there like a quickened pulse
to the heart.
Sunday, May 1, 2016
Origins
by Stefanie Bennett
Mohave Shadow-Land’s
Kinship depth
Is nothing less
Than
A full
Moon
In the rose
Window –.
Mohave Shadow-Land’s
Kinship depth
Is nothing less
Than
A full
Moon
In the rose
Window –.
Reality Check at Sea
by Karla Linn Merrifield
To learn
wild stories,
their old calculus?
The gyre teaches ancient cold truths.
Listen.
To learn
wild stories,
their old calculus?
The gyre teaches ancient cold truths.
Listen.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
That Leucistic Alligator
by KJ Hannah Greenberg
That leucistic alligator, all scaly coruscation,
Brought, among ladies taking afternoon tea,
Syncope of the worst kind.
I heard their cries, while parked in a commode,
At Randy’s, the neighboring bar & grill;
A stomach virus had unfastened me.
While I’ve shrugged off romantic love, preferring
Mundane synching up to flowers and candy,
Their shrilling fetched memories.
You were no rare reptile, but a common beast,
Habituated to painful biting, swallowing whole,
Gulping the most intimate morsels.
I mistook your beautiful eyes, your special colors,
As signifying rare, emotional limpidness.
All along, I missed your guile.
Crocodilians don’t think on duplicity; they naturally
Graze on muskrats, coypu, plus broken hearts.
Solipsists seemingly smile.
That leucistic alligator, all scaly coruscation,
Brought, among ladies taking afternoon tea,
Syncope of the worst kind.
I heard their cries, while parked in a commode,
At Randy’s, the neighboring bar & grill;
A stomach virus had unfastened me.
While I’ve shrugged off romantic love, preferring
Mundane synching up to flowers and candy,
Their shrilling fetched memories.
You were no rare reptile, but a common beast,
Habituated to painful biting, swallowing whole,
Gulping the most intimate morsels.
I mistook your beautiful eyes, your special colors,
As signifying rare, emotional limpidness.
All along, I missed your guile.
Crocodilians don’t think on duplicity; they naturally
Graze on muskrats, coypu, plus broken hearts.
Solipsists seemingly smile.
High Noon
by Tricia Knoll
Fantasies will end,
even swollen dream seeds
the red bird dropped
into your lusty loam.
Come a high spring sun,
let warmth pull forward
a green uneasy sprout
you never imagined.
Fantasies will end,
even swollen dream seeds
the red bird dropped
into your lusty loam.
Come a high spring sun,
let warmth pull forward
a green uneasy sprout
you never imagined.
Sunday, April 24, 2016
Whispers of sacred dusk
by Diane Sahms-Guarnieri
1.
Meadow’s leaf-beats of heart’s red maple radiance
falling, one by one, upon earth’s deeply rooted love;
yellow ginkgoes double-winged fans falling like
Tree Yellow butterflies of Singapore fluttering;
along leaf strewn pathways vibrant burgundy oaks
slick as vinyl shine among all the faded and
forgotten, as if each existence only
a whisper or droplet in which the swift moving
seasonal flow rides it over the edge
the holding on, before the letting go.
2.
Together dressed alike from caps, thermals,
jackets to Timberlands, we easily
step into natural rhythm with the
same solitude and freedom once felt as
children wandering inside woodlands. Old
warrior wind swords through trees; blue fire flame
of sky’s arms encircling; butterscotch sun
slowly dissolving; autumn elms yield, glide
as we hike inclines and declines, then the
sudden brilliance in blue jays’ blades cutting
the air, flashing; and goldfinches flickering
in and out-of vision before resting
in nakedness of old limbs reaching, always
reaching toward the dizzying heavens.
3.
Long red rays of once lived days setting.
Deer’s night eyes stare into our restful steps –
white tails flickering as candles glowing.
Moon’s white underwing of protection,
as we cross over evening’s bridge,
hand inside hand, whispers of sacred dusk.
1.
Meadow’s leaf-beats of heart’s red maple radiance
falling, one by one, upon earth’s deeply rooted love;
yellow ginkgoes double-winged fans falling like
Tree Yellow butterflies of Singapore fluttering;
along leaf strewn pathways vibrant burgundy oaks
slick as vinyl shine among all the faded and
forgotten, as if each existence only
a whisper or droplet in which the swift moving
seasonal flow rides it over the edge
the holding on, before the letting go.
2.
Together dressed alike from caps, thermals,
jackets to Timberlands, we easily
step into natural rhythm with the
same solitude and freedom once felt as
children wandering inside woodlands. Old
warrior wind swords through trees; blue fire flame
of sky’s arms encircling; butterscotch sun
slowly dissolving; autumn elms yield, glide
as we hike inclines and declines, then the
sudden brilliance in blue jays’ blades cutting
the air, flashing; and goldfinches flickering
in and out-of vision before resting
in nakedness of old limbs reaching, always
reaching toward the dizzying heavens.
3.
Long red rays of once lived days setting.
Deer’s night eyes stare into our restful steps –
white tails flickering as candles glowing.
Moon’s white underwing of protection,
as we cross over evening’s bridge,
hand inside hand, whispers of sacred dusk.
Found poem: Through this red haze
Source- John Updike’s Rabbit at Rest
by Laurie Kolp
The sea is a vague sudden
fall impinging nature
sun unseen over moon.
Three stony feet, rotten mulch
a wheel’s hedge: yew shoulders
spread through crabgrass.
Weeds, the missing teeth,
muffle dry bark
as ominous as chicory.
The sea is a vague sudden
fall impinging nature
sun unseen over moon.
Three stony feet, rotten mulch
a wheel’s hedge: yew shoulders
spread through crabgrass.
Weeds, the missing teeth,
muffle dry bark
as ominous as chicory.
Thursday, April 21, 2016
Bewildered
by M.J. Iuppa
I doubt that Canada goose
wandering, then holding still
among the cornfield’s blind
of crushed stalks, is caught in
a moment of forgetfulness
or despair— the way it lifts
it head upwards, just above
the zigzag of the row’s ruin
to see what it’s missing,
(which might be everything
at this instant, who knows?)
it looks and looks without
moving— yet I am, moving
without answers, thinking
about this— silly goose.
I doubt that Canada goose
wandering, then holding still
among the cornfield’s blind
of crushed stalks, is caught in
a moment of forgetfulness
or despair— the way it lifts
it head upwards, just above
the zigzag of the row’s ruin
to see what it’s missing,
(which might be everything
at this instant, who knows?)
it looks and looks without
moving— yet I am, moving
without answers, thinking
about this— silly goose.
The Future
by David Chorlton
This is the bellowing, whimpering
world with stripes and dark spots
that appear in the snow
when it sparkles and crunches
beneath a firm paw. This is the world
whose wingspan is wide,
where a wolf chills the dark
and light is a drop on an ocelot’s eye.
It has tufts on its ears, a ruff
and a fin, and a dangerous glow
in a dart frog’s skin. This is
the chattering, whispering world
with canyons and caves,
snow around its edges
and fire in its deepest parts.
From saber-toothed centuries on
through jungles of steam, down rivers
that crested and soaked
into memory, by high tide and low,
wildfire and drought, its bright
feathers shone and the sea turtle’s shell
bore the weight of time
through distance and days
to the mysterious night
when she pulls herself ashore
to lay the future’s eggs in sand.
This is the bellowing, whimpering
world with stripes and dark spots
that appear in the snow
when it sparkles and crunches
beneath a firm paw. This is the world
whose wingspan is wide,
where a wolf chills the dark
and light is a drop on an ocelot’s eye.
It has tufts on its ears, a ruff
and a fin, and a dangerous glow
in a dart frog’s skin. This is
the chattering, whispering world
with canyons and caves,
snow around its edges
and fire in its deepest parts.
From saber-toothed centuries on
through jungles of steam, down rivers
that crested and soaked
into memory, by high tide and low,
wildfire and drought, its bright
feathers shone and the sea turtle’s shell
bore the weight of time
through distance and days
to the mysterious night
when she pulls herself ashore
to lay the future’s eggs in sand.
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Black Mountain
by Matthew David Manning
It's called Black Mountain,
because of how it looked at night:
a void you could climb
and look out at the city
mirrored by still water.
Some made the mountain home.
Their houses filled with the dark,
slipcovered in moonshadow.
Young couples drove access roads
up the mountain in the evening
to speak, listen, and understand.
Their favorite songs glowed soft
on their faces. Sometimes, in winter,
when they could see their breath,
people from the bottom swore
they saw ghosts finding each other.
It's called Black Mountain,
because of how it looked at night:
a void you could climb
and look out at the city
mirrored by still water.
Some made the mountain home.
Their houses filled with the dark,
slipcovered in moonshadow.
Young couples drove access roads
up the mountain in the evening
to speak, listen, and understand.
Their favorite songs glowed soft
on their faces. Sometimes, in winter,
when they could see their breath,
people from the bottom swore
they saw ghosts finding each other.
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Untitled
by Stephen A. Rozwenc
The dust-billed motorbike path
that leads to the end of suffering
may well slither
out of this emerald green rice field
like a defanged cobra
once sorrow
is accepted as permanence
The dust-billed motorbike path
that leads to the end of suffering
may well slither
out of this emerald green rice field
like a defanged cobra
once sorrow
is accepted as permanence
Three Haiku
Eyes slightly open,
Fog lying across the field-
Goosebumps on my arm
-- Yvette Galicia
Drip, drip, no chirps heard
Look out through the door’s holes
Gentle breeze caress
-- Alejandra Oregon
Ghosts of her giggles
linger frozen in the air
In the bitter frost
--Sarah Garcia
Thursday, April 14, 2016
Remnants
by Ion Corcos
Seaweed scattered,
browns and rots to wrinkled skin;
flesh shed on the high tide.
Sand worn down by the constant thrust,
the ocean surges, rushes to reclaim
prints of paws and long gone feet,
fractured sticks and relics
herded ruthless in a heap.
Colourless shells smashed on rocks,
tangled in stems;
only shells soaked in brine
show signs of life, then fade,
as the sea returns to itself.
Seagulls screech, waste time;
they have time to waste.
They scavenge among remnants,
threads of seagrass, a dead fish,
frail reminders of the deep.
Seaweed scattered,
browns and rots to wrinkled skin;
flesh shed on the high tide.
Sand worn down by the constant thrust,
the ocean surges, rushes to reclaim
prints of paws and long gone feet,
fractured sticks and relics
herded ruthless in a heap.
Colourless shells smashed on rocks,
tangled in stems;
only shells soaked in brine
show signs of life, then fade,
as the sea returns to itself.
Seagulls screech, waste time;
they have time to waste.
They scavenge among remnants,
threads of seagrass, a dead fish,
frail reminders of the deep.
Drip Torch
by Matthew David Manning
The scent of crop fires filled the car.
Kansas land always gave a slow blink.
Smoke rose in patches like freckles.
The lake was far, but sky stayed her eyes
like two index fingers by her temples
almost touching almost touching.
The scent of crop fires filled the car.
Kansas land always gave a slow blink.
Smoke rose in patches like freckles.
The lake was far, but sky stayed her eyes
like two index fingers by her temples
almost touching almost touching.
