Fireflies and Yama

by Shraddhanvita Tivari

a weathered champa
falls on the ground
the skylark disappears
in the night ebony
gathering beneath the peepal
fireflies with Yama.

Vulture Ritual

by Wesley D. Sims

Buzzards congregate at dusk,
blitz a large oak tree to roost
like a bagful of black clothespins.
Morning draws them out
to perch on fence posts
around a near pasture like a village
of totems, wings spread wide
as if some mysterious ritual.
The sunshine chases away
mites that plague them.

Dying in Drift

by Sam Dixon

A dark sea falls,
ceaseless in heavy curls,
drumming the beaten sand at Cape Henlopen

as a blue-black fin lifts, hangs,
fought out like a capsized hull,
bobbing wave-lip on wave-lip,
tugged in
by the stammering, convincing shore.

Prague

 by Terrence Sykes

up in the old hotel
an uncharted country
nightingale sings amongst the garden

vltava waters flow
in silent repose
night photographer waits

stagnant crepuscular air
drags that indigo sky
through naked branches

upon staved river bank
following shadowed sun
meandering to awaiting sea

Fools’ Day

by José Stelle

Green shoots split open
Last year’s constructs 
Of horse and cow:

Fine filaments,
They rise like Astroturf
Through the brown mounds.

In the new air,
Prickly with light,
Everything conspires
To break ground.

It’s official --
The Daughter of Zeus
Has made her round.

Early Morning Fog with Chickens

by Emily Strauss​

Layers of mist rise up the steep slopes, terraces
of young rice step up, bordered by muddy paths
thick morning fog plies the flooded
paddies, wooden houses on stilts with pigs

living below. Two dozen chickens roam free
under floors, on roofs, hidden in the fields
in the early morning damp but heard,
while a mother fights to comb a girl's hair

before school, breakfast of cold rice balls
with stringy meat left from dinner.
The chickens range on bugs and crumbs
ignoring people, call, cluck, strut in the fog

a distant cry in dawn's sleep through the open
windows, the dew soaking heavy cotton quilts
bamboo floors warping in the cool
mountain air as thick as the flooded fields.

Today I heard a rooster call in someone's
back yard, fenced in a city, I remembered.

The Smell of Sand

by Emily Strauss

The city of Twenty Nine Palms coats
one dusty street
its sand smells like dry sun.
In winter the smell turns brittle
cactus spines blow against the lines
of broken fences bent south
under the prevailing gales
thorned by years of wind
that whitens the crying boards.

Next year at this time more fence
posts will split, the sand will pile higher
the sun will hurt more
this line in the sand defined by
old barbed wire.

There are none of O'Keefe's orange poppies here.

Will joshua trees survive another century?
Arms break off, cactus wrens abandon
old nest cavities— we can only stare.

Cold winter storms leave a thin frost
on palo verde leaves. The sand blows
harder, scraping the bark off acacia trees
down in the shallow arroyos that run
by the highway, smelling of friction
and a town on the edge.

Hawaiian Redux

by John Raffetto

If Hawaii runs backwards
into the big bang
then what is pushing the islands out?
The volcanic ash of developers,
fragrant white ginger
plowed under a metal foot.
Did the big bang
start the tour buses?

No Hawaii is
caught in a fishing net
tangled on black sand
closing on an apparition.

Desert Nights

by Heather Browne

Steam rose from tarred streets
and dinosaur breath
fogging
the desert sky

We drove under this
ancient moon
flickering wings
trapped
slapping
the howling night
and sinking sand

The Great Pacific Garbage Blob

by  Sarah Henry

Humans made the blob.
It’s plastic cells spread
wide as Mexico.

Tunas tire of leftovers.
Sharks mind the water.
A whale butts a jug.

A dark abyss is a trench
where urchins die.
An abyss opens when men

consume trash-filled fish.
Junk spreads through
their stomachs.

They become plastic.
We become plastic.
The blob comes ashore.

Life Sentences

by Alexander Garza

The longer the spill, the redder the earth gets,
And the more that we speak out, the lesser our sentence.

The same goes for lighters and smoke
And even not to bother with honor or hope

Or expectation. The slope
Seizes moisture and don’t forget

We’re mostly water anyway.
So when the tide comes, even the tiny ones,

At dawn under the sunny guise of afternoon,
Even the ones at night,

Be prepared by having breathed well,
Filling lungs and portraits

And release muscles tension tender
Into the sultry skies of the Gulf,

Somewhere between nadir and God,
Between oracle and shore.

4.20.19 7.16 a.m. 65 degrees

by John Stanizzi

Portraits – goldfinch in the bramble, rain on the pond,
orbits of skippers and spiders walking on water,
necessity of meditations this Holy Saturday, this rain-
dampened morning blessed, cleansed by the softest steady rain.

Lines

by Roberta Beach Jacobson

plastic litter becomes the beach

Lines

by Susan N Aassahde

snail lake blossom
court jester
forest branches stream

Lines

by Angele Ellis

purple velvet throats
spare us spare us
morning glory falls

Lines

by Christina Chin

deforestation
silt chokes overflowing
Rajang river

Lines

by Rp verlaine

another night
my shadow leaves me
to dance alone

Lines

by Hifsa Ashraf

curls of smoke
from the chimney
flying crows

Lines

by Veronika Zora Novak

3 a.m.
cherry blossoms hung heavy
with snow

Tanka

by Darrell Lindsey                              

sound of a flute
going deeper into dusk
along the river
we count the same firefly
over and over again

EQI Glacier

by Abigail Tyrrell

Lick of the iceberg.
Crystal burns to salt.
You don't need to

hide.

Bob there with the plastic.
Clash with midday sun,
body delving deeper
and deeper away from day.
(Night is colder, a frigid shelter)
Crippled kingdom;

glass castle pouring
into the sea.

Downsized

by  Ellen Chia

A case of hijacking
In nature's flight plan:
Fallen snow-garbed seraphs
Dislodged, freighted

From the
Arctic to the equator,
From the lemming-rich tundra
To a
Length = Wingspan x 5
Breath =  Wingspan x 4
Height =  Wingspan x 3
Coop of a glass tank

Bathed in neither
Night nor day,
Summer nor winter;
Where camouflage
And binocular vision
Are rendered superfluous
Against the painted
Backdrop of wintry blotches
Peering over dwarfish faux
Snow-dusted spruce trees.

On the other side
Of the glass panel,
Conveyor streams of
Gleaming patrons
Sneak at flash photography
Marvel at the pair's
Captive glory -
The snowy owls perching,
Half-squinting;
Their talons marking time
On sculpted concrete.

Mute

by Marc Carver

Everyday I wake up
born again
well almost
I tell myself this as I walk along the pilgrims path.
A woman passes with two dogs
the woman doesn't notice me but the second dog does
as I walk away he turns to me
and I stop look at him and ask him if he wants to come with  me.
His jaw starts to move as if he is talking but no words come out but he can't understand why I don't hear him
then she shouts and off he goes.

3.28.2019 8.54 p.m. 27 degrees

by John Stanizzi

Pointed tips of grass, the first to emerge this frigid spring,
origins of blades of grass in the icy water,
news that warmth will be born from the frozen darkness,
doorways opened, and the new ice and the old ice will disappear.

Animal Farm

by Ana Vidosavljevic

The fishy fish, smelly and slick,
Wriggling in your hands like a mad toy.
The fat pig, filthy and gross,
Always following the smell of food.
The naughty donkey, stubborn and stupid,
Not even once does it what you order him to do,
The bleating sheep, noisy and wooly,
They seem docile and passive, but often they disobey your commands,
The barking dog, loud and fidgety,
It can’t sit still even for a moment.
The happy canary, so yellow and clamorous.
The white rabbit, always hungry and too docile.
I wonder what it would look like not to have them and live in an apartment on the top floor of a tall building.
The peace would prevail. Persistent and boring.
The stairs and elevators would tire my legs,
And I would get fed up with all those somber tall buildings.
The noise of the city would tear my ears and I would praise my animal farm as the greatest asset.
Well, then, let me be grateful for all the filth, smells, noise, colors of my farm.
And if I forget sometimes how lucky I am, pinch me hard.
Grab a handful of mud and throw it in my face.

A Crawford County Tale

by Jean Krieg

I imagine the land speaking to me, saying
bluebirds, goldfinches and monarchs now color the sky,
black raspberry vines and goldenrod carpet the earth.
In the past, farmer's cows trod over me,
trampled the prairie grasses,
and chomped on fallen, wormy apples from young trees.
Before that, maple and shagbark hickory trees
found their footing and set down roots.
Before that, the first cabin was built in the township,
then in 1843 a young man surveyed the area,
noting gently rolling terrain,
and oak, sugar, elm, ash, and lynn (basswood) trees.
Before that, troops followed Black Hawk's trail nearby.
Before that, Canadian pioneers settled in the county,
in an area first called "Popple".
Before that, native people hunted the plentiful game,
walked valleys, ridges, and ravines,
fished from nearby creeks and streams,
and drank cool spring water.
Before that, the land was forgotten by the glaciers,
retaining the rich soil, bluffs, and vital rivers
that forever has welcomed us.

High Pressure Wild Card

by Jennifer Lagier

Rain clouds hit an atmospheric wall,
dump drizzle on Vancouver,
snow in Chicago.

Along Monterey Bay, parched chaparral
and shriveled sage concede the battle.
Storm tides slam ashore, ignorant
of faux spring, this year’s tardy winter.

Befuddled plums erupt, bare limbs
concealed within festive blossoms.
Hillsides release lupine and poppies into dry shrouds.
Wild grasses bleach blonde before our very eyes.

It’s rumor and sun glow,
a persistent high pressure ridge
rerouting downpour.

"We've gone as far as we can go"

by Abra Deering Norton

gone as far as we can go
but still we go riding 75 North
what happens when you go farther than you thought you could
what happens when you go past the road you know?
when you keep driving
into the dark
into the light
into the gray mist
when the road doesn't end
and there you are
you didn't give up
the journey found you
and so did the game
it had a surprise ending

Raptor Winds

by Philip C. Kolin

a silky maltese
weighing less than
a pile of fall leaves
runs across

the gated yard,
the freedom of air before
the guile  of winds
in a late season storm

set in; the sky not
sure what color
it will  be
how it wants to be blue

but raptor winds pounce
on the hope of calm
and turn it  biting colors
circling, blowing  leaves

away, scattering them
in harrowing directions,
the yard overtaken
with blood-red and

fearful yellow,
the backdrop for
a red-tail hawk swooping
down to carry off the dog.

Avant-Garde Writers at the End of Long Driveways

by Howie Good

Kim Kardashian has been seen texting while riding her horse along the road. The two activities inform one another. It shouldn’t happen like this. It shouldn’t happen at all. It’s 75 years after the war, and I’m still uneasy. A rhino poacher got stomped to death by an elephant and then devoured by a pride of lions. Now we want to take it further and go faster. There’s bound to be some confusion. The sun dries the ink, and with every step, people tear pieces of the fragile paper. The face becomes a landscape. We’re starting the spring off wrong.

Meditations in the Garden March 22

by Brian Glaser

The bee disappears
            into the trumpet-vine:
      forgetfulness.

Lines

by Carl Mayfield

high in the juniper
     mockingbirds
         practice

In the Hills

by Ray Greenblatt

Leftover deer stand and stare.
In the hills we wear
high leather boots in case
we kick up copperheads
sleeping off winter.
A tribe of forsythia
gathers on a hillside.
On a fence crow crouches
like  a mail pouch,
vulture spreads wings
formidable as any eagle.
Sacrilegious: tire in a field.

3.27.2019 1.21 p.m. 44 degrees

by John Stanizzi

Patent leaf rises to the surface and gets trapped in the ice,
outstretched and winter-marred like my words,
novel as amber but quicker to vanish, and the
dazzling brightness of birdsong sparkles on every branch.

March Equinox

by g emil reutter

Night sky weighty
super moon dim
obscured by pigskin
clouds. Incessant
rain marinates spring
bulbs, stems rise
from scruffy mulch
purple hue of crocus
rise up adjacent to
unadorned rose bush
folded stalks of
iris. Stark branches
of blueberry, lilac
burning bush
unruffled await their
turn as forsythia buds
clusters of yet bloomed
blue bells prepare for
arrival of humming
birds. All of this under
the weighty dim sky
of transition from
grim twilight of winter
to March equinox
assurance of existence
and rebirth.

The Morning Sun

by Ann Kestner

lifts away
the
rain
that
fell
and
yesterday evaporates.

3.26.2019 3.33 p.m. 44 degrees

by John Stanizzi

Parchment of earliest spring days over the pond,
ordinance of the heightening sun, and the algae,
needy multiplier, doubled since yesterday, and in the
domain of flowing water the minimal ripples shimmer.

Lines

by Carl Mayfield

twilight
        caught
in the crow's throat

Yamhill Creek

by Ed Higgins

Bisecting our farm, wild plum, willow
and black berry on either bank

blossoms. Early May evenings
chorus frogs startle the moonrise.

Diurnal coyote too yip down
the stars. Search the field for voles.

Here and there in the dark there’s a
great blue heron croaking its harsh call.

Easter Walk

by Mark A. Murphy

Beyond father and son,
beyond belief and the taste of Simnel
dipped in tea, we pass over
the pack-horse bridge at Eastergate
where sudden waterfalls rush
across the moor. So we draw closer
in wind and sun, past the iron
gated goddess and moss covered oak
as if to reinvent the wheel of fate.
Now our earlier romanticism
gives way to a new sense of being
as the trunks of willow

continue to divide and multiply
along the bottom of the dyke
where we trip over bramble and ivy
through the last of the Easter rain.

Lines

by Roberta Beach Jacobson

each generation
changes
the river's name

Surge Of Green

by Ed Higgins

Already past the harbinger of yellow crocus
pushing aside frost-clinging earth.

Afternoon sunlight, shafts of rising fog
pulled from the barn’s shingled roof.

The smell of warming damp earth everywhere.
Chorus frogs a cacophony at night.

The death weeds of all winter’s dry twiggy
stuff giving way to green again.

Mallards drifting between upshooting cattail.

Autumns by the Ocean

by James Croal Jackson

over dark beds of leaves
twigs and string I was full
of hope and hoping there
a remnant of vacation
a connection to the sea
perhaps the nerves
lost singing
through the night I walked
alone on sand the
dogs came barking
from the Atlantic
drenched and draped
in seaweed and I thought
of familiar love how
unbroken longing forever
intertwines in the bending
gravity of the moon

Murmuration

by Steve Straight

    “A failure to realize that a property is emergent,
     or supervenient, leads to the fallacy of division.”
      ––Issam Sinjab, astrophysicist

Two women in an old canoe
at late-winter dusk on the River Shannon,
one filming, one paddling as gradually
a matrix of dark spots roils on the horizon:
birds, starlings, by the thousands, forming
and reforming clusters of swarming shapes,
funnels and ribbons and hourglasses
folding over each other and then swirling high
in the air, still cohesive and without turbulence,
as the women laugh in awe.

It is their simultaneity that dazzles,
how a giant game of Telephone transports
the message to turn or dive with electric speed,
and as the physicists say, without the signal
degrading, in scale-free correlation,
each shift a critical transition
when they move as an intelligent cloud.

What roils them in the gloaming
as they prepare to roost, it turns out,
is usually a peregrine falcon,
the fastest animal on earth coming in low
at the edge and then shooting upward,
its blue-grey back and black head blurred
as the flock reacts as one.

These days we too sense something
coming in fast and low, coming for us
as we turn and turn in our widening gyre
of discord and tumult and strife,
and now the choice is ours.
There is safety in numbers, I suppose––
it might take her but not me––
but will we hear instead what is emerging,
or can, the greater song that says
we are but cells of a giant heart
ready to pump new blood.

3.25.2019 1.28 p.m. 48 degrees

by John Stanizzi

Presentiments in this cold wind that winter and spring have
operated together engendering warm clouds, frigid sunniness;
nascent open water, ice like frosted-glass, milfoil unfurls from the bottom,
debauched invader, raider of oxygen and space, whorling interloper.

Manila

by Christine Liwag Dixon

the monsoon wails through the branches
of the balete tree;
the birds have taken root on quieter limbs.

the tree trunk hums with the memory
of the divine,
its secrets melancholy and profound.

Flood

by James Croal Jackson

The longer I lived in my car
on the road aimless the more I
wanted to lose myself. Everywhere
was a mirror & the only way to go
was into the murk of past &
uncertainty of tomorrow. It was like
pedaling the gas for days in the mud.
Tires spinning, going nowhere.
The same me to greet at each
destination: The Grand Canyon.
Austin. Keystone Lake
in Oklahoma had drowned itself
in a Paul Klee watercolor. I
wanted its depths as my own.
The pole in the lake.
The pole in the trees.
My eyes in the lake.
My eyes in the sky.

Cruising for Tony Hoagland

by Steve Straight

We’re standing on the top deck of the Apocalypse,
Prestige Level, its wastewater fouling the sea in our wake
as off in the distance the moonlit iceberg of awareness
pokes through the surface of our comprehension,
though ninety percent of it lurks below.

Ten percent is about all we can take
yet still not enough to change our ways,
not enough to link the polar bear stranded on its tiny floe
to the steak, medium-rare, on our bone china plate,

the zooplankton ingesting the molecules of plastic bag
we used yesterday to cart home the romaine lettuce
grown in the sunny concentration camp
of the Salinas Valley,

lobsters scuttling north to cooler water
as longhorned ticks bushwhack their way
into new territory, the heroes of some other story,
while we buy clothing treated with permethrin
or spray our kids with DEET
to think ourselves safe from the viruses.

Down south, the mangroves know all this,
their roots knitted together in a fiber-optic system,
collecting and sharing data from their leaves,
doing their best to excrete excess salt or store it in their tissues,
stabilizing shorelines and taming tsunamis
until it’s all too much, even for experts.

Can you hear the musicians?
The ones asked to soothe all the passengers?
Years from now they will find one of the rosewood violins,
surprisingly pristine, and exhibit it in the Museum of Civilization.

Sa Pa Vietnam Joan Hofmann

2.26.19 4.22 p.m. 27 degrees

by John Stanizzi

Knows desire without an object of desire,
All mind and violence and nothing felt.

He knows he has nothing more to think about.
Like the wind that lashes everything at once.
                                                -Wallace Stevens
                                                -Chaos in Motion and Not in Motion

after Wallace Stevens

Petulance and ego this wind that lashes everything at once,
obstructive and deep-throated, grumbling up from the hills,
nefarious creature buffeting self-portraits into the pond’s surface,
diagrams of this shape-shifting shade, all violence and nothing felt.