As simple as that

by Ajay Kumar

Water makes no sound, friendly petioles
pardon leaves which flavor the wind green.

Message of crow echoes, torch by torch.
A bird of sound alone, a small bird by sound,
flies from the mountains of that side-

rubber rubber rubber mountains mountains
rubber rubber rubber rubber mountains rubber
rubber palm bananas bananas palm rubber
          pole                               pole     
road road road road road road road road road
canal canal canal canal canal canal canal canal
road road road road road road road road road
      pole                                       pole
wall gate gate wall wall wall wall wall wall
drumsticks                         coconut coconut
hibiscus tulsi                         tobacco   coconut
                                              well neem
                                          coconut coconut

-to the coconuts of this side, a fossil of a song
from the east to the west is a kingfisher,
a piece of cloud stuck in his throat, whitening it.

The trinity of coconuts sways, in memory
of a fulfilling wind, in extinction of right-angles,
all curving & moving, the white-throat drops
an anchovy, like punctuation, like leaves falling
in alliteration

Can It Be?

by Gary Beck

Dogwood is blooming everywhere.
Daffodils are blooming everywhere.
A scrawny cherry tree
is working like wild
to put out its aroma.
Daffodils are blooming everywhere.
Dogwood is blooming everywhere.

December

by Michael H. Brownstein

Snow fell on white rose petals,
the way too early blossoms of mulberry,
and spun webs upon gardens of lilies.
The sky opened itself to summer,
earth crunched open with warmth,
the roses opened their mouths to the sun,
one mulberry began to ripen among miscolored Ieaves,
and three lilies spread their wings.
Seventy degrees, an easy wind,
warm swamps of what had been snow,
and we put away our winter clothes again,
headed out to the field of stone edges,
green brown moss, evergreens,
and wild flowers that did not know any better.

"then there are"

by Stephen A. Rozwenc

then there are
those long frigid winter nights
when the shivering mind desperately resorts to cold calculation
for warmth

perception becomes beatified delusion
and crucial explanation
of why
riparian New England snowscapes
swath moonlit snow’s creamy vellum
with iridescent comforters of thermal profusion

movement becomes meditation
a restless Chi of wind moans hotter eroticism
up through the back pasture
sailing disbelief like a ghost schooner
its barely audible foredeck jib a filigree powdery swirl

more resolute abstinence tacks across a hillside meadow
pausing only
to marvel at the rusted hay baler
and its half emerging halo of snow
inviting reckless deer to feed
on heavenly light
instead of ragged strips of hemlock bark

a pearly necklace of enterprising stonewall
belies the edgy hill’s diffident proposal
of fire clamoring inside ice
and a runway back to blissful heat
and the blessed Pleiades within our DNA

Australian bushfires

by James Aitchison

They say the smoke has reached Chile.
Not just the smoke from our blazing forests,
But the smoke from lost firefighters and townsfolk,
And thousands of lost homes,
And five hundred million wild animals,
And cattle and sheep and bold horses
Burned alive in once-lush paddocks.

They say the smoke is toxic.  It is not. 
It is sacred.

Mimicry

by Michelle Ainslie

Two purple hooks
curl into a promise
to the male wasp’s urge;

its plum body
pulsating on yellow
again
and
again.

Flower to
flower,

the wasp
relentless
in his pursuit;

the orchid -
blooming.

From Ocean Triptych

by KB Ballentine

III.

California coast — mystery of rock and water —
froth spumes, soars — whirlpools eddy the sand.
Seaweed tossed and withering, shearwaters skim
teal and turquoise while fly fishers wait, wading
swirling edges. Salt stings, shells and broken glass
  flashing through the shingle.

Trajectories #8

by David Chorlton

Against a sky wiped clean of every memory
a Red-tailed hawk hangs on a thread
of sunlight, while behind him is a kestrel
dipping and looping in a hundred
arabesques. Below them
Sunday’s rooftops lie at rest, with brunch
and lunch and football games continuing
and a weekly round-up of the news
consigned to silence. The kestrel’s
quick as a lawyer’s tongue;
the hawk is big but can’t negotiate
the curves the kestrel can. There’s no telling
where it ends. The facts come slowly
but they come. Without a lot
of decoration, just the intricate maneuvers
a diplomat is master of. There’s truth
and lies and every nuance in between,
so much work to figure out
who’s right. Or not, when the light
shines so brightly on the struggle
and the powerful wings
steer the hawk in his defeat
away.

Lines

by Veronika Zora Novak

cradled
by a peacock's cry . . .
full moon

Here

by Andrew Hutto

is a Florida scrub jay
on the shell of a gopher tortoise
in the Juniper Prairie.

They walk alongside the
trumpet vines
and saw palmetto.

Lines

by Marilyn Ward

long night
the broken branch
a crow turns into

Daybreak

by Beverly Summa

Bent blades of Shenandoah and beard grass reflect
morning’s blue-green light under shimmering coats
of late winter frost.  The red fox turns her head at the fleeing sound
--a nimble-footed field mouse erupts through the thread hairs
of her ears and warms the blood of curious nostrils.
The mouse disappears beneath the snow.
Hunger guides a knife’s edge concentration as her kits
stir and stretch in her belly.  She pauses, waits.

Lines

by Veronika Zora Novak

Kawarthas
a wolf's deep winter tracks
rewritten

Lines

by Susan N Aassahde

deer gypsy broom
snow well
hoof trench pickle

Garden in October

by Jeanne Shannon

Leaves of the honey locust
floating down,
a cold, gold rain.

But still
two green leaves
on the Tree of Heaven.

Lines

by Maria DePaul

Foraging at dusk
Coyotes howling
Last call of Autumn

Erotic Slugs

by Eric Fisher Stone

Globs of butter, wet goblins, they rub
mouths lubed on blue lichen,
bellies grinding slow rivers
over humid mud, glugging air,
slugs measured in slimy lust
for dew, hedonist pleasure-monks,
paths slick with carnal lard, joy swelled
in oily organs, jellying hearts
gorged on Earth’s heaping gift.

Bushland

by Judith Steele

Trunks of Eucalypts lean towards one another,
whisper with leathery leaves
Young Casuarinas draw black needles
on pale blue sky.
Sturt Peas flame in the dust
Pig Cactus creeps in hollows
Dam water is brown, ducks are brown
between blue-green bushes
and blue-green scent of bushland.

Lines

by Carl Mayfield

i.
sandhill cranes too high to see

ii.
willow branch after the sparrow

iii.
horned owl swooping as low as he has to

Upon a Pile of Bear Dung

by Pepper Trail

Chestnut-brown dough of digestion
Polished husks of acorn, torn flesh of apple
Autumn’s abundance tumbled in that barrel of body
The dross left with nonchalance upon the path
All goodness taken in, made a robe of fat against the cold
But not yet ready for sleep, the October bear
Wanders the brambles, finds what she likes everywhere
Ambles to the high point of the year
Grunts, scratches, shits, and eats some more

The Day Before

by Summer Koester

A devil's club graveyard all that remains,
bones of a mighty clubbed fortress
reduced to small brown skeletons,
silent, still scaffolds of what once was.
This is how you say madrugada in English–
the coldest, darkest, undead hour
when spirits roam the earth, right before
the first snow:
the rainforest so dry and quiet
bones and shapes, negative space,
the air sucked right out.

Swan Song

by Wesley D. Sims

A sparse chorus of crickets
telegraphs the news--autumn
arrives on the overnight train.
Forty-degree West wind
plucks brown leaves
from walnut and poplar.
Twilight sifts over the landscape,
dark clouds press a pale orange sky
into the horizon.

I Remember Aleppo

by Terrence Sykes

ancient silk road heirloom
grew upon the left bank
determined Queiq river
steeped landscape
rising field of peppers
powdered ochres
colors changing
seasons ceased
blossoming at dusk

Since the storm

by Mathieu Debic

since the storm, new birds
find a home in the strewn leaves.
from the brush, new songs.
shafts of sun penetrate, now,
and mockingbirds dip and swerve.
broken branches dry in the sun.

awakening

by Kat Terban

the slowly creaking dawn
sheds light on an unfurling
green pothos leaf, on the minute
veins where precious sap flows.

crisp sparkling dew
condenses, coalesces,
is drunk by a careful
angulate orbweaver spider;
it breaks open the water’s skin
and sucks the liquid in
while myriad eyes
remain alert for prey.

perched upon that new leaf
tapping its leg-tips, the spider
leaps out toward the sun,
spinner releasing a line
to rappel down, and start
a fresh day’s web.

Lines

by William Cullen, Jr.

norway maple
where a few leaves just were
the north star

The uppermost leaves

by Nandini Maharaj

The branches of the elm tree lean to one side
fanning out with the sun’s rays,
the uppermost leaves, emblazoned in gold.
The leaves below are tightly clustered
giving the appearance of stillness.
When all at once the wind blows and the leaves disperse,
revealing new patches of blue sky.
Then the leaves close in once again,
and all seems still but the uppermost leaves
glistening in the morning light.

Hardwoods

by Mathieu Debic

Groans in the hardwoods.
Wind stretches timbers, abates;
a blaze, a red shower.

La Fin Sauvage

by John Zedolik                                                         

Wild is the roof
atop which reach
the unwanted spindly
stalks and irregular leaves

to an evening deepening
to night that will obliterate
their serrated silhouettes
and grant safety from discerning

eyes that might influence
a call for taming, a cutting
for the cutters upon the seam
of sky and constructed earth,

bold and instinctive on their edge,
left better to occasional sighting
by unconcerned souls who deem
the ridge, the ragged row welcome

wilderness needed among the docile
and down-combed brick-blocks
that certainly would frown up
if they could at the fringe that their

absolute politesse impedes
with wisps and licks that refuse
to lie flat and servile
as the lawns below.

Lines

by Judith Ann Muse Robinson

Planned community.
Ears up. Eyes wide. Whitetail deer.
C.V.S. ahead.

on a corner

by James Bell

a prosperous looking blackbird tries
to precision crack the shell
of a snail
on a corner of the Corlay Road -

interrupted
lifts it in its beak
and flies away from morning sun

Lines

by Hemapriya Chellappan

bamboo grove
the soft whistle
of a spice finch

Lines

by Susan N Aassahde,

billiard toast flock
cask sneaker
tambourine peak hunt

LInes

by Roberta Beach Jacobson

circling seagulls
welcome sign
rusting into fall

The Buff-Rumped Thornbill

by Frances Roberts

Hidden by the leaf of a Red Olive Plum
a Buff-Rumped Thornbill
sends a high wisp of song
into open forest.
A piping voice calls back
from Lane Cove Valley below.

Praying Mantis

by Lucy Zhang

There’s a Mantis
in the middle
of Wolfe Road
raptorial forelegs folded
not praying but
waiting.
How did the butterfly
fall victim
when all it needed to do
was complete an upstroke
in a lift-producing vortex
and tumble
through the sky?
But the Mantis stalked,
struck out, tore off
extraneous Bushbrown wings
and held the butterfly close
like it’d never
let go.

Light and shade

by Lillian Good

Kookaburras
mark the changing light.
In-between, dark flies buzz
interferingly over red dust
sprinkled with dung.

Route 109

by Tom Lagasse

Wandering through the Litchfield Hills
In his battered red Chevy Malibu
Its odometer nearly tipping to 100K
Li Bai drunk from one too many
with his friends at the GW Tavern
pulls his car to the shoulder
Near Sunny Ridge Road.
On the back of an envelope
From an unpaid bill he scratches:

The mist rests
on the pines
above
as they lean
with the weight
of Route 109.

Over the Lake

by Ray Greenblatt

Winds scour Marsh Creek Lake
and rip at stray stone walls
no longer knowing what
they kept out or in.
          Myth has it that fish
          lie on the bottom
          disguised as mud balls.
                   Trees have dropped all their
                   summer camouflage.

Four old crows each on
brittle tree branch
talk things over in
their raspy argot.
          Fox out of its den
          forages for short time
          before snowflakes whirl.
                    Tomorrow lake surface
                    might be walkable.

(Corn) Husk In The Wind

by Randall Rogers

It's true in the end ashes do look best.
Or the new beautiful
compressed-bone art deco white oval
I saw advertised on TV the other day.
Creamy it looked like a bar of Dove soap.
A large burial mushroom pod
where your remains sprout
new fungi (or fun-guys!), perhaps? Heh-heh
So many options,
so much to look forward to
getting old, croaking, and being buried in
the quaint little cemetery
around the church
of the small town
on the prairie
in southern Minnesota
where all the farms
are neat and orderly
and there are towns
like Truman
where industrious Germans and Swedes
mow their lawns on Sunday
now that weed's legal
and there's decent internet
it's okay to live there.

ebb tide

by Martha Landman

last night the moon was in your hair
but the day is vast around us now
the horizon further away
islands and mountains hold
the infinity of this place
the ocean peels away from the shore
large circles of brown and blue
thin layers of water lying still, a flat bed
we walk on the ocean floor
a white-bellied sea eagle swoops
a fiddler’s bow playing Spiegel im Spiegel
but last night the moon was in your hair   

Lines

by Christina Chin

cormorant dives
Li River's starlit water
an oar pauses

Prodigious Plumes

by Suzanne Cottrell

Dragon’s Breath proclaims its presence                                         
spreads burgundy streaked, olive foliage
presents its fiery bouquet of
feathery crimson blooms
hints of spicy fragrance
dominates floral landscape
summer through autumn

Lines

by Christina Chin

dawn light

filters into the teacups
Mulu Caves canopy

November 8, 2019 7.02 a.m. 29 degrees

by John Stanizzi

Panoplied in cold, fall has charred the entire landscape, as memories 

overtake my thoughts – visions of dragonfly days,
     and on the first morning the

notification by the great blue heron on the
     far side of the pond that the

dawns ahead would be filled with myriad marvels; he was right.

Consider This

by Mary Innes

Consider how it is
    we eat the air:
Sunlight touches green,
turning spirit into matter,
becoming us
who breathe our spirits back to air.

Consider how the grasses' green
becomes our skin, our heart, our hair.
Carbon marries light
and we appear.

Lines

by Padmini Krishnan

Chilly night
Redwood tree absorbs
all the moon

Nightfall at Minnamurra

by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

At the foot of Minnamurra Falls
the maples heave in the gale,
wind drawing applause
rich with sudden confetti,
whirling bushels
of umber, gold, sienna.

the trees arch skyward,
upper reaches shorn
as the windstorm shuffles away,
balm of autumn night
settles eggshell, tranquil,
the forests of Illawarra
lit by a smudge of fireflies.

Lines

by Padmini Krishnan

Cold night
wind sings
to nesting pigeons

Lines

by Carl Mayfield,

water bowl--
     bloated mouse
  lifting his head