by Michael H. Brownstein
The colors of the ocean
turquoise with bits of pickled sky blue,
and a blend of grape juice purple—
and then, its skin ruptures,
a sudden rash red and boiling,
a lesion bleeding rotten blood.
Sunday, August 18, 2019
Saturday, August 17, 2019
Photo Op
by Phil Huffy
The loon is not compliant
and folks who dare to try
to photograph these creatures
will find things go awry,
for acts of disappearance
are made with style and ease;
they dive beneath the water
and do not deign to please.
You’ll watch for one to surface
but don’t expect to find
it’s where your camera’s pointed,
the loon can read your mind.
The loon is not compliant
and folks who dare to try
to photograph these creatures
will find things go awry,
for acts of disappearance
are made with style and ease;
they dive beneath the water
and do not deign to please.
You’ll watch for one to surface
but don’t expect to find
it’s where your camera’s pointed,
the loon can read your mind.
Turtles
by Olivia Cyr
Jane, my college best friend, licks the back of her hand,
and closes her eyes. It’s the salt, she says. It tastes so earthy.
I say, it tastes like the saltwater, you mean. No.
She turns my palm over and licks it from the heel
to where my pinky finger begins. Like salt.
It takes me a minute to taste brininess the way that she does,
when I open my mouth and try a handful of salt water,
lapping it gently. Jane laughs, pulls me gently along.
We walk along the small, tucked cliffs above the shore,
looking out onto the Naples water.
My sandals work the backs of my ankles like sandpaper.
I stop, take them off, toss them in my drawstring bag
and step through the billions of pearls of sand and salt.
A bicycle whizzes past us, and Jane giggles. For a moment,
I think she is flirting with another pizza boy,
riding through the cobblestone valley in half-moonlight
on his way to the pizza parlor, al chiaro di luna.
But Jane grabs my elbow and squeaks.
When I look where she’s pointing, my cheeks go fat with a smile.
And suddenly we’re girls again, long before the throes
of college and career life, plucking ladybugs from each other’s hair
after swimming in the lake at camp; tanned, smooth legs akimbo
on the grass while we talked about dreading that first day of high school,
how we thought we’d much rather be squeezing lady bugs
until their plump, pearly bodies engorged, popped like little fireworks.
On the cliff, Jane pulls me, and we skid recklessly
down a sandy path that slopes between jagged rocks,
our bare feet sprinkled with bubblegum nail polish.
I land at her side, and as we come to a stop by the frothy water,
I put a hand over my sunned chest. I suddenly feel exposed
and want to run forward and scoop them up.
Baby turtles have hatched somewhere along the tiny,
bubbly waves of high tide. Five of them.
Barely minutes old, they sleepwalk, like blind little starfish,
their legs and arms tender flippers. They slog through the sand,
exhausted and oily, as it sticks to them
like granules of sugar on my grandmother’s whiskey cookies.
I pull my hand back to my mouth, lick the inside
of my wrist to taste the earth. We stand, perfectly paced monuments
on the beach, watching the turtles sluicing themselves
with water and coiling, clumsy. Beached, quintuplet sacks of flesh.
Jane is so careful to step around them, and studies their patterned trails,
divots in the sand from their pointed flippers.
The carapace of each turtle is a slick skin sectioned out into squares.
These are leatherbacks, I tell Jane from across the way.
We watch them, crouched over their trails, as they race to the ocean,
wiggling rhythmically, resting every few paces.
I imagine them dehydrated, desperate to reach the water,
breathing heavily with newborn aches all through the tender
curves of their limbs and I’m frightened for them.
I could pluck them from the race and carry them to the water,
past the hermit crabs and sand spiders. I want to mother them,
careful and reasonable. Now, my niece is almost five but
I think about my sister nursing her all those times
when she was a baby, when my sister was just twenty-two
and I was writing for newspapers. I worry about when
she will curl up beside her mother like that again,
and know it will be because someone broke her heart,
and not out of instinctual hunger. She will be desert rocky and mica strong,
and glistening all at once. She will be seventeen
squishing ladybugs on picnic blankets while I write in Colmar
with capfuls of Veuve Clicquot at my little kitchen table.
When she was just weeks old, I cradled her at my own chest
while she gazed up through pink eyelids, both of us full of wonder.
Nursing became fluid, it became competitive for her—her little mouth
grazing over her mother’s skin, my sister just running
her hands over her face so she could look at her, not wanting
to let her eat even when she fussed. That hard, rudimentary pit
in her body of motherhood would make her too eager
for her baby to stay that small.
I though often about how she would grow up,
how she would have to move and shift and be, without leaning on us,
and it choked me, that thought of growing— of them each learning
the push and pull of the other. How will my sister do it?
Jane and I have been in Naples for two weeks,
and Jane has finished her book review, while I have buoyed myself
on the beach in the evenings and written in broken Italian
on paper napkins. It is our last night here;
I dig my hands hard into the beach sand,
encouraging the nest of turtles to go, go, go.
And they move without assistance.
Where’s their mother? Won’t they drown, you think?
Jane shimmies her bottom into the sand next to me,
but the babies have dipped into the tide.
Jane, my college best friend, licks the back of her hand,
and closes her eyes. It’s the salt, she says. It tastes so earthy.
I say, it tastes like the saltwater, you mean. No.
She turns my palm over and licks it from the heel
to where my pinky finger begins. Like salt.
It takes me a minute to taste brininess the way that she does,
when I open my mouth and try a handful of salt water,
lapping it gently. Jane laughs, pulls me gently along.
We walk along the small, tucked cliffs above the shore,
looking out onto the Naples water.
My sandals work the backs of my ankles like sandpaper.
I stop, take them off, toss them in my drawstring bag
and step through the billions of pearls of sand and salt.
A bicycle whizzes past us, and Jane giggles. For a moment,
I think she is flirting with another pizza boy,
riding through the cobblestone valley in half-moonlight
on his way to the pizza parlor, al chiaro di luna.
But Jane grabs my elbow and squeaks.
When I look where she’s pointing, my cheeks go fat with a smile.
And suddenly we’re girls again, long before the throes
of college and career life, plucking ladybugs from each other’s hair
after swimming in the lake at camp; tanned, smooth legs akimbo
on the grass while we talked about dreading that first day of high school,
how we thought we’d much rather be squeezing lady bugs
until their plump, pearly bodies engorged, popped like little fireworks.
On the cliff, Jane pulls me, and we skid recklessly
down a sandy path that slopes between jagged rocks,
our bare feet sprinkled with bubblegum nail polish.
I land at her side, and as we come to a stop by the frothy water,
I put a hand over my sunned chest. I suddenly feel exposed
and want to run forward and scoop them up.
Baby turtles have hatched somewhere along the tiny,
bubbly waves of high tide. Five of them.
Barely minutes old, they sleepwalk, like blind little starfish,
their legs and arms tender flippers. They slog through the sand,
exhausted and oily, as it sticks to them
like granules of sugar on my grandmother’s whiskey cookies.
I pull my hand back to my mouth, lick the inside
of my wrist to taste the earth. We stand, perfectly paced monuments
on the beach, watching the turtles sluicing themselves
with water and coiling, clumsy. Beached, quintuplet sacks of flesh.
Jane is so careful to step around them, and studies their patterned trails,
divots in the sand from their pointed flippers.
The carapace of each turtle is a slick skin sectioned out into squares.
These are leatherbacks, I tell Jane from across the way.
We watch them, crouched over their trails, as they race to the ocean,
wiggling rhythmically, resting every few paces.
I imagine them dehydrated, desperate to reach the water,
breathing heavily with newborn aches all through the tender
curves of their limbs and I’m frightened for them.
I could pluck them from the race and carry them to the water,
past the hermit crabs and sand spiders. I want to mother them,
careful and reasonable. Now, my niece is almost five but
I think about my sister nursing her all those times
when she was a baby, when my sister was just twenty-two
and I was writing for newspapers. I worry about when
she will curl up beside her mother like that again,
and know it will be because someone broke her heart,
and not out of instinctual hunger. She will be desert rocky and mica strong,
and glistening all at once. She will be seventeen
squishing ladybugs on picnic blankets while I write in Colmar
with capfuls of Veuve Clicquot at my little kitchen table.
When she was just weeks old, I cradled her at my own chest
while she gazed up through pink eyelids, both of us full of wonder.
Nursing became fluid, it became competitive for her—her little mouth
grazing over her mother’s skin, my sister just running
her hands over her face so she could look at her, not wanting
to let her eat even when she fussed. That hard, rudimentary pit
in her body of motherhood would make her too eager
for her baby to stay that small.
I though often about how she would grow up,
how she would have to move and shift and be, without leaning on us,
and it choked me, that thought of growing— of them each learning
the push and pull of the other. How will my sister do it?
Jane and I have been in Naples for two weeks,
and Jane has finished her book review, while I have buoyed myself
on the beach in the evenings and written in broken Italian
on paper napkins. It is our last night here;
I dig my hands hard into the beach sand,
encouraging the nest of turtles to go, go, go.
And they move without assistance.
Where’s their mother? Won’t they drown, you think?
Jane shimmies her bottom into the sand next to me,
but the babies have dipped into the tide.
Wednesday, August 14, 2019
Synchrony
by Jeff King
Five geese
southbound descend
flit-flash, stealth-plash—
splash splash splash splash splash—
across the surface of a catfish pond,
sycamore-encircled,
to rest their wings momentarily and drink
then rise again
to evanesce northwestward,
the ascending sun tincturing the skyline
burnished copper to salmon pink.
Five geese
southbound descend
flit-flash, stealth-plash—
splash splash splash splash splash—
across the surface of a catfish pond,
sycamore-encircled,
to rest their wings momentarily and drink
then rise again
to evanesce northwestward,
the ascending sun tincturing the skyline
burnished copper to salmon pink.
Sunday, August 11, 2019
composition for spring on the salton sea
by Ginny Short
the salton sea is silvercalm
haze rises up masking
the interface of sea and sky
a lone boat moored offshore
mirrored on a pewter surface
the salton sea is silvercalm
haze rises up masking
the interface of sea and sky
a lone boat moored offshore
mirrored on a pewter surface
How
by Abby Park
Stepping on the mountain gave me a fresh breath of air
mother nature victoriously stood; it
Took lots of love and time
but people don’t understand the goodness rooted in the mountain
except for this one not so modern man,
It was how he loved it not why.
Stepping on the mountain gave me a fresh breath of air
mother nature victoriously stood; it
Took lots of love and time
but people don’t understand the goodness rooted in the mountain
except for this one not so modern man,
It was how he loved it not why.
Wednesday, August 7, 2019
Sunday, August 4, 2019
6.10.19
6.22 a.m.
48 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Periods of heavy rain are forecast for later today; the
offices of sun and sky are transformed to overcast clouds, and the
nominal steam rising from the water drifts like a flimsy ghost
dreaming, as the polliwogs leap farther out of the water every day.
Periods of heavy rain are forecast for later today; the
offices of sun and sky are transformed to overcast clouds, and the
nominal steam rising from the water drifts like a flimsy ghost
dreaming, as the polliwogs leap farther out of the water every day.
Recovery
J. Conrad Smith
The field went back wild,
sedges and grasses—foxtail barley,
bluestem, bromes, and goosegrass—
thick and teeming from the ferns
and deer tongue and the clusters of perfume
bold violet bright gold alfalfa blooms
burgeoning in the pitches and gradual crooks
that snaked down to the bulrush, cattails, and
buttonbush canopied by cottonwoods standing
escort to the waterway that at night swelled
with fireflies like cityscapes from a dark-side orbit
that spread and saturated the booming thirty acres
with a chatoyant sheet, a bioluminous fog mocking
the milky way for being so static and boring and
tame as the glittering tides formed conga lines
to recede back into the tiny creek that—unlike the
cold implements that would snatch it all back—
only ran when it rained.
The field went back wild,
sedges and grasses—foxtail barley,
bluestem, bromes, and goosegrass—
thick and teeming from the ferns
and deer tongue and the clusters of perfume
bold violet bright gold alfalfa blooms
burgeoning in the pitches and gradual crooks
that snaked down to the bulrush, cattails, and
buttonbush canopied by cottonwoods standing
escort to the waterway that at night swelled
with fireflies like cityscapes from a dark-side orbit
that spread and saturated the booming thirty acres
with a chatoyant sheet, a bioluminous fog mocking
the milky way for being so static and boring and
tame as the glittering tides formed conga lines
to recede back into the tiny creek that—unlike the
cold implements that would snatch it all back—
only ran when it rained.
Wednesday, July 31, 2019
Stippling Winter Starling
by J. Conrad Smith
Dancing pepper specks
live limbs shimmering
tiny black flashes
bustling gypsy universes
shifting shapes of
hundred-year giants
distracting from nude
bones hollow holding
bent charcoal veins
stumbling skyward crossing
cold melancholy canvas
dreaming daily of
Dodger blue gobs
neon moss catching
cotton tufts falling
past cherry-stem toes—
more permanent tenants
that won't just
flicker and pass
Dancing pepper specks
live limbs shimmering
tiny black flashes
bustling gypsy universes
shifting shapes of
hundred-year giants
distracting from nude
bones hollow holding
bent charcoal veins
stumbling skyward crossing
cold melancholy canvas
dreaming daily of
Dodger blue gobs
neon moss catching
cotton tufts falling
past cherry-stem toes—
more permanent tenants
that won't just
flicker and pass
Sunday, July 28, 2019
6.7.19
9.16 a.m.
70 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Preternatural this coupling and flying, this double-decker dragonfly, from an
otherworld, spectacular, and apparently tasty – the swallows dive trying to catch them
napping where they rest, bumping reed or water, and whether dragonfly or
damselfly, everyone is moving, flying, wary, trying their best to stay alive.
Preternatural this coupling and flying, this double-decker dragonfly, from an
otherworld, spectacular, and apparently tasty – the swallows dive trying to catch them
napping where they rest, bumping reed or water, and whether dragonfly or
damselfly, everyone is moving, flying, wary, trying their best to stay alive.
In the pond
by JS Absher
the mountain
is not a mountain
it is mountain with dragonfly
with overhanging trees
their leaves spotted yellow
with early summer heat
in the pond the mountain
is a spotted leaf
in the pond the mountain
does not have a backside
it is all there before us
dragonfly and leaf
under the mountain the minnow
cannot see the mountain
the mountain
is not a mountain
it is mountain with dragonfly
with overhanging trees
their leaves spotted yellow
with early summer heat
in the pond the mountain
is a spotted leaf
in the pond the mountain
does not have a backside
it is all there before us
dragonfly and leaf
under the mountain the minnow
cannot see the mountain
Wednesday, July 24, 2019
Crow Dead in a Field
by Ray Greenblatt
Crow on a fence
his eye a knothole,
spreading wings so black
they blend with tree branches above
that rise gracefully,
his observation static
as the length of fence itself.
Crow’s caw a nail down
a sheet of metal,
catching sifted light
his gray-blues of darkness
become parts of machinery,
long rusting like crow's blood
matting ruffled feathers.
Crow on a fence
his eye a knothole,
spreading wings so black
they blend with tree branches above
that rise gracefully,
his observation static
as the length of fence itself.
Crow’s caw a nail down
a sheet of metal,
catching sifted light
his gray-blues of darkness
become parts of machinery,
long rusting like crow's blood
matting ruffled feathers.
Sunday, July 21, 2019
Wednesday, July 17, 2019
Pieces of Eight
by Marc Carver
We went into the tropic garden
butterflies everywhere
I put my hands out hoping one would land on me
but none did.
Then half way round a big one came down and sat on her shoulder
like a parrot
I thought it would fly off but it stayed with her all the way round.
When we got to the exit she looked at me
If we take it out there it will die I said
So eventually I got it off and it just sat on a leaf.
Of course all it wanted was to die
I see that now
We went into the tropic garden
butterflies everywhere
I put my hands out hoping one would land on me
but none did.
Then half way round a big one came down and sat on her shoulder
like a parrot
I thought it would fly off but it stayed with her all the way round.
When we got to the exit she looked at me
If we take it out there it will die I said
So eventually I got it off and it just sat on a leaf.
Of course all it wanted was to die
I see that now
Sunday, July 14, 2019
Lines
by Sister Lou Ella Hickman, I.W.B.S.
breath of pond water
thunder lightning flash rain stops
an old frog singing
breath of pond water
thunder lightning flash rain stops
an old frog singing
Morning Glories
by Michael Estabrook
In my wife's garden at dusk bats flit above
azaleas and forsythias while below in the final
moments of twilight paper-thin pink morning glories glow
In my wife's garden at dusk bats flit above
azaleas and forsythias while below in the final
moments of twilight paper-thin pink morning glories glow
Late Spring Under Red Pines
by Marguerite María Rivas
In the Northeast Kingdom,
illuminated
by a rising gibbous moon,
the deep night-sky is swept
clean of clouds
by gusts and gales
that animated them
in the first place.
In the Northeast Kingdom,
illuminated
by a rising gibbous moon,
the deep night-sky is swept
clean of clouds
by gusts and gales
that animated them
in the first place.
Saturday, July 13, 2019
Three Photographs
Karla Linn Merrifield
From out of the Fog
Glubokaya Bay, Kamchatka Peninsula
On the Beach
Kamen Ariy Island, Bering Sea
Remains of War
Attu Island, the Aleutians
Wednesday, July 10, 2019
Shadows on Moss
by Patrick Flynn
I remember these woods from a photograph of snow
around a stage; overgrown space that became forest.
Moss shadows cover the pines,
at night, as a cold shiver speaks now:
pinesap hardens each winter. Branches chill.
Leaves scatter or blow downwind; sap,
like flesh and blood once captured this band
for a magazine shoot; pages yellowing
before turning brown in a closeted room.
They live in weeks past sleeves of shelved music:
before it snowed all day, on harvest fields
outside, walking over broken branches
fallen on a bowed, mildewed stage,
performance worn in the faded pictures;
old songs and melodies snapping
like frozen ice in a field; songs fading now
as the moon crosses the night sky; shadows
and moss on one side of a tree, in light
that does not meet the snow anymore.
I remember these woods from a photograph of snow
around a stage; overgrown space that became forest.
Moss shadows cover the pines,
at night, as a cold shiver speaks now:
pinesap hardens each winter. Branches chill.
Leaves scatter or blow downwind; sap,
like flesh and blood once captured this band
for a magazine shoot; pages yellowing
before turning brown in a closeted room.
They live in weeks past sleeves of shelved music:
before it snowed all day, on harvest fields
outside, walking over broken branches
fallen on a bowed, mildewed stage,
performance worn in the faded pictures;
old songs and melodies snapping
like frozen ice in a field; songs fading now
as the moon crosses the night sky; shadows
and moss on one side of a tree, in light
that does not meet the snow anymore.
Sunday, July 7, 2019
Land Inventory
by Janet Sunderland
The county appraiser sent a questionnaire
and a topography map, wants me to update
our family farm value, asks about changes
to acreage or productive capability of the land.
Ignore the appraiser’s flat gray map, see,
instead, the sapphire sky, white-striped
like zebras in Grandpa's National Geographic.
Airplanes flying high to Africa or China maybe.
Walk the field of milo - stacked red heads
flaming on emerald stalks. With one swift swing
of the machete, sever a sunflower’s head,
wipe sticky black resin from the blade –
The map won't show Great Simba, now rotted
to a termite's meal, won’t capture hazy afternoons
we picked gooseberries, or our clamber up
the peeling bark to ride a gray husk to India.
Legends lie hidden in the appraiser’s map—stories
held by the wind, borne by cottonwood seeds, flung
free, as we were all flung free. Memory our property.
I sign the questionnaire; affirm no changes to the land.
The county appraiser sent a questionnaire
and a topography map, wants me to update
our family farm value, asks about changes
to acreage or productive capability of the land.
Ignore the appraiser’s flat gray map, see,
instead, the sapphire sky, white-striped
like zebras in Grandpa's National Geographic.
Airplanes flying high to Africa or China maybe.
Walk the field of milo - stacked red heads
flaming on emerald stalks. With one swift swing
of the machete, sever a sunflower’s head,
wipe sticky black resin from the blade –
The map won't show Great Simba, now rotted
to a termite's meal, won’t capture hazy afternoons
we picked gooseberries, or our clamber up
the peeling bark to ride a gray husk to India.
Legends lie hidden in the appraiser’s map—stories
held by the wind, borne by cottonwood seeds, flung
free, as we were all flung free. Memory our property.
I sign the questionnaire; affirm no changes to the land.
An Oasis in the Badlands
by Jan Wiezorek
Breeze swallows the bend
in the back along a meadow
slope where wild sorghum
blows seed foggy
unseen except
that hazy
white reaching out
in a single pan of blue,
thinning in strands
and hollows.
Breeze swallows the bend
in the back along a meadow
slope where wild sorghum
blows seed foggy
unseen except
that hazy
white reaching out
in a single pan of blue,
thinning in strands
and hollows.
Hempstead Plain
by Janet M. Powers
This flat space, exposed to shifting sky,
horizon unrelieved by undulating hills,
their blue haze always comfortably there,
is vulnerable to ocean, more so to man.
Here, the land makes no requirements
(no place not to put a road);
parkways stripe this space flowing east,
plaid counterparts move north to south.
Walking the waste places of Long Island:
risk no hill-born child should take,
except chance set her down, and dice
dictate a half-hour daily walk.
What she sees are fences, anchor chain,
to keep some people out, others in,
yet trap the rich effluvia of their lives:
bags, newsprint, plastic-lidded cups.
Three old pines escape man's hand
in both the planting and the cutting,
huddle next to garbage humped with
used concrete. The sign says "No Dump."
A clean trill breaks the hum of engines
purring down the six-lane avenue:
bird I've never met, gold and red
and gray, gives out a brave new song.
This flat space, exposed to shifting sky,
horizon unrelieved by undulating hills,
their blue haze always comfortably there,
is vulnerable to ocean, more so to man.
Here, the land makes no requirements
(no place not to put a road);
parkways stripe this space flowing east,
plaid counterparts move north to south.
Walking the waste places of Long Island:
risk no hill-born child should take,
except chance set her down, and dice
dictate a half-hour daily walk.
What she sees are fences, anchor chain,
to keep some people out, others in,
yet trap the rich effluvia of their lives:
bags, newsprint, plastic-lidded cups.
Three old pines escape man's hand
in both the planting and the cutting,
huddle next to garbage humped with
used concrete. The sign says "No Dump."
A clean trill breaks the hum of engines
purring down the six-lane avenue:
bird I've never met, gold and red
and gray, gives out a brave new song.
Wednesday, July 3, 2019
Two Places
by Ron Geigle
moist heat haze
Uber
then Penn Station
the mass stinking
Platform 2
dead sprint
soot life
fingernails
hard in the pine needle slope
motionless
glacier water
30 feet below
lapping
on dead fir
moist heat haze
Uber
then Penn Station
the mass stinking
Platform 2
dead sprint
soot life
fingernails
hard in the pine needle slope
motionless
glacier water
30 feet below
lapping
on dead fir
Sunday, June 30, 2019
Ant's Prayer
by Inguna Brože
Lord Almighty called man
Please listen, if you can-
Don't step on me,
Don't crush a snail,
Don't burn us alive
We want to survive,
Don't pin a butterfly on nail,
Don't catch a bird
To hear it sing,
Don't try to clip its wings,
Don't, don't, don't...
Amen
Lord Almighty called man
Please listen, if you can-
Don't step on me,
Don't crush a snail,
Don't burn us alive
We want to survive,
Don't pin a butterfly on nail,
Don't catch a bird
To hear it sing,
Don't try to clip its wings,
Don't, don't, don't...
Amen
Pelicans
by Karla Linn Merrifield
Eight white pelicans
__ __ __
__ __ __ __ __
a code of beauty
we cannot crack
until the last bird dies
two more
__ __
one more
__
Eight white pelicans
__ __ __
__ __ __ __ __
a code of beauty
we cannot crack
until the last bird dies
two more
__ __
one more
__
Wednesday, June 26, 2019
Yarrow
by Jeff Burt
The yarrow blooms
in Las Vegas neon yellow
a gaudy sign
inviting bees
to stop, to spend
a little something
The yarrow blooms
in Las Vegas neon yellow
a gaudy sign
inviting bees
to stop, to spend
a little something
Sunday, June 23, 2019
Inside Marengo Cave
by Aspen Duscha
Rocks drip from the ceiling,
Water falls upon the ground.
Blind crayfish swim with fish that cannot see,
In a pool that is in the hard floor.
Remains of ancient life remain,
The tracks of a pecarry,
The fossilized bones of pecarry and bison who died in Marengo cave,
The claw prints of bears who used to slumber in the cave.
Rocks drip from the ceiling,
Water falls upon the ground.
Blind crayfish swim with fish that cannot see,
In a pool that is in the hard floor.
Remains of ancient life remain,
The tracks of a pecarry,
The fossilized bones of pecarry and bison who died in Marengo cave,
The claw prints of bears who used to slumber in the cave.
Northern Frontier (At the Smith River)
by Felix Purat
In the farthest reaches
The redwoods begin to lose their red
Shade by shade, they shrivel to a withered grey
They beg to dissipate with striking haste
As the great nothingness of Oregon looms ahead
A warm canyon diverts the churning Smith River
From its hidden, skyward source
Doomed by a strange acceleration
The canyon of red rock steadily parts ways
The coastal climes are soon left behind.
In the farthest reaches
The redwoods begin to lose their red
Shade by shade, they shrivel to a withered grey
They beg to dissipate with striking haste
As the great nothingness of Oregon looms ahead
A warm canyon diverts the churning Smith River
From its hidden, skyward source
Doomed by a strange acceleration
The canyon of red rock steadily parts ways
The coastal climes are soon left behind.
5.15.19
7.07 a.m.
44 degrees
by John Stanizzi
Pleasant to hear the chipping sparrow in the cedar every day --
you are overfull of your own vibrant song
which lights up the coarse tree, your negligible size no matter,
you singer of singers, the branches movement
dallies when you take flight, making the still pond seem to ripple.
Pleasant to hear the chipping sparrow in the cedar every day --
you are overfull of your own vibrant song
which lights up the coarse tree, your negligible size no matter,
you singer of singers, the branches movement
dallies when you take flight, making the still pond seem to ripple.
Wednesday, June 19, 2019
Tinney Creek
by Anda Peterson
runs past
and under
the TJ Max
CVS, Target.
Tinney Creek
travels back and forth
from Tampa Bay
rises and falls with the tide
feeds turtles, Egrets, Muscovy ducks
who seek tiny prawns, mud crabs, bugs
in its water.
Along its muddy bank grow
feathery Java fern
rounded Moneywort
verdant, abundant
despite the insults of a styrofoam cup,
a plastic bag,
as if this was still The Garden.
Here between snaking highways,
Dollar Stores
gas stations
condo buildings
Taco Bells
Hawk has built a nest atop the pole
advertising Beer and Low-Cost Cigarettes.
Mallard makes the high grass along the parking lot
her nursery.
Crow claims the power lines.
runs past
and under
the TJ Max
CVS, Target.
Tinney Creek
travels back and forth
from Tampa Bay
rises and falls with the tide
feeds turtles, Egrets, Muscovy ducks
who seek tiny prawns, mud crabs, bugs
in its water.
Along its muddy bank grow
feathery Java fern
rounded Moneywort
verdant, abundant
despite the insults of a styrofoam cup,
a plastic bag,
as if this was still The Garden.
Here between snaking highways,
Dollar Stores
gas stations
condo buildings
Taco Bells
Hawk has built a nest atop the pole
advertising Beer and Low-Cost Cigarettes.
Mallard makes the high grass along the parking lot
her nursery.
Crow claims the power lines.
Sunday, June 16, 2019
la vie en gris
by Terrence Sykes
meandering into dusk
shadows of the seine
followed – haunted me
empty quays
compasslessly
labyrinth of narrow rue
waning moon found me tiring
so I folded the map
& sipped the last cognac
meandering into dusk
shadows of the seine
followed – haunted me
empty quays
compasslessly
labyrinth of narrow rue
waning moon found me tiring
so I folded the map
& sipped the last cognac
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 12, 2019
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.
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.
Sunday, June 9, 2019
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
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 5, 2019
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.
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.
Sunday, June 2, 2019
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
