by Miriam Sagan
It still surprises me
on a city street
how no one
crashes in to me, and I
avoid their feet—
cinquefoil on the mountaintop
blooms in its crevices
and a yellow throated green warbler
sways on a branch
Wednesday, August 1, 2018
Sunday, July 29, 2018
Ancient Ones
by Laara C Oakes
Spiraling up from the deep
in a whirlwind of slurry,
wakes a mighty force
born from power and fury.
Vernal fire cracks winter ice.
Atomic halation.
Stellar combustion.
Beginning creation.
Spiraling up from the deep
in a whirlwind of slurry,
wakes a mighty force
born from power and fury.
Vernal fire cracks winter ice.
Atomic halation.
Stellar combustion.
Beginning creation.
Inspecting the Damage
by John Grey
I’m a friend to the lost
so farewell, alders, cedars.
My breath is a bell-tower
ringing silently.
Day’s sad light spreads
to include the few
Douglas firs not dragged away.
Suffering, pain,
echo of a buzz-saw,
bitterness,
everything oily to the touch,
senses at the crossroads,
hemlocks, moss, maidenhair,
mud-spattered grass, mushrooms –
the wreckage of yesterday’s logging –
scorched earth unveils its meaning.
I’m a friend to the lost
so farewell, alders, cedars.
My breath is a bell-tower
ringing silently.
Day’s sad light spreads
to include the few
Douglas firs not dragged away.
Suffering, pain,
echo of a buzz-saw,
bitterness,
everything oily to the touch,
senses at the crossroads,
hemlocks, moss, maidenhair,
mud-spattered grass, mushrooms –
the wreckage of yesterday’s logging –
scorched earth unveils its meaning.
Brown Field in Summer
by Taylor Graham
All this dead bio-mass still standing – shoulder-
high wild oats over a thickly woven pad of vetch
and clover the nitrogen-fixers, bull-thistle
crowned in spiky purple blossom in May,
beloved of goldfinch. By June, stiff and brown,
flammable. Also foxtail and rip-gut brome, bane
of passing creatures. But the phoebe still
finds insects in this sunburnt jungle, the turkeys
lead their chicks through, pecking who knows
what. Spring green has spent its seed;
the annuals’ life after death, to come again
next year, for goldfinch, turkey, phoebe.
All this dead bio-mass still standing – shoulder-
high wild oats over a thickly woven pad of vetch
and clover the nitrogen-fixers, bull-thistle
crowned in spiky purple blossom in May,
beloved of goldfinch. By June, stiff and brown,
flammable. Also foxtail and rip-gut brome, bane
of passing creatures. But the phoebe still
finds insects in this sunburnt jungle, the turkeys
lead their chicks through, pecking who knows
what. Spring green has spent its seed;
the annuals’ life after death, to come again
next year, for goldfinch, turkey, phoebe.
Wednesday, July 25, 2018
"The dog and I climb the hill,"
by Eliza Mimski
The dog and I climb the hill,
The crepuscular light, twilight,
The birds with their consonants, their vowels.
The dog stops and smells the trees,
Drunk on their elixir.
The dog urinates
To say how much he loves them.
The tree is a bird planted in the ground.
Its wings are branches.
The tree is dark brown lush,
Shadow maker.
The light shifts,
The sky begins to close
As we make our way up the hill.
The dog and I climb the hill,
The crepuscular light, twilight,
The birds with their consonants, their vowels.
The dog stops and smells the trees,
Drunk on their elixir.
The dog urinates
To say how much he loves them.
The tree is a bird planted in the ground.
Its wings are branches.
The tree is dark brown lush,
Shadow maker.
The light shifts,
The sky begins to close
As we make our way up the hill.
Sunday, July 22, 2018
Ninety-five Days
by David Chorlton
The last time was a sprinkle.
Just enough
to tease flowers
out of the saguaro, and to wet
the air for arriving
doves.
We don’t know
when we turn a faucet
where the water comes from
any more, while on the mountain
cholla needles shine
with thirst.
It’s been ninety-five
dawns with scarcely
a cloud. But it helps to be
an animal to know
how dry the days have been:
to wake
at dusk and wander. To remember
hidden springs. And when
they no longer flow
to climb
up to the ridgeline
and lick salt
from the rim of the moon.
The last time was a sprinkle.
Just enough
to tease flowers
out of the saguaro, and to wet
the air for arriving
doves.
We don’t know
when we turn a faucet
where the water comes from
any more, while on the mountain
cholla needles shine
with thirst.
It’s been ninety-five
dawns with scarcely
a cloud. But it helps to be
an animal to know
how dry the days have been:
to wake
at dusk and wander. To remember
hidden springs. And when
they no longer flow
to climb
up to the ridgeline
and lick salt
from the rim of the moon.
Haiku to the Moon
by Terrence Sykes
constellations play
kickball with the moon across
that vast milky way
constellations play
kickball with the moon across
that vast milky way
Weed-Eating One's Own
by Taylor Graham
He aligns the swath straight as a pike
through headhigh wild oats and needled
brome. Assurance of long acquaintance.
The sun’s a little bit late to hit the swale,
the cusp of summer. A far extent of field
unmowed, uncharted though he knows
every foot of it. He could have paid
to have this done, but that would
neglect the connection a piece of ground
is owed, the owner always in its debt.
He aligns the swath straight as a pike
through headhigh wild oats and needled
brome. Assurance of long acquaintance.
The sun’s a little bit late to hit the swale,
the cusp of summer. A far extent of field
unmowed, uncharted though he knows
every foot of it. He could have paid
to have this done, but that would
neglect the connection a piece of ground
is owed, the owner always in its debt.
Wednesday, July 18, 2018
The Koi
by Michael Medler
She lies,
lumpish and still
where the heron killed her,
entangled in her own entrails,
beyond swallow size.
Her sallow scales glint
in angular morning light. One
eye might catch the quick
of clouds, the other gazing
down where she left eggs
for spring. She gapes,
wavers in ripples, torn
where water falls, coasting
in sublime ugliness. Not
even food for the bird;
just kill. Just where her time
let her lie. Just there.
She lies,
lumpish and still
where the heron killed her,
entangled in her own entrails,
beyond swallow size.
Her sallow scales glint
in angular morning light. One
eye might catch the quick
of clouds, the other gazing
down where she left eggs
for spring. She gapes,
wavers in ripples, torn
where water falls, coasting
in sublime ugliness. Not
even food for the bird;
just kill. Just where her time
let her lie. Just there.
Sunday, July 15, 2018
The Bench Behind Stone Hall
by Shannon Donaghy
I wonder who it was that decided
That we should get to glimpse the Meadowlands
Beyond the suburbs of Little Falls
And just before the sprawling skyline
Over the sawed-off necks of cedar trees
Heads somewhere by the street down below
I sit a bit to the side of all that
Where the trees are still intact
Oaks and birches and underbrush
The bench where a mother racoon
Has been rumored to sit
After sifting through the garbage
There’s so little room for all this up here
Deer lingered outside my window last year
Leaning like billy-goats against
The sloping rocks of Clifton’s cliffs
I guess we’re all too busy
Gawking at the city lights
Out there in the mountainous middle distance
To notice the massacre
I wonder who it was that decided
That we should get to glimpse the Meadowlands
Beyond the suburbs of Little Falls
And just before the sprawling skyline
Over the sawed-off necks of cedar trees
Heads somewhere by the street down below
I sit a bit to the side of all that
Where the trees are still intact
Oaks and birches and underbrush
The bench where a mother racoon
Has been rumored to sit
After sifting through the garbage
There’s so little room for all this up here
Deer lingered outside my window last year
Leaning like billy-goats against
The sloping rocks of Clifton’s cliffs
I guess we’re all too busy
Gawking at the city lights
Out there in the mountainous middle distance
To notice the massacre
My Tiny Bit of Green
by Azrael Tseng
On Earth Day I plant a tiny sapling
in a nice spot with lots of sun and space.
It looks so skinny, such a fragile thing --
I wonder why the teachers clap and praise.
“You kids are like this tree-to-be -- so small,
but you are both the future of this Earth.
Now learn this most crucial lesson of all --
replant, retell the story of its birth.”
I do as my teacher says and water
my tiny sapling every day with care.
I do it for the ones who don’t bother
but sometimes I cry out loud, "It’s not fair!"
“It’s only because there are those like you
who do their bit to help save our planet,
that we still have a chance to start anew,
undo the bad by those who began it.”
Well, I started this tiny bit of green,
and although it may not seem very much,
it adds a splash of color to the scene --
in twenty years it'll be too tall to touch.
If only it makes it. I go one day,
heavy watering can hanging from an arm,
to find them all cut down and thrown away --
all we planted with their tree-to-be charm.
Where warm soft grass once fluffed under our feet,
now splayed lumpy earth like churned up porridge.
Growling from the fenced-off grounds of concrete,
dozers prowl like guard dogs to discourage.
But the part that really makes my heart sink?
The sign out front reads -- ‘Future Builders Inc.’
Written by Azrael Tseng on 23/04/2017, inspired by the sight of his second-graders planting sapling for agriculture.
On Earth Day I plant a tiny sapling
in a nice spot with lots of sun and space.
It looks so skinny, such a fragile thing --
I wonder why the teachers clap and praise.
“You kids are like this tree-to-be -- so small,
but you are both the future of this Earth.
Now learn this most crucial lesson of all --
replant, retell the story of its birth.”
I do as my teacher says and water
my tiny sapling every day with care.
I do it for the ones who don’t bother
but sometimes I cry out loud, "It’s not fair!"
“It’s only because there are those like you
who do their bit to help save our planet,
that we still have a chance to start anew,
undo the bad by those who began it.”
Well, I started this tiny bit of green,
and although it may not seem very much,
it adds a splash of color to the scene --
in twenty years it'll be too tall to touch.
If only it makes it. I go one day,
heavy watering can hanging from an arm,
to find them all cut down and thrown away --
all we planted with their tree-to-be charm.
Where warm soft grass once fluffed under our feet,
now splayed lumpy earth like churned up porridge.
Growling from the fenced-off grounds of concrete,
dozers prowl like guard dogs to discourage.
But the part that really makes my heart sink?
The sign out front reads -- ‘Future Builders Inc.’
Written by Azrael Tseng on 23/04/2017, inspired by the sight of his second-graders planting sapling for agriculture.
Monks' Garden
by Terrence Sykes
fig shadows & apothecary roses
sprawl & almost
consume & reconstruct
ancient greenhouse ruins
bees flourished contentedly
amongst saliva & rosemary
countless healing herbs
outlined that enclave
comfrey once
healed bones & wounds
now twists upon
broken beams
seemingly now only
divine intervention could
resurrect this sacred
abandoned garden
fig shadows & apothecary roses
sprawl & almost
consume & reconstruct
ancient greenhouse ruins
bees flourished contentedly
amongst saliva & rosemary
countless healing herbs
outlined that enclave
comfrey once
healed bones & wounds
now twists upon
broken beams
seemingly now only
divine intervention could
resurrect this sacred
abandoned garden
Wednesday, July 11, 2018
Caw
by Amanda Eagleson
This cool wet April
this damp delay
spreads the Still Creek Roost
a murder of grey sky
Until May
black feathers, feet, and beak
In June we nest.
Sunday, July 8, 2018
Capture This
by Jules Henderson
Wild jasmine and gardenia arrest the senses,
and the shores of Haleiwa are crowded with cliff-diving natives.
Rain cascades down walls of molecules that hide themselves in sun rays;
we are heathens but we breathe in their mana, assuming it is ours to claim.
(Still, this is not appropriation)
Sleet grey lava stone whispers prophecies to cherry hibiscus:
Next year at this timethe water will be too toxic to drink.
In the sand, our fingers mimic Cezanne’s strokes to capture this fleeting moment—
why is life a canvas only
to those who bow
humbly to the heart?
Pele either creates or destroys; she does not preserve.
We take our cues from her to fashion our days
and dance like sphinx inside plumerias in search of wine.
Wild jasmine and gardenia arrest the senses,
and the shores of Haleiwa are crowded with cliff-diving natives.
Rain cascades down walls of molecules that hide themselves in sun rays;
we are heathens but we breathe in their mana, assuming it is ours to claim.
(Still, this is not appropriation)
Sleet grey lava stone whispers prophecies to cherry hibiscus:
Next year at this timethe water will be too toxic to drink.
In the sand, our fingers mimic Cezanne’s strokes to capture this fleeting moment—
why is life a canvas only
to those who bow
humbly to the heart?
Pele either creates or destroys; she does not preserve.
We take our cues from her to fashion our days
and dance like sphinx inside plumerias in search of wine.
An Australian summer
by James Aitchison
Grieving hills,
Your silky trees consumed by fire.
In the angry afternoon
The heat strangles a breeze at birth,
And the wild night claims
The leavings of the day.
Grieving hills,
Your silky trees consumed by fire.
In the angry afternoon
The heat strangles a breeze at birth,
And the wild night claims
The leavings of the day.
How Can You Keep A Weather Eye Out If You Can’t See?
by Jeff Bernstein
It is just one murky Vineyard night:
cinnamon swirls of fog droplets collect
everywhere like transparent cotton candy
spun on a machine of twisted oaks
and brown leaves as they strain
and lisp over Up-Island roads.
Lighthouses signal sadly across
the Sound but no one watches
anyhow. Light chop slaps
the few fishing boats still tied up
at Dutcher Dock, two old cobraheads
sputter above the parking lot
and a single light burns
inside the lobster pound.
It is just one murky Vineyard night:
cinnamon swirls of fog droplets collect
everywhere like transparent cotton candy
spun on a machine of twisted oaks
and brown leaves as they strain
and lisp over Up-Island roads.
Lighthouses signal sadly across
the Sound but no one watches
anyhow. Light chop slaps
the few fishing boats still tied up
at Dutcher Dock, two old cobraheads
sputter above the parking lot
and a single light burns
inside the lobster pound.
Wednesday, July 4, 2018
Gulf Branch
by Ben Nardolilli
Spring approaches, it is warm enough
To crawl through the wide open drain pipe
And listen to the traffic going overhead
The run has lost its icy cover,
Water flows around our shadows as we balance
Over the rocks that are moss-free for now
On the other side, we look up at the white
Spaces between the tree branches,
They shelter us with the end of all expression
Spring approaches, it is warm enough
To crawl through the wide open drain pipe
And listen to the traffic going overhead
The run has lost its icy cover,
Water flows around our shadows as we balance
Over the rocks that are moss-free for now
On the other side, we look up at the white
Spaces between the tree branches,
They shelter us with the end of all expression
Sunday, July 1, 2018
Copper River Salmon,
Best in Alaska
by Sarah Henry
It must be hard to be a salmon,
mouthed by a bear
and dragged to the woods
or caught by men
with fishing boats,
thwacked against the sides.
Times are tough
when eagles screech
and dip too low.
Luck and instinct
lure them
as the river swarms
with millions running
to their summer
destination.
Over a wave,
one salmon leaps
a single arc of possibilities.
It must be hard to be a salmon,
mouthed by a bear
and dragged to the woods
or caught by men
with fishing boats,
thwacked against the sides.
Times are tough
when eagles screech
and dip too low.
Luck and instinct
lure them
as the river swarms
with millions running
to their summer
destination.
Over a wave,
one salmon leaps
a single arc of possibilities.
Afternoon at Rockaway, Oregon
by Daniela Lorenzi
At last the fog is lifting.
Its echo hangs in the air—
a haze over sand and water
refracting tepid sunlight; now
the waves that boom
to shore glint silver, a never-
ending attack and retreat
a thousand icicles
skipping on the crests.
At last the fog is lifting.
Its echo hangs in the air—
a haze over sand and water
refracting tepid sunlight; now
the waves that boom
to shore glint silver, a never-
ending attack and retreat
a thousand icicles
skipping on the crests.
Wednesday, June 27, 2018
"when I was 9 years old"
by Stephen A. Rozwenc
when I was 9 years old
I played Mohawk Indian
hide and seek
creeping
among the comforting shadows
of forest trees
and the lacy silhouettes
of ferns
longing for grace
now I’m a 73 year old expat
who has fled
an angry withering
culture
that offers schoolchildren
in schools
as human sacrifices
to appease
merciless gun manufacturing gods
when I was 9 years old
I played Mohawk Indian
hide and seek
creeping
among the comforting shadows
of forest trees
and the lacy silhouettes
of ferns
longing for grace
now I’m a 73 year old expat
who has fled
an angry withering
culture
that offers schoolchildren
in schools
as human sacrifices
to appease
merciless gun manufacturing gods
Sunday, June 24, 2018
In the Desert
by Carl Mayfield
thirty-seven drops of rain
have reminded
the cholla cactus
what color is for
thirty-seven drops of rain
have reminded
the cholla cactus
what color is for
"At the bend, a flamenco cry erupted"
by Margarita Serafimova
At the bend, a flamenco cry erupted.
An invisible rooster, proud with the midday light,
robbed my pulse,
and I looked for confirmation at the man
who was working there.
At the bend, a flamenco cry erupted.
An invisible rooster, proud with the midday light,
robbed my pulse,
and I looked for confirmation at the man
who was working there.
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
Pelagic
by Karla Linn Merrifield
Do not say
the tide goes out
rather it falls
coral reef appears
another
another
secreted shoals
exposed
as turquoise retreats
to horizon-deep blue
I follow
shearwaters
flying the ebb
Do not say
the tide goes out
rather it falls
coral reef appears
another
another
secreted shoals
exposed
as turquoise retreats
to horizon-deep blue
I follow
shearwaters
flying the ebb
Sunday, June 17, 2018
"I saw the belly of a bird of prey"
by Margarita Serafimova
I saw the belly of a bird of prey –
dappled as a clear sky with cirrocumulus.
She possessed the inner law.
I saw the belly of a bird of prey –
dappled as a clear sky with cirrocumulus.
She possessed the inner law.
Cable Crossing
by Gary Lark
I stop at the cable crossing hole
when light just touches
the top of the canyon.
I slip down the bank under the trees
to the liquid emerald
and roll cast to the dimples
of rising trout.
They pay little attention
to my muddler or mayfly.
I set the fly rod down.
This deep green world
turns to magic at twilight
and I give in.
The fish jump and roll
as I breathe the living air.
I will be here at seventeen
and seventy, life washing
through me, this small infinity,
the experience of one.
I stop at the cable crossing hole
when light just touches
the top of the canyon.
I slip down the bank under the trees
to the liquid emerald
and roll cast to the dimples
of rising trout.
They pay little attention
to my muddler or mayfly.
I set the fly rod down.
This deep green world
turns to magic at twilight
and I give in.
The fish jump and roll
as I breathe the living air.
I will be here at seventeen
and seventy, life washing
through me, this small infinity,
the experience of one.
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
Wild Water
by Victoria Doerper
Water rockets
Round boulders
Tight pressed
In pockets of cliff,
Falling heedless
In spume and thunder
Pounding down,
Surging under
Broken limbs,
Bounding up,
Flowing on again
Strong as a silver
Scour of gravel,
Silt sculpting rock,
Building up a mantle
Of remembrance
In deposits along
The further banks,
Signs that once
Water had a wild
Encounter
With constraint
But left behind
Less than what
She kept
And carried
Forward.
Water rockets
Round boulders
Tight pressed
In pockets of cliff,
Falling heedless
In spume and thunder
Pounding down,
Surging under
Broken limbs,
Bounding up,
Flowing on again
Strong as a silver
Scour of gravel,
Silt sculpting rock,
Building up a mantle
Of remembrance
In deposits along
The further banks,
Signs that once
Water had a wild
Encounter
With constraint
But left behind
Less than what
She kept
And carried
Forward.
Sunday, June 10, 2018
Haiku At Poinsett Bridge No. 1
by Matthew Banash
Crows laugh in the elms
At jokes I don’t get-
Caw caw caw
Crows laugh in the elms
At jokes I don’t get-
Caw caw caw
Around the Bend
by Gary Lark
We fished the south fork
for bullhead catfish
or steelhead in the winter
but seldom for trout.
I decided it was time to explore.
June, before it got too warm,
I headed up river,
looking for water on BLM
or Forest Service land,
somewhere not posted.
On the map Cow Creek
makes a big loop
before joining the river.
I walk railroad ties
away from civilization,
catch a couple of trout,
nothing to get excited about,
when a sweet aroma
filters through the trees.
I follow, find some tiger lilies.
Though perfect in their own right,
it's not them.
Down more ties, around a bend,
the scent invades me,
tunnels into my cells.
There it is, wild azalea
in full bloom, filling the world
with its heavenly essence.
In the pantheon of aromas,
it could shoulder aside
gardenia and honeysuckle.
Wild azalea, unmatched.
We fished the south fork
for bullhead catfish
or steelhead in the winter
but seldom for trout.
I decided it was time to explore.
June, before it got too warm,
I headed up river,
looking for water on BLM
or Forest Service land,
somewhere not posted.
On the map Cow Creek
makes a big loop
before joining the river.
I walk railroad ties
away from civilization,
catch a couple of trout,
nothing to get excited about,
when a sweet aroma
filters through the trees.
I follow, find some tiger lilies.
Though perfect in their own right,
it's not them.
Down more ties, around a bend,
the scent invades me,
tunnels into my cells.
There it is, wild azalea
in full bloom, filling the world
with its heavenly essence.
In the pantheon of aromas,
it could shoulder aside
gardenia and honeysuckle.
Wild azalea, unmatched.
Wednesday, June 6, 2018
Hummer Sunset
by Mike McCormick
Emerald stars
Erupt from sun
Orbit juniper
Scatter like comets
When yucca shadows
Grow long talons
Emerald stars
Erupt from sun
Orbit juniper
Scatter like comets
When yucca shadows
Grow long talons
Sunday, June 3, 2018
Deodar Cedar
by Jack King
I have three trunks
like a fork
aimed straight at the sky.
I climb the air.
My limbs reached out for a hand
to hold,
but never found one so kind.
The only one of my kind,
For all I can see.
I stand taller than all around,
They never knew the reason for my height
was because of my bite on an old sewage pipe
deep beneath the grass and pavement. Shit
was my secret
ingredient.
I have three trunks
like a fork
aimed straight at the sky.
I climb the air.
My limbs reached out for a hand
to hold,
but never found one so kind.
The only one of my kind,
For all I can see.
I stand taller than all around,
They never knew the reason for my height
was because of my bite on an old sewage pipe
deep beneath the grass and pavement. Shit
was my secret
ingredient.
Raging Earth, Soothing Sea
by Maria DePaul
The ground quakes before me,
The islands overflow with fire.
I am Pelehonuamea,
Hawaii’s Volcanic mother.
I devour the archipelago
With towers of ash.
I rage at human stains on the
Landscape, erasing every trace.
Men flee to my basaltic shores,
To meet the goddess of the sea.
My sister Namakaokahi cools
Raging sands with soothing waters.
The ground quakes before me,
The islands overflow with fire.
I am Pelehonuamea,
Hawaii’s Volcanic mother.
I devour the archipelago
With towers of ash.
I rage at human stains on the
Landscape, erasing every trace.
Men flee to my basaltic shores,
To meet the goddess of the sea.
My sister Namakaokahi cools
Raging sands with soothing waters.
Binghamton June
by Matthew Johnson
In summer,
The wide, brushstroke Catskill daylight
Never bothers the farm girls tending their gardens,
Or the mountain men, hiking the valleys
And streams of the Hudson River.
In summer,
The clouds coiling ‘round the Catskills
Suffocate the sun, and spill autumn,
For in that low-hanging, morning June mist,
There’s plenty of 50-degree days to be found.
In summer,
The wide, brushstroke Catskill daylight
Never bothers the farm girls tending their gardens,
Or the mountain men, hiking the valleys
And streams of the Hudson River.
In summer,
The clouds coiling ‘round the Catskills
Suffocate the sun, and spill autumn,
For in that low-hanging, morning June mist,
There’s plenty of 50-degree days to be found.
Wednesday, May 30, 2018
Grass Bends with the Smoothness of Blue Jay Dreams
by Adam Levon Brown
Pliant grass bends with the softened wind
and submerges sorrow with the blackened
soil of faith and healing
Dwarf’s Beard lichen soothes the bones
of pain and whisks away phantoms of
night-molded loneliness
Palpable minnow-shine supplants
misery with Pine memories in essences
of elation and delight
Love permeates the broken twilight
of sadness and overwhelms the heart
with everlasting fortitude
Feathers of a Blue-Jay pirouette
down into the pond in renaissance fashion,
creating ripples of satisfaction
Pliant grass bends with the softened wind
and submerges sorrow with the blackened
soil of faith and healing
Dwarf’s Beard lichen soothes the bones
of pain and whisks away phantoms of
night-molded loneliness
Palpable minnow-shine supplants
misery with Pine memories in essences
of elation and delight
Love permeates the broken twilight
of sadness and overwhelms the heart
with everlasting fortitude
Feathers of a Blue-Jay pirouette
down into the pond in renaissance fashion,
creating ripples of satisfaction
Sunday, May 27, 2018
Favoured Island
by Joanna M. Weston
a ferry sails into harbour
on its reflection
while mountains
rise into burning skies
and Douglas firs shake
cones on our heads
farm-stands litter
the winding roads
where crags reach
to tidal points
and bundled roses
open gates built
out of driftwood
for a tourist Canon
a ferry sails into harbour
on its reflection
while mountains
rise into burning skies
and Douglas firs shake
cones on our heads
farm-stands litter
the winding roads
where crags reach
to tidal points
and bundled roses
open gates built
out of driftwood
for a tourist Canon
The Catch of the Day
by Matthew David Laing
Acidic falling drops of concentrated
reptilian poison, splurging over tinted
glass windshields, wipers
melting and sticking like chewing gum.
The metal doors warp and buckle,
a child screaming from the back seat.
Geysers of waste and plastic
toppling over onto acres of sturdy pine,
filling the soil with chemicals, rot
and fusion of the environment with human
venom and excrement.
Once an uncharted emerald and sapphire vastness,
is home to the seagulls stooping over
the salty sea to the east – the fishing trolleys
lay silent and empty to the west, waiting
for the century’s catch of the day.
Acidic falling drops of concentrated
reptilian poison, splurging over tinted
glass windshields, wipers
melting and sticking like chewing gum.
The metal doors warp and buckle,
a child screaming from the back seat.
Geysers of waste and plastic
toppling over onto acres of sturdy pine,
filling the soil with chemicals, rot
and fusion of the environment with human
venom and excrement.
Once an uncharted emerald and sapphire vastness,
is home to the seagulls stooping over
the salty sea to the east – the fishing trolleys
lay silent and empty to the west, waiting
for the century’s catch of the day.
Silent Circles
by Emily Strauss
i.
the Redtail hawk is hardly seen against the cliff
wings held stiff for the up-drafts, only his shadow
circles over us, we duck and flinch instinctively
ii.
the moon is voiceless yet we denote by design
a female presence, pale, wan, fragile, a distant
ideal circling at night, a ghost in gauzy dress
iii.
the field sprayer turns around the center well
once a day, wheels pass silently, herds of deer
arrive at dusk to lick droplets from the alfalfa
iv.
dark black vultures, a kettle, slowly pass over
ready to slip lower, testing the state of a vole
lying under sage, bloody teeth marks dripping
i.
the Redtail hawk is hardly seen against the cliff
wings held stiff for the up-drafts, only his shadow
circles over us, we duck and flinch instinctively
ii.
the moon is voiceless yet we denote by design
a female presence, pale, wan, fragile, a distant
ideal circling at night, a ghost in gauzy dress
iii.
the field sprayer turns around the center well
once a day, wheels pass silently, herds of deer
arrive at dusk to lick droplets from the alfalfa
iv.
dark black vultures, a kettle, slowly pass over
ready to slip lower, testing the state of a vole
lying under sage, bloody teeth marks dripping
Saturday, May 26, 2018
Sunday, May 20, 2018
"Out of the sunset light"
by Margarita Serafimova,
Out of the sunset light,
a brown flame arose.
A falcon placed herself above her hunger.
Out of the sunset light,
a brown flame arose.
A falcon placed herself above her hunger.
Fragile Thing
by Lynda McKinney Lambert
Before daylight
lone black crow lands on swaying tree tops
high above rushing waters of the creek
crow’s voice hollers out
sharp staccato jabs, high-pitched notes
mingled with swift moving water
Canadian geese
build nests on flat rocks
beside a torrent of white-water
near Rhododendron bushes
super stars, each of them
magnificent blooming wall of flowers
before dawn this morning
Life happens slowly
like growth of lavender-pink
Rhododendron blossoms
smallest details
hundreds of them
wide open
everything in sync
a fragile thing.
Before daylight
lone black crow lands on swaying tree tops
high above rushing waters of the creek
crow’s voice hollers out
sharp staccato jabs, high-pitched notes
mingled with swift moving water
Canadian geese
build nests on flat rocks
beside a torrent of white-water
near Rhododendron bushes
super stars, each of them
magnificent blooming wall of flowers
before dawn this morning
Life happens slowly
like growth of lavender-pink
Rhododendron blossoms
smallest details
hundreds of them
wide open
everything in sync
a fragile thing.
Heron Mathematica
by Michael Medler
If you've strayed
too close to the coterminous
of rock, of river, a chaos
of green water may pull
you in. You may crack
the ragged plane of air.
The heron will loop
down, though, a cosine
arc drawn on a silver
of sky. He will
save you; the parallels
of his slender legs
withstand the flood.
Step back and stop.
If you've strayed
too close to the coterminous
of rock, of river, a chaos
of green water may pull
you in. You may crack
the ragged plane of air.
The heron will loop
down, though, a cosine
arc drawn on a silver
of sky. He will
save you; the parallels
of his slender legs
withstand the flood.
Step back and stop.
Wednesday, May 16, 2018
Sand Dunes
--from “The Snow Man," Wallace Stevens
by Emily Strauss
One should have the mind of water
to understand the Bitter River (Amargosa)
as it sinks into the wash and reappears
eleven miles downstream under willows
half hidden from the sun, avoiding sand dunes
and tracks of vehicles that climb like lizards.
The mind of water feels the heat of evaporating
pools, a constriction of mud, a thickening
into dirt as the river digs through hidden
channels underground, seeping, dripping
in cracks, lightless cavities it has forged
where we see only dry beds carved against
sandstone during rare summer floods. Then it
tires of hiding and pours for ten minutes, the mind
of water a living memory of rushing angst
in its haste to prove that bitter was only a lack
of momentum and rain is the shimmering soul
of water revealed once a year under black clouds.
One should have the mind of water
to understand the Bitter River (Amargosa)
as it sinks into the wash and reappears
eleven miles downstream under willows
half hidden from the sun, avoiding sand dunes
and tracks of vehicles that climb like lizards.
The mind of water feels the heat of evaporating
pools, a constriction of mud, a thickening
into dirt as the river digs through hidden
channels underground, seeping, dripping
in cracks, lightless cavities it has forged
where we see only dry beds carved against
sandstone during rare summer floods. Then it
tires of hiding and pours for ten minutes, the mind
of water a living memory of rushing angst
in its haste to prove that bitter was only a lack
of momentum and rain is the shimmering soul
of water revealed once a year under black clouds.
Sunday, May 13, 2018
Sakura
by Deanie Roman
Cherry blossoms fall from the trees.
Petals, confetti-like flutter on the breeze.
Faded pink, edged with brown; wind-scattered across the ground.
Ribbons of blossoms dress the street; transforms the gutter at my feet.
Cherry blossoms fall from the trees.
Petals, confetti-like flutter on the breeze.
Faded pink, edged with brown; wind-scattered across the ground.
Ribbons of blossoms dress the street; transforms the gutter at my feet.
Slide Effects
The Blue Mountains, NSW Australia
by Stefanie Bennett
I hang my hat where
the oxygen’s lean
and cows
come home
in single file...
where nothing’s out
to prove a thing
but the believing
that’s behind
the green gate.
I hang my hat where
the oxygen’s lean
and cows
come home
in single file...
where nothing’s out
to prove a thing
but the believing
that’s behind
the green gate.
Sunday, May 6, 2018
Japanese Crow
by Deanie Roman
Crow looms on a wire,
watches, waits,
and menaces
passers-by;
his caw strident.
Crow looms on a wire,
watches, waits,
and menaces
passers-by;
his caw strident.
Osprey Fishing
by Wesley D. Sims
An osprey soars in circles migrating
up the cove, bright white underside
gleaming in the sun. It spies movement,
begins descending in a cone spiraling down
twenty yards until it clarifies the target,
draws in brown-barred wings and plunges
head down, accelerating as it dives.
Hits the water head first cratering plumes
outward, quickly pumps its wet wings
against the water to lift off straight up,
grasping a bass in its talons. It rises
fifty feet aiming toward the tree line.
Its reward wriggles, struggles to escape
the sharp claws as the osprey continues
its ascent and lights a high sycamore limb,
pinning its prey while it begins to dissect
the fresh meal with its curved eagle beak.
An osprey soars in circles migrating
up the cove, bright white underside
gleaming in the sun. It spies movement,
begins descending in a cone spiraling down
twenty yards until it clarifies the target,
draws in brown-barred wings and plunges
head down, accelerating as it dives.
Hits the water head first cratering plumes
outward, quickly pumps its wet wings
against the water to lift off straight up,
grasping a bass in its talons. It rises
fifty feet aiming toward the tree line.
Its reward wriggles, struggles to escape
the sharp claws as the osprey continues
its ascent and lights a high sycamore limb,
pinning its prey while it begins to dissect
the fresh meal with its curved eagle beak.
blue river
by Michael Estabrook
The golden eagle swoops down,
the sun blazing off its wings,
lands beside
the blue river, and watches me
with one black immobile eye
as I stand alone
on the bank and fish.
The golden eagle swoops down,
the sun blazing off its wings,
lands beside
the blue river, and watches me
with one black immobile eye
as I stand alone
on the bank and fish.
