by Taylor Graham
Atop a tall pine, in sagacious gray robes
the bird presides, ringing out his name
to all the surrounding peaks: Clark’s
Nutcracker, extricating nut after nut
from a pine cone. How else might they be
freed to sprout, to ensure the species
survives? The bird is hungry. Thus
continues a script of ages, letter by letter
on the fragile paper of generations.
Far below, a deer mouse searches fallen
nuts to stuff her cheeks, writing her own
history in the annals of pine.
Sunday, February 18, 2018
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
While Walking, Edge of Town
by Joe Cottonwood
Flash of lightning
with paws
Puma!
furry limber legs
of muscle —
scrambling up a roadcut
Gone — an instant
vanished
A weed trembles
Flash of lightning
with paws
Puma!
furry limber legs
of muscle —
scrambling up a roadcut
Gone — an instant
vanished
A weed trembles
Sunday, February 11, 2018
Top of the Mountain
by Melissa Kelly
Snow covered mountain top
The blue and greys mixing
Blended into the white top
Tip touches the cloud masses
Thin the air, cold as ice
Making its way down
To the green valleys below
Snow covered mountain top
The blue and greys mixing
Blended into the white top
Tip touches the cloud masses
Thin the air, cold as ice
Making its way down
To the green valleys below
World Outside Our Fences
by Taylor Graham
Last night a light rain washed with wood-
smoke-fog took the pasture. Silence.
Then frantic barking above highway fence.
So much moving dark. Drifting wisps
of smoke-fog. My flashlight caught him:
stag-stance perfect posture, young buck
at bay, antlers fuzzed in flash-light fog.
Deer parrying dog who doesn’t know
the game. A rush-thrust-darting muffled
by fog and pricked by rain. At last
my dog comes to call, leads the way back
home – that small part of the unknown
world we fenced to call our own.
Last night a light rain washed with wood-
smoke-fog took the pasture. Silence.
Then frantic barking above highway fence.
So much moving dark. Drifting wisps
of smoke-fog. My flashlight caught him:
stag-stance perfect posture, young buck
at bay, antlers fuzzed in flash-light fog.
Deer parrying dog who doesn’t know
the game. A rush-thrust-darting muffled
by fog and pricked by rain. At last
my dog comes to call, leads the way back
home – that small part of the unknown
world we fenced to call our own.
Wednesday, February 7, 2018
They Took Our Birch Trees
by Erin Geil
It seemed that overnight
Those tall skinny lives
Had left us to our own
Devices, but the reality
Is that they died long ago
Some sort of rot.
A painting now hangs on
The roper's wall
Of overpopulated birches
with hidden faces that
you're meant to find.
But all I see are kidnap victims
And empty spots of ground.
It seemed that overnight
Those tall skinny lives
Had left us to our own
Devices, but the reality
Is that they died long ago
Some sort of rot.
A painting now hangs on
The roper's wall
Of overpopulated birches
with hidden faces that
you're meant to find.
But all I see are kidnap victims
And empty spots of ground.
Sunday, February 4, 2018
Industry
by Connye Griffin
Drum clock out as morning warms,
Hammers stowed ‘til dusk, but
One missed the memo. He labors on
Driven to erase all algae,
His mouth like a hammer’s claw
Scraping underwater metal and plastic
Fat otters drop off the shore
Spectacular Spoonbills reach for the light
A heron resents their graceless antics
And says so, disgruntled--squawking
Alien noise in a bird statuesque, poised
A modern pterodactyl’s call
How long they’ve been on the job, laboring
A man’s phlemgy cough breaks their rhythm
Reverberates across the cove. They pause
For some slice of a second but
Theirs are lives rarely rising to double digits
Their biology sets its clock and runs down
So they resume their work, the business of living,
Full in the knowledge life is brief and sweet as
A hummingbird rises from below, ascending
To the call of nectar, necessary for its
Advance at the speed of dart, dance, delight
Smaller birds tweet, gossip, and whistle
Against the dove’s melancholy mourning
The sun breaks open a low lying haze
Waking a hen that complains about the early hour
Taking wing, she barely rises above the surface
Her morning calisthenics--an explosion of industry.
Drum clock out as morning warms,
Hammers stowed ‘til dusk, but
One missed the memo. He labors on
Driven to erase all algae,
His mouth like a hammer’s claw
Scraping underwater metal and plastic
Fat otters drop off the shore
Spectacular Spoonbills reach for the light
A heron resents their graceless antics
And says so, disgruntled--squawking
Alien noise in a bird statuesque, poised
A modern pterodactyl’s call
How long they’ve been on the job, laboring
A man’s phlemgy cough breaks their rhythm
Reverberates across the cove. They pause
For some slice of a second but
Theirs are lives rarely rising to double digits
Their biology sets its clock and runs down
So they resume their work, the business of living,
Full in the knowledge life is brief and sweet as
A hummingbird rises from below, ascending
To the call of nectar, necessary for its
Advance at the speed of dart, dance, delight
Smaller birds tweet, gossip, and whistle
Against the dove’s melancholy mourning
The sun breaks open a low lying haze
Waking a hen that complains about the early hour
Taking wing, she barely rises above the surface
Her morning calisthenics--an explosion of industry.
The Great Missouri
by Michael H. Brownstein
Clouds mark tracks across an arm of sky;
Blue water pools near the banks,
Grey-green storms of current stretch
Across mudflats, erosion, a stretch of skin.
Near the Mississippi, both clouds and river
Change lanes, dwell into wind and storm,
Stretch the great strengths within
And let out wind and rain, guts and flood.
Clouds mark tracks across an arm of sky;
Blue water pools near the banks,
Grey-green storms of current stretch
Across mudflats, erosion, a stretch of skin.
Near the Mississippi, both clouds and river
Change lanes, dwell into wind and storm,
Stretch the great strengths within
And let out wind and rain, guts and flood.
The Tunguska Non-event
by Todd Mercer
When on fire
the present’s paramount.
There may have been
a meteor to blame, a comet
crashed into the far taiga,
or an errant transatlantic
burst of current
from Nikola Tesla’s lab.
It wasn’t on my mind
the moment
I exploded into flames.
I mouthed a shorthand
stripped-down prayer,
uninformed of the square miles
of matchstick evergreens flattened,
croaked it out
without a thought to
creator or crater-maker:
“Water!” I cried
in my native language,
“Water!” again,
as if anyone could hear.
I wasn’t slightly curious.
about the comet,
gas plume, God’s hand,
the stray wireless transmission,
antimatter, whatever the cause.
Combustion
is strictly present tense.
When on fire
the present’s paramount.
There may have been
a meteor to blame, a comet
crashed into the far taiga,
or an errant transatlantic
burst of current
from Nikola Tesla’s lab.
It wasn’t on my mind
the moment
I exploded into flames.
I mouthed a shorthand
stripped-down prayer,
uninformed of the square miles
of matchstick evergreens flattened,
croaked it out
without a thought to
creator or crater-maker:
“Water!” I cried
in my native language,
“Water!” again,
as if anyone could hear.
I wasn’t slightly curious.
about the comet,
gas plume, God’s hand,
the stray wireless transmission,
antimatter, whatever the cause.
Combustion
is strictly present tense.
Wednesday, January 31, 2018
She Who Watches
petroglyph in the Columbia River Gorge
by Margaret Chula
Begin by thinking like a snake. Seek out shafts
of sunlight on rock face, boulder, meadow grass.
Slither through knot of thorns, past sage
with its purple haze of healing and hallucinogen.
Rout through rubble, along the path of spirit quest.
Huddle beneath basalt, sanctuary of animal dreams.
Observe lizard tracks embedded on rock—
spirit visions of antelope scorpion, and salmon.
Trace your fingers along scars of petroglyphs,
volcanic rock now settled, receptive to chisel
and the hands of seekers who leaned into cliff face
to carve out the image of their dream spirit.
Pay attention to bird calls that lead to She Who Watches,
Tsagaglalal who gazes at the mighty river, her eternal vigil.
Coil inside the spirals of her all-knowing eyes—
listen to the pulse of the river’s song.
Begin by thinking like a snake. Seek out shafts
of sunlight on rock face, boulder, meadow grass.
Slither through knot of thorns, past sage
with its purple haze of healing and hallucinogen.
Rout through rubble, along the path of spirit quest.
Huddle beneath basalt, sanctuary of animal dreams.
Observe lizard tracks embedded on rock—
spirit visions of antelope scorpion, and salmon.
Trace your fingers along scars of petroglyphs,
volcanic rock now settled, receptive to chisel
and the hands of seekers who leaned into cliff face
to carve out the image of their dream spirit.
Pay attention to bird calls that lead to She Who Watches,
Tsagaglalal who gazes at the mighty river, her eternal vigil.
Coil inside the spirals of her all-knowing eyes—
listen to the pulse of the river’s song.
Sunday, January 28, 2018
Smog
by Michael H. Brownstein
This morning
we woke to orange smog streetlamps,
in the pale blue skin of sky,
a shape of white washed shadow:
breathing became hostile
and then something fell
acid within white
chemically deranged
black blood, broken blossom.
This morning
we woke to orange smog streetlamps,
in the pale blue skin of sky,
a shape of white washed shadow:
breathing became hostile
and then something fell
acid within white
chemically deranged
black blood, broken blossom.
Either/Or
by Anita Sullivan
Frog! No!
Two assumptions in a
split skirmish.
Second stomps out first
like a fire
although they emerge
as one.
Dried oak leaf on the path
exact size,
curled, supple, back-sloped, diffident,
poised
as a Pacific Chorus Frog (wrong color)
but
not imagined
not disguised.
Yesterday, tomorrow
might have been
Frog? No!
But today equal,
no tilt.
Could blame the adolescent light
banging around among
the lichen, now exposed
in the winter oaks. Or
deep and chronic
frog-hunger
aroused under the heart-rock
keeping the balance right.
Frog! No!
Two assumptions in a
split skirmish.
Second stomps out first
like a fire
although they emerge
as one.
Dried oak leaf on the path
exact size,
curled, supple, back-sloped, diffident,
poised
as a Pacific Chorus Frog (wrong color)
but
not imagined
not disguised.
Yesterday, tomorrow
might have been
Frog? No!
But today equal,
no tilt.
Could blame the adolescent light
banging around among
the lichen, now exposed
in the winter oaks. Or
deep and chronic
frog-hunger
aroused under the heart-rock
keeping the balance right.
Ruffed Grouse
by David Chorlton
Because it lives so far
away from you and you’re unlikely
ever to see one, you won’t miss
the Ruffed grouse if it
should continue to decline in number
and eventually become extinct. You’re not
travelling to Canada just
to see the textured plumage
or the way the ruff expands in spring,
not even to explore the forest
where it lives and listen
when the wings produce a drumming
sound. The timbre
of its voice from among the trees
wouldn’t mean much to you
anyway, and even though
you know the temperatures
are rising all around you it doesn’t
occur that a bird could be calling
soon for the very last
time as if goodbye
were not a word but a high pitched call.
Because it lives so far
away from you and you’re unlikely
ever to see one, you won’t miss
the Ruffed grouse if it
should continue to decline in number
and eventually become extinct. You’re not
travelling to Canada just
to see the textured plumage
or the way the ruff expands in spring,
not even to explore the forest
where it lives and listen
when the wings produce a drumming
sound. The timbre
of its voice from among the trees
wouldn’t mean much to you
anyway, and even though
you know the temperatures
are rising all around you it doesn’t
occur that a bird could be calling
soon for the very last
time as if goodbye
were not a word but a high pitched call.
Saturday, January 27, 2018
Wednesday, January 24, 2018
Bison in Winter
by Sarah Henry
Bison thrive in winter,
with strong humps
and dense coats
like walls of fur.
A bison plows
snow seriously.
His head’s a plow,
always pushing.
He plows to eat.
A bison eats grass
mixed with snow
in the winter months
His head dips
and he snorts.
Steam rushes
through windless air.
Bison thrive in winter,
with strong humps
and dense coats
like walls of fur.
A bison plows
snow seriously.
His head’s a plow,
always pushing.
He plows to eat.
A bison eats grass
mixed with snow
in the winter months
His head dips
and he snorts.
Steam rushes
through windless air.
Sunday, January 21, 2018
The Shoal
by Edward Ahern
The shoal sour dries in wind drifts
as the leavings of the ebb come into view.
Shell piles here, sand there, rimmed by
barnacle rocks and wet-rotting weed.
Gulls and terns pick at scattered
remnants of crab and fish,
and lift dying clams high enough
to drop them onto the rocks.
The water almost, almost stops,
a hovering quiver in the shoal’s edges,
before the surge rewets the gasping buried
on its slithering way across the crest.
Men who ignore this ever-change
are trapped by it.
One or two boats a year aground,
one or two men a decade drowned.
Feeding and dying quicken with the flow,
little fish pushed across the shoal
toward waiting jaws,
birds swooping for the crippled.
Force of water rules the shoal,
which heaves its crests and shallows
to appease the ever-flowing god
who never looks back.
The water climbs man-high above the shoal,
And, stirred only by wind
fondles fish and weed and shell
until ebbing implacably into turmoil.
The shoal sour dries in wind drifts
as the leavings of the ebb come into view.
Shell piles here, sand there, rimmed by
barnacle rocks and wet-rotting weed.
Gulls and terns pick at scattered
remnants of crab and fish,
and lift dying clams high enough
to drop them onto the rocks.
The water almost, almost stops,
a hovering quiver in the shoal’s edges,
before the surge rewets the gasping buried
on its slithering way across the crest.
Men who ignore this ever-change
are trapped by it.
One or two boats a year aground,
one or two men a decade drowned.
Feeding and dying quicken with the flow,
little fish pushed across the shoal
toward waiting jaws,
birds swooping for the crippled.
Force of water rules the shoal,
which heaves its crests and shallows
to appease the ever-flowing god
who never looks back.
The water climbs man-high above the shoal,
And, stirred only by wind
fondles fish and weed and shell
until ebbing implacably into turmoil.
Canyon Music
by David Chorlton
From Spinebill, Stonechat and Sapphire
to the Leafbird, Lory and Linnet
birds are named where language
turns to music. Say Firecrest,
Jacamar, Kestrel and Kite
and we speak in the key of each call.
There’s a list that runs from the tongue:
Pelican, Mousebird and Motmot; Ostrich,
Merganser, Loon, and the letters
sing themselves together
never out of tune,
until a tree falls
followed by another, then a river
is smuggled from its bed
without water to replace it
and the world is quieter one day
than the day before
when we come to listen
and the Hermit thrush seems far
away with centuries of song
inside a few repeating notes
in a canyon’s shadow play
of sound.
From Spinebill, Stonechat and Sapphire
to the Leafbird, Lory and Linnet
birds are named where language
turns to music. Say Firecrest,
Jacamar, Kestrel and Kite
and we speak in the key of each call.
There’s a list that runs from the tongue:
Pelican, Mousebird and Motmot; Ostrich,
Merganser, Loon, and the letters
sing themselves together
never out of tune,
until a tree falls
followed by another, then a river
is smuggled from its bed
without water to replace it
and the world is quieter one day
than the day before
when we come to listen
and the Hermit thrush seems far
away with centuries of song
inside a few repeating notes
in a canyon’s shadow play
of sound.
Friday, January 19, 2018
The Politics of Watermelon
by Marissa Glover
Wait for the season
to plant—warm soil; water well.
The vine will take root.
Harvest carefully:
Yellow-brown, half-dead tendrils
means ripe for picking.
Hear a hollow thump?
Has the white belly yellowed?
With a sharp knife, cut.
Spoon out the black seeds—
fill the newspaper with them;
consider the pith.
Feast until you reach
the bitter rind; spit it out.
Use what’s left for mulch.
Wait for the season
to plant—warm soil; water well.
The vine will take root.
Harvest carefully:
Yellow-brown, half-dead tendrils
means ripe for picking.
Hear a hollow thump?
Has the white belly yellowed?
With a sharp knife, cut.
Spoon out the black seeds—
fill the newspaper with them;
consider the pith.
Feast until you reach
the bitter rind; spit it out.
Use what’s left for mulch.
Sunday, January 14, 2018
The way back
by Samara Golabuk
Tannin stains the riverbed
with the waters' carmine flow.
Strings of weeds—
undine's pleistocene strands—
point the way forward
toward bends and narrows,
and later, toward a dock
with orange buoy floats
that mark off the danger.
Soon,
there is a darkening, a bonfire,
then a casserole, and
for the morning,
coffee from the bean.
The bellow and rattle of the kettle
will wake us. The river, in our muscles now,
follows the long road to memory,
jeweled and dark.
Tannin stains the riverbed
with the waters' carmine flow.
Strings of weeds—
undine's pleistocene strands—
point the way forward
toward bends and narrows,
and later, toward a dock
with orange buoy floats
that mark off the danger.
Soon,
there is a darkening, a bonfire,
then a casserole, and
for the morning,
coffee from the bean.
The bellow and rattle of the kettle
will wake us. The river, in our muscles now,
follows the long road to memory,
jeweled and dark.
The Morning after the Fire
by Jude Cowan Montague
Two huge hares
leap like glory through the tufts.
They go left, they go right,
in search of food.
The light is quiet and golden.
One reaches the fence and waits.
The other goes past, far and fast.
Two huge hares
leap like glory through the tufts.
They go left, they go right,
in search of food.
The light is quiet and golden.
One reaches the fence and waits.
The other goes past, far and fast.
Wednesday, January 10, 2018
Prague Sonata
by Terrence Sykes
turmeric & ginger
copper early dusk
along the Vltava
faded rose moon
reluctantly tendrils across
ashened stars
autumn cicada
murmur & chant
cluttered linden grove
ancient medlar
merely staging
poetic lament
amongst branches
longing nightingale
I remember sky
turmeric & ginger
copper early dusk
along the Vltava
faded rose moon
reluctantly tendrils across
ashened stars
autumn cicada
murmur & chant
cluttered linden grove
ancient medlar
merely staging
poetic lament
amongst branches
longing nightingale
I remember sky
Sunday, January 7, 2018
we do not touch our living
half so well as elephants touch their dead
by Samara Golabuk
What staticky mud is skin. Be thou not a
germophobe, worlds are we. Biomes.
The grandmothers know, we are
moths pinned by their knowing —
eyes, lancets to the soul. Matr-
ix of flesh most modern still
goes dark with the clay, ochre
smear, the blood a marker.
A dowsing rod nicks water’s veins,
pricks tongues turned to their magic,
shapes runes in the dusky dark
of our mouths as clavichord keys bite
the winds in half, knot its spillways,
turn them toward the caverns of our hearts,
(that corded beast, Hephaestus forge),
thumb-dump, thumb-dump, some
dumb thing stunts the pumps but
there’s no water here in heaven,
we are born in the milky gray
middleway between morning and stillness,
little puddles, withered udders,
we drink and are animals together.
What staticky mud is skin. Be thou not a
germophobe, worlds are we. Biomes.
The grandmothers know, we are
moths pinned by their knowing —
eyes, lancets to the soul. Matr-
ix of flesh most modern still
goes dark with the clay, ochre
smear, the blood a marker.
A dowsing rod nicks water’s veins,
pricks tongues turned to their magic,
shapes runes in the dusky dark
of our mouths as clavichord keys bite
the winds in half, knot its spillways,
turn them toward the caverns of our hearts,
(that corded beast, Hephaestus forge),
thumb-dump, thumb-dump, some
dumb thing stunts the pumps but
there’s no water here in heaven,
we are born in the milky gray
middleway between morning and stillness,
little puddles, withered udders,
we drink and are animals together.
Squirrel
by Paul Waring
September sparks the rush:
razor-eyed sprees to stock
and store as autumn opens
for business.
Summer retires, goodbyeless,
before want-away geese
flee in formation
on damp-smoked air.
Squirrel, grounded, scoops
first falls after fuss of wind
and mob-handed rains
fleece crowds of trees.
Memory-mapped burials
in musty larders; a network
of near and far relays, stop-
start dashes that risk life
on roads as cold-stiffened
days shrink into dark; call
you back to winter’s grip
as land and lake shiver
beneath glass-sharp sheets.
Now there’s nothing to see,
do or lose sleep over. Sit tight:
save your breath.
September sparks the rush:
razor-eyed sprees to stock
and store as autumn opens
for business.
Summer retires, goodbyeless,
before want-away geese
flee in formation
on damp-smoked air.
Squirrel, grounded, scoops
first falls after fuss of wind
and mob-handed rains
fleece crowds of trees.
Memory-mapped burials
in musty larders; a network
of near and far relays, stop-
start dashes that risk life
on roads as cold-stiffened
days shrink into dark; call
you back to winter’s grip
as land and lake shiver
beneath glass-sharp sheets.
Now there’s nothing to see,
do or lose sleep over. Sit tight:
save your breath.
Perennial Petunias Weeping on a Lonely Store Corner
by Adam Levon Brown
Sugar-shocked Preamble for decadence is swung
triangularly south for the Winter greed
Ducks flock eastward, bounding telephone
wires flying towards motorway heaven
The ducks fly to the north, delving deeper into denial,
reaching for a place where hunters of vengeance cannot shoot
Premonitions of a lonely world lead one to consider a darkened
alley where light never graces soulless sidewalks of smog
Moments of clarity bring unhinged pearl avenues of death
to a roaring end, meeting mule-tide occasions of froth
Perennial seasons of corruption end in tides of gray
nuanced jubilation for the eves of convoluted joy
Sugar-shocked Preamble for decadence is swung
triangularly south for the Winter greed
Ducks flock eastward, bounding telephone
wires flying towards motorway heaven
The ducks fly to the north, delving deeper into denial,
reaching for a place where hunters of vengeance cannot shoot
Premonitions of a lonely world lead one to consider a darkened
alley where light never graces soulless sidewalks of smog
Moments of clarity bring unhinged pearl avenues of death
to a roaring end, meeting mule-tide occasions of froth
Perennial seasons of corruption end in tides of gray
nuanced jubilation for the eves of convoluted joy
Wednesday, January 3, 2018
Sanderling
by Lindy Le Coq
hyper-action birds
dance with waves at oceans edge
gleaning intently
cha-cha out with tide
about-face and quick-step in
tiny feet churning
peck in sand then up
to survey - pirouette - preen
tuck beak under wing
hyper-action birds
dance with waves at oceans edge
gleaning intently
cha-cha out with tide
about-face and quick-step in
tiny feet churning
peck in sand then up
to survey - pirouette - preen
tuck beak under wing
Sunday, December 31, 2017
The Lake
by José Stelle
The ducks must have flown,
Beating their wings in the night.
Ripples on slate and a light breeze
Cannot console the barefoot girl
Standing on the back porch,
A cup of lukewarm cocoa
In her hand.
The ducks must have flown,
Beating their wings in the night.
Ripples on slate and a light breeze
Cannot console the barefoot girl
Standing on the back porch,
A cup of lukewarm cocoa
In her hand.
Foamy Wrath
by Kerry Kelly
Ancient cliffs embrace the crushing sea's foamy wrath.
Under the misty panes of ebbing tide green weeds glide,
hovering magnificently above the sands, wedged in rock.
Majestically darting fish colour the canvas, weaving.
Spiked sweets hide in nooks; crimson and orange.
Purple stripes on transparent jellies palpate;
the sea's ballerina.
Ancient cliffs embrace the crushing sea's foamy wrath.
Under the misty panes of ebbing tide clear bags glide,
hovering magnificently above the tin cans, wedged in rope.
Majestically darting driftwood colours the canvas, soaking.
Spiked metal sinks and racks of abandoned nails rust.
Black stripes on unpleasant oils palpate;
entrapping the sea's screaming gulls.
Ancient cliffs embrace the crushing sea's foamy wrath.
Under the misty panes of ebbing tide green weeds glide,
hovering magnificently above the sands, wedged in rock.
Majestically darting fish colour the canvas, weaving.
Spiked sweets hide in nooks; crimson and orange.
Purple stripes on transparent jellies palpate;
the sea's ballerina.
Ancient cliffs embrace the crushing sea's foamy wrath.
Under the misty panes of ebbing tide clear bags glide,
hovering magnificently above the tin cans, wedged in rope.
Majestically darting driftwood colours the canvas, soaking.
Spiked metal sinks and racks of abandoned nails rust.
Black stripes on unpleasant oils palpate;
entrapping the sea's screaming gulls.
Highway T in the Kettle Moraine
by Peggy Turnbull
sky’s soft brush
gray-feathered
wet as dew
plow-etched earth
between dark
seams of grass
sturdy brown
strips of field
curve over
kettles shaped
like earth’s breast
sky’s soft brush
gray-feathered
wet as dew
plow-etched earth
between dark
seams of grass
sturdy brown
strips of field
curve over
kettles shaped
like earth’s breast
Saturday, December 30, 2017
Wednesday, December 27, 2017
Winter Scene #1
by Lynda Lambert
wintry nights
frozen Maple branches
ensnared
curled russet leaves
weaving on a silvery weft
wintry nights
frozen Maple branches
ensnared
curled russet leaves
weaving on a silvery weft
Sunday, December 24, 2017
Shine:
The Gulf Country (Northern Australia)
by Stefanie Bennett
Because happenstance
likes
to play truant
the colour
of the smoke-house
is indigo...
twirling much
as a prayer-wheel
does before
the River Wild
sucks it on
back up
a full throated
November gullet
not quieting
the Sandpiper.
Because happenstance
likes
to play truant
the colour
of the smoke-house
is indigo...
twirling much
as a prayer-wheel
does before
the River Wild
sucks it on
back up
a full throated
November gullet
not quieting
the Sandpiper.
Short-billed Dowitcher
by Lindy Le Coq
tide flat migrant flock
knee deep in muck - long straight bills
probe deeply for feed
subarctic breeder
winter coast-wetland dweller
on the way somewhere
tide flat migrant flock
knee deep in muck - long straight bills
probe deeply for feed
subarctic breeder
winter coast-wetland dweller
on the way somewhere
Turning Off the News in the Sonoran Desert
by Kristin Berger
Caught in the throat
collard dove remembers
a map south
survival script song locates tree
three a.m. blooms
above our white bed
heartsick in the arroyo
in fibers of shade
desert sage passes
all checkpoints
we sleepwalk the wash
rearranging dust
for justice.
Caught in the throat
collard dove remembers
a map south
survival script song locates tree
three a.m. blooms
above our white bed
heartsick in the arroyo
in fibers of shade
desert sage passes
all checkpoints
we sleepwalk the wash
rearranging dust
for justice.
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Ignorance
by Atul Kumar Nayyar
Deep river changes course,
Mighty mountains shift,
Live oceans
Become deadly deserts
I never knew.
Sun gets shadowed,
Earth tears own womb,
Moon possess darkness,
In twinkling stars exist fire,
I never knew.
Flowers loose fragrance,
Leaves stop swaying,
Branches cease swinging,
Live trees become pyre wood,
I never knew.
Mind betrays thoughts,
Heart it's beats,
Beings shed their skin
Body thy soul,
Oh! if I ever knew.
Deep river changes course,
Mighty mountains shift,
Live oceans
Become deadly deserts
I never knew.
Sun gets shadowed,
Earth tears own womb,
Moon possess darkness,
In twinkling stars exist fire,
I never knew.
Flowers loose fragrance,
Leaves stop swaying,
Branches cease swinging,
Live trees become pyre wood,
I never knew.
Mind betrays thoughts,
Heart it's beats,
Beings shed their skin
Body thy soul,
Oh! if I ever knew.
Sunday, December 17, 2017
Past the Expiration Date
by Steve Briske
You breathe in
They breathe out
You breathe in
They breathe out
That is the rhythm of life in the coordinated age
Assigned at birth your time to breathe
You breathe in when they breathe out
It’s all very structured
Coordinated
If it wasn’t
You could breathe in while they were breathing in
And there wouldn’t be enough room for all that synchronized inhalation at once
Humanity is packed in with no room to go or do
No room to grow or think
No room to engage or enrage
No room to enter or exit
There is only breath
You breathe in
They breathe out
You breathe in
They breathe out
Such is the rhythm of life in the coordinated age
Packed
Managed
Stale
You breathe in
They breathe out
You breathe in
They breathe out
That is the rhythm of life in the coordinated age
Assigned at birth your time to breathe
You breathe in when they breathe out
It’s all very structured
Coordinated
If it wasn’t
You could breathe in while they were breathing in
And there wouldn’t be enough room for all that synchronized inhalation at once
Humanity is packed in with no room to go or do
No room to grow or think
No room to engage or enrage
No room to enter or exit
There is only breath
You breathe in
They breathe out
You breathe in
They breathe out
Such is the rhythm of life in the coordinated age
Packed
Managed
Stale
Mary Oliver Leaves the Back Door Open
by Kristen Berger
Tell me which bird wakes first.
The meadowlark’s throated plea or the wren’s woodlot concerto,
mourning dove releasing the seam of sky from the earth
with her notes of clear sight and cant?
Wake to learn how it’s done.
How to leave yesterday’s song alone, how to clutch and release.
The harrier’s wing throws enough shadow
to find the life it needs.
Terror of sun. Blessing of thermals.
True center lives behind the breastbone.
There is no song it slices the morning with –
Soft wake of the hunt,
day, yet to live.
Tell me which bird wakes first.
The meadowlark’s throated plea or the wren’s woodlot concerto,
mourning dove releasing the seam of sky from the earth
with her notes of clear sight and cant?
Wake to learn how it’s done.
How to leave yesterday’s song alone, how to clutch and release.
The harrier’s wing throws enough shadow
to find the life it needs.
Terror of sun. Blessing of thermals.
True center lives behind the breastbone.
There is no song it slices the morning with –
Soft wake of the hunt,
day, yet to live.
Cost
Jacob Parsons
The wound is still raw
A fire ripped through yesterday
This place is muted now and alien and wrong
Only the basic shape is preserved
Like a terrible forgery abandoned
I drift through and try to keep
The silence. I am a breath in a coffin.
As my shoes scuff the sooted land
The wind picks up the unsettled ash
To scatter for a final time.
I pass an old pine that stood longer than I will,
It lies naked, still softly weeping smoke.
The tears whispering as they rise to console
Those trees still upright, the defiant, that have
Been turned into mocking self-silhouettes.
The landscape has been left monochrome
The colours inhaled
So that flames could breathe brilliance.
I can almost see it.
The bush ablaze and shouting to be noticed
And all the creatures in a frenzy to escape
Beneath the rapt eye of crow.
It was horror and choking and beauty
And it was brief but it was alive. Most alive.
For that zenith the forest gave
And gave, until it ran out of gifts.
The wound is still raw
A fire ripped through yesterday
This place is muted now and alien and wrong
Only the basic shape is preserved
Like a terrible forgery abandoned
I drift through and try to keep
The silence. I am a breath in a coffin.
As my shoes scuff the sooted land
The wind picks up the unsettled ash
To scatter for a final time.
I pass an old pine that stood longer than I will,
It lies naked, still softly weeping smoke.
The tears whispering as they rise to console
Those trees still upright, the defiant, that have
Been turned into mocking self-silhouettes.
The landscape has been left monochrome
The colours inhaled
So that flames could breathe brilliance.
I can almost see it.
The bush ablaze and shouting to be noticed
And all the creatures in a frenzy to escape
Beneath the rapt eye of crow.
It was horror and choking and beauty
And it was brief but it was alive. Most alive.
For that zenith the forest gave
And gave, until it ran out of gifts.
Saturday, December 16, 2017
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
Crows Seen in Late Afternoon
News Report: Last night a crew dispersed a large flock of crows from a downtown park.
by Paula Weld-Cary
A swarm of crows
thick as a cave wall
hundreds this afternoon
swooping, cawing, shouting
like a mob of miners in revolt.
Perhaps they speak of last week’s wages
or tell stories of the streetlights’ pale
reflections in the park downtown
where they slept until their recent eviction.
Now they circle maple trees and rooftops
deciding where they’ll go at dusk when they’ll rise
up and ride the swelling currents of the sky.
A swarm of crows
thick as a cave wall
hundreds this afternoon
swooping, cawing, shouting
like a mob of miners in revolt.
Perhaps they speak of last week’s wages
or tell stories of the streetlights’ pale
reflections in the park downtown
where they slept until their recent eviction.
Now they circle maple trees and rooftops
deciding where they’ll go at dusk when they’ll rise
up and ride the swelling currents of the sky.
Sunday, December 10, 2017
The Resistance is Green
by Aaron Conklin
Decrepit buildings strangled with ivy,
crestfallen roofs penetrated by water,
saturating then drying, corroding plaster ceilings,
and softening interior wood to rot.
I welcome the ruin of civilization’s structures,
I secretly applaud the falling of the rain.
Foundation walls eventually surrender
to the obsolete encumbrance of their impermanence,
Man’s impenetrable fortresses subsiding to a verdant victory.
I silently admire the persistent erosion of the metropolis.
Sidewalks fractured by tempered roots writhing beneath the concrete,
Tendrils of grass penetrating the undulant fissures of disintegrating driveways.
The vacant lot’s asphalt is crumbling,
amassing rainwater, and birthing vengeful vegetation.
With a burlap sack slung over my shoulder,
I herald the resistance with showering handfuls of seeds,
sown as they are thrown and sprinkled upon the soil,
I celebrate the patient revolution of the weeds.
Decrepit buildings strangled with ivy,
crestfallen roofs penetrated by water,
saturating then drying, corroding plaster ceilings,
and softening interior wood to rot.
I welcome the ruin of civilization’s structures,
I secretly applaud the falling of the rain.
Foundation walls eventually surrender
to the obsolete encumbrance of their impermanence,
Man’s impenetrable fortresses subsiding to a verdant victory.
I silently admire the persistent erosion of the metropolis.
Sidewalks fractured by tempered roots writhing beneath the concrete,
Tendrils of grass penetrating the undulant fissures of disintegrating driveways.
The vacant lot’s asphalt is crumbling,
amassing rainwater, and birthing vengeful vegetation.
With a burlap sack slung over my shoulder,
I herald the resistance with showering handfuls of seeds,
sown as they are thrown and sprinkled upon the soil,
I celebrate the patient revolution of the weeds.
Post Twilight Again
by Alan Britt
Creepers weld hinges to darkness. Sunlight corrals clouds into Leipzig Stallions nudging & bobbing for angelic attention—this herd of sunlit clouds dusted by the moon’s cataract eyelid. Patio chair ghost slumps against a white-washed shed. One creeper spirals a patchouli ribbon around the geisha thighs of a split-rail fence. Cricket removes his bandoneon, tossing its canvas case aside, & cradles the bandoneon between his knees. Below forsythia & like a stained-glass fingernail one cicada blazes octaves beyond the most esteemed pop singer. Charcoal tears smearing the sky’s canvas, a housepainter’s canvas, drip from a white tin suburban rain gutter.
Friday, December 8, 2017
Of Numerous Fires
by Carl Mayfield
The cars snared by the humans
sway in the smog
to a dubious octane waltz.
Driving from here to there
requires internal combustion,
explosions we can't hear
over the wail of Los Angeles.
A fire on the mountain
takes a while to get there,
traveling as the wind sees fit.
Trees go off like spilled
gunpowder, message still
not received, oblivious
to the earth punching back,
we lament ash and smoke
smudging the skies now moved
into abandoned kitchens.
A vague highway roar
hovers around the emptiness,
scorched hands holding keys
to a house no longer there,
soot being the only color alive,
the wind laying down to rest,
speechless and abiding.
Heartless in every gear,
cars roll between city
and ocean and all the veins
in between, always ready
for someone itching
to get back on the road,
to start the next fire.
The cars snared by the humans
sway in the smog
to a dubious octane waltz.
Driving from here to there
requires internal combustion,
explosions we can't hear
over the wail of Los Angeles.
A fire on the mountain
takes a while to get there,
traveling as the wind sees fit.
Trees go off like spilled
gunpowder, message still
not received, oblivious
to the earth punching back,
we lament ash and smoke
smudging the skies now moved
into abandoned kitchens.
A vague highway roar
hovers around the emptiness,
scorched hands holding keys
to a house no longer there,
soot being the only color alive,
the wind laying down to rest,
speechless and abiding.
Heartless in every gear,
cars roll between city
and ocean and all the veins
in between, always ready
for someone itching
to get back on the road,
to start the next fire.
Wednesday, December 6, 2017
Polynesian morning
by Stephanie V Sears
Indecision before creation
sea and sky still immersed
in each other’s reflection.
Intangible horizon veiled in
naught, beyond reach
of the defining hour.
At the combed edge of sand
water melts in a spasm
as if saying ‘at last’ and
irons out deception.
At the tip of the shoal
invisible footsteps
neither alight nor take off
but to everywhere at once.
A radiance appears where
smelted green and blue
fulfill an alien calm.
The sky catches its breath,
leaks colors and contrast,
complicates everything.
Indecision before creation
sea and sky still immersed
in each other’s reflection.
Intangible horizon veiled in
naught, beyond reach
of the defining hour.
At the combed edge of sand
water melts in a spasm
as if saying ‘at last’ and
irons out deception.
At the tip of the shoal
invisible footsteps
neither alight nor take off
but to everywhere at once.
A radiance appears where
smelted green and blue
fulfill an alien calm.
The sky catches its breath,
leaks colors and contrast,
complicates everything.
Sunday, December 3, 2017
connection drama
by Adrienne Veronese
once again i have followed winter to its natural conclusion
after one too many false starts toward this eventual spring,
am perched precariously in the fleeting sense of belonging
on the truant side of school road, late for this education
in asphalt & pavement dreams, therefore powerless
against the red-tailed hawk circling overhead,
his habitat disappearing beneath freshly poured cement
& piercing cry demanding to know what our connection is
where survival beats just as persistently at the door
of misbegotten subdivisions as his wings do
against the offshore breeze
i am collecting scattered showers for excuses
& he has taken a bride against all odds,
the crows chasing them from bull pine to ponderosa,
making sport of a chase we dismiss as territorial
without considering its implications
here, where the odds of survival make gamblers of us all
we rarely look each other in the eye
& though he is no different it seemed i caught his gaze for just a moment
while lifting his fallen feather from the underbrush
he seemed to be waiting, as errant players down rabbit holes
& other ministers of subterranean justice often do
waiting for me to define
just how
we are
connected
once again i have followed winter to its natural conclusion
after one too many false starts toward this eventual spring,
am perched precariously in the fleeting sense of belonging
on the truant side of school road, late for this education
in asphalt & pavement dreams, therefore powerless
against the red-tailed hawk circling overhead,
his habitat disappearing beneath freshly poured cement
& piercing cry demanding to know what our connection is
where survival beats just as persistently at the door
of misbegotten subdivisions as his wings do
against the offshore breeze
i am collecting scattered showers for excuses
& he has taken a bride against all odds,
the crows chasing them from bull pine to ponderosa,
making sport of a chase we dismiss as territorial
without considering its implications
here, where the odds of survival make gamblers of us all
we rarely look each other in the eye
& though he is no different it seemed i caught his gaze for just a moment
while lifting his fallen feather from the underbrush
he seemed to be waiting, as errant players down rabbit holes
& other ministers of subterranean justice often do
waiting for me to define
just how
we are
connected
Flotsam
by B. Anne Adriaens
Traipsing through driftwood and debris,
stumbling
over tarred and feathered birds
washed up on the shore,
tangled
in seaweed and old fishing nets,
among bottles and broken toys.
Plastic:
its garish colours an insult
refusing to fade, an enduring
reminder
of those things we thought we’d buried.
Traipsing through driftwood and debris,
stumbling
over tarred and feathered birds
washed up on the shore,
tangled
in seaweed and old fishing nets,
among bottles and broken toys.
Plastic:
its garish colours an insult
refusing to fade, an enduring
reminder
of those things we thought we’d buried.
Saturday, December 2, 2017
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
Lone Wolf
by Ilene Millman
No revenants climb the shoulder
of rock
only you
far from home a transient in shabby overcoat
running past all ability to breathe
busted radio collar hanging from your neck.
Last time anyone caught
even a glimpse of you prowling
the north rim of Grand Canyon, FDR was president.
How many miles crossing iron-stained cliffs
pulled by earth’s pole mineral scents
soil water blood.
On the plateau tonight, no shadows fall
there is only light
drawn out of midnight
out of daybreak’s rise
and you
hungry sore
the world narrowed down to this
as it is however it is.
No revenants climb the shoulder
of rock
only you
far from home a transient in shabby overcoat
running past all ability to breathe
busted radio collar hanging from your neck.
Last time anyone caught
even a glimpse of you prowling
the north rim of Grand Canyon, FDR was president.
How many miles crossing iron-stained cliffs
pulled by earth’s pole mineral scents
soil water blood.
On the plateau tonight, no shadows fall
there is only light
drawn out of midnight
out of daybreak’s rise
and you
hungry sore
the world narrowed down to this
as it is however it is.
