by Taylor Graham
Glittering in autumn light, it recommends
silence. This October morning,
everything seems to wait like the loneliness
of stones. The dry creek dreams
of sipping water in tiny song. Rain leaves it
alone. Sun sublimates the water-dish
put out for lizards and frogs, too shallow
a trough. No matter to stones,
a decade of drought. Crystal remembers
the longest tales. How young
these creekbanks, undercut, re-carved
each time a flood tears out fences,
overwhelms the swale, digs up old bones.
Ancient naturalist, this stone.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Green House Harvest
by Ed Higgins
Rich tilth of organic mushroom compost
from the large pile near the barn. Delivered
twice yearly from the mushroom farm
two miles upwind from us.
An attentive courtesy for when summer breezes
drift our way, bringing dark scents of mixed
straw and chicken manure. This morning’s harvest
snap peas, beets and lemon tomatoes
growing in this fertile medium. Through my
fingertips I diligently fill my garden trug:
peas first, then beets (shaking off the soil), finally
lush yellow tomatoes from fruit-heavy vines.
Rich tilth of organic mushroom compost
from the large pile near the barn. Delivered
twice yearly from the mushroom farm
two miles upwind from us.
An attentive courtesy for when summer breezes
drift our way, bringing dark scents of mixed
straw and chicken manure. This morning’s harvest
snap peas, beets and lemon tomatoes
growing in this fertile medium. Through my
fingertips I diligently fill my garden trug:
peas first, then beets (shaking off the soil), finally
lush yellow tomatoes from fruit-heavy vines.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Sunday, October 25, 2015
Anticipating winter
by Ed Higgins
Today there are definite signs:
grey sky and clouds
their core dark as sorrow
torrent rain driven aslant
against the barn’s side
swollen Yamhill creek
furious with water
another v of geese
over the farm this morning
the plowed field soggy underfoot
fixed on distant May
a hawk hung in chill October air
like a narrow winged thought.
Today there are definite signs:
grey sky and clouds
their core dark as sorrow
torrent rain driven aslant
against the barn’s side
swollen Yamhill creek
furious with water
another v of geese
over the farm this morning
the plowed field soggy underfoot
fixed on distant May
a hawk hung in chill October air
like a narrow winged thought.
Goldfinch
by Terrence Sykes
pentecostal
cloaked
laden
maple tree
nested
goldfinch
obese
from fallen
caraway harvest
obsidian wings
feathered flock
wild mustard
dancing amongst
evening breezes
pentecostal
cloaked
laden
maple tree
nested
goldfinch
obese
from fallen
caraway harvest
obsidian wings
feathered flock
wild mustard
dancing amongst
evening breezes
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Filling The Silo
by Joyce Lorenson
from every farm
up and down the valley
the long drawn out whine
of corn choppers
still air in
a state of fermentation
flurries of fodder fall
from the auger
a ripe liquor drains
from the trembling chute
the season's harvest
from the cows
a flush of fresh milk
from every farm
up and down the valley
the long drawn out whine
of corn choppers
still air in
a state of fermentation
flurries of fodder fall
from the auger
a ripe liquor drains
from the trembling chute
the season's harvest
from the cows
a flush of fresh milk
Long shadows cross the fields
by Maury Grimm
Long shadows cross the fields, gold against the grey sky. The days shorten with a color so intense even the cottonwoods stark green and intricate blacks of branches stand like sculptures in the slow evening light.
The chickens scratch about in the garden. I talk to them through the open window. We have made some sort of bond now, even Łizhiní cocks his head when I speak to them. I tell him he is a good boy and he relaxes, closes his eyes. He is an amazingly good rooster.
The wind is up now. The newly planted hoop with winter vegetables shivers and the sudden cold makes me think of closing windows.
But I am not ready yet, to close out the wind, the light.
Long shadows cross the fields, gold against the grey sky. The days shorten with a color so intense even the cottonwoods stark green and intricate blacks of branches stand like sculptures in the slow evening light.
The chickens scratch about in the garden. I talk to them through the open window. We have made some sort of bond now, even Łizhiní cocks his head when I speak to them. I tell him he is a good boy and he relaxes, closes his eyes. He is an amazingly good rooster.
The wind is up now. The newly planted hoop with winter vegetables shivers and the sudden cold makes me think of closing windows.
But I am not ready yet, to close out the wind, the light.
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
Aspen Trail
by David Chorlton
Summer’s ending in the forest
with its secret ferns and warblers
whose songs come from deeper
than light can reach;
ending on the meadow
in high country
that sways between aspens and pines,
and on the path
worn into grass
along the way to the edge
with a raptor’s view down:
a panorama
held tight in a claw.
Summer’s ending in the forest
with its secret ferns and warblers
whose songs come from deeper
than light can reach;
ending on the meadow
in high country
that sways between aspens and pines,
and on the path
worn into grass
along the way to the edge
with a raptor’s view down:
a panorama
held tight in a claw.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Wild Fire
by Marilyn Braendeholm
Fire takes its opportunities.
Wind-burning-whipped bridges
of smoke on rising spinets of fury.
Rise and fall, flakes of flame and ash
scattering weather, then swept
and settled to fall scorched. And
as fire grows, the wind sings dark.
The heat endured but not so darkness,
nor that noise. Aerolites fall into
throaty pits, as fire draws darkness
in its parchment heart.
Thursday, October 15, 2015
Eleven Suicide Seeds
by Taufiq Abdul Khalid
Where are the rivers mighty?
Where are the lakes serene?
Where are the bears hibernating?
Where are the badgers biting?
Where are the meadows blooming?
Where are the fishes in the sea?
Where are the lions in the plains?
What have you done to them all?
Now who will you seek to blame?
What have you wrought in your greed?
What have you sown in the fields?
I hate but ate your answers!
These suicide seeds,
Your suicide seeds,
Your Suicide...and
Now.... mine.
Where are the rivers mighty?
Where are the lakes serene?
Where are the bears hibernating?
Where are the badgers biting?
Where are the meadows blooming?
Where are the fishes in the sea?
Where are the lions in the plains?
What have you done to them all?
Now who will you seek to blame?
What have you wrought in your greed?
What have you sown in the fields?
I hate but ate your answers!
These suicide seeds,
Your suicide seeds,
Your Suicide...and
Now.... mine.
Swamp Psalm of the Water Sprite
by Karla Linn Merrifield
The Fakahatchee is my shepherdess;
I shall not want for canopied swamps.
She maketh me to submerge below profligate
fronds and tendrils.
She leadeth me into still waters.
She restoreth my arid hope.
She leadeth me along slow flowing
strands of wildness for her faith sake.
Yea, though I wade through the valley
in the shadows of fishing spiders
beside alligator ponds, I fear not greed,
for thou, green queen, art with me, in me.
Thy sword ferns and ghost orchids
do comfort me.
Thou preparest a cypress stand before me
in the cool space of my heart.
Thou annointest my soul with dew.
My dream runneth over in liquid light.
Surely chlorophyll and oxygen
shall follow me all the breaths of my life
and I shall dwell in thy habitat
of epiphyte, lichen and moss—forever.
The Fakahatchee is my shepherdess;
I shall not want for canopied swamps.
She maketh me to submerge below profligate
fronds and tendrils.
She leadeth me into still waters.
She restoreth my arid hope.
She leadeth me along slow flowing
strands of wildness for her faith sake.
Yea, though I wade through the valley
in the shadows of fishing spiders
beside alligator ponds, I fear not greed,
for thou, green queen, art with me, in me.
Thy sword ferns and ghost orchids
do comfort me.
Thou preparest a cypress stand before me
in the cool space of my heart.
Thou annointest my soul with dew.
My dream runneth over in liquid light.
Surely chlorophyll and oxygen
shall follow me all the breaths of my life
and I shall dwell in thy habitat
of epiphyte, lichen and moss—forever.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
A prism of light
by Maury Grimm
A prism of light graces the San Juans over La Manga pass to the West as the sun breaks through the clouds, a shard. Winter birds line the wires and the horses head to the watering trough.
This overcast sky makes the morning warm as I slip out, bare-toed, to the chickens who are not yet roused awake.
This may be a day of more inside than out, but there is the catching up on cleaning garlic, storing potatoes, stripping the leaves and flowers of the dried herbs, clearing and organizing for the next round of tomatoes, rose hips, marigold and calendula flowers. And maybe after this round of rain, the mountains will proffer another round of mushrooms to dry.
And when to plant the garlic, lay down the red clover seed on the worn potato bed? Another day. Another day.
Valleys of Life, Echoed
by Laurie Kolp
The gods call life
after death
life after
the calling of all things
secret.
Take innocence—
trade it
for guilt after death
after life:
the endangered one
slides down mountain
to death valley
and lives.
The gods call life
after death
life after
the calling of all things
secret.
Take innocence—
trade it
for guilt after death
after life:
the endangered one
slides down mountain
to death valley
and lives.
Burial for Seamen
by Tom Sheehan
Tonight I think of Jonathan Diggs and how he salts the Atlantic, how the horse of his voice shakes the water from the underneath, cracks the rocks the small fist of Nahant left-jabs in the ocean.
The dory came riding in high and free as a cracker box, the oars gone, locks ripped away as if he had broken all his muscles on them, the anchor gone as Davy’s gift, not even a handful of line left in the loop.
One inconspicuous mark gathered in the final counting: JD9. It was Jonathan’s ninth boat, and the first to outlive him, the first to come back without that oarsman.
Seventy-year old men do not swim all night, do not ride on top like debris caught on the incoming tide, do not materialize on-shore once they are that wet.
They go down like Jonathan Diggs, shaking their fists at the Atlantic, shouting the final obscenity they have waited all this time to use, knowing the exact moment to employ it. They send a sound running along water lines, burst it into sea shells, sing it as a tone of surf busting all September nights when ocean listeners count for sailors.
They become the watery magnet pulling men from inland fields, in turn are magnetized by moon’s deep clutch on the rich pastures of the sea, and sleep then only in tight caves, soundless and dark in their wearing away.
Thursday, October 8, 2015
U.S. 50
by Karla Linn Merrifield
A smooth satin road unspools
across the corrugated torso
of Nevada in summer morning,
light rising in a state of cloudlessness.
It unfurls through sage-dusted basin
and over juniper-draped range;
its length unwinds and unwinds.
Onto eight soft-shouldered summits,
into alkali flats of as many
high desert valleys, the macadam
takes on a golden patina as it rolls
above the gold of stone-studded foothills.
The ribbon twists into vast landscapes, finding:
the turquoise ore in me, the copper lode in you.
A smooth satin road unspools
across the corrugated torso
of Nevada in summer morning,
light rising in a state of cloudlessness.
It unfurls through sage-dusted basin
and over juniper-draped range;
its length unwinds and unwinds.
Onto eight soft-shouldered summits,
into alkali flats of as many
high desert valleys, the macadam
takes on a golden patina as it rolls
above the gold of stone-studded foothills.
The ribbon twists into vast landscapes, finding:
the turquoise ore in me, the copper lode in you.
I Am Meltwater.
by Angi Holden
April’s sun blossoms the hillsides. Its gentle warmth coddles
the icy hollows, and streams dribble through tangles of couch grass.
The breeze drifts over the fells, carries the songs of distant mountains:
Scafell, Helvellyn, Skiddaw. It stirs me, spins me, swirls me.
I tumble down the rockface, gasp for air, splash and splatter against outcrops.
I grasp light and cast aside its fragments, I thrust and whirlpool:
rub, erode, abrase, before plunging on, handrailing across the geology of ancients,
landscapes scarred by wind and weather. Lower there is mud, soft as flesh,
pathways, a tracery of footprints. I am pulled into the river’s eddy,
my chill and rainwater’s sweet balm mingling, flowing, seabound.
April’s sun blossoms the hillsides. Its gentle warmth coddles
the icy hollows, and streams dribble through tangles of couch grass.
The breeze drifts over the fells, carries the songs of distant mountains:
Scafell, Helvellyn, Skiddaw. It stirs me, spins me, swirls me.
I tumble down the rockface, gasp for air, splash and splatter against outcrops.
I grasp light and cast aside its fragments, I thrust and whirlpool:
rub, erode, abrase, before plunging on, handrailing across the geology of ancients,
landscapes scarred by wind and weather. Lower there is mud, soft as flesh,
pathways, a tracery of footprints. I am pulled into the river’s eddy,
my chill and rainwater’s sweet balm mingling, flowing, seabound.
Rain, Spark, Cycle
by Richard D. Hartwell
Up-thrust, boulder-rough hills
after late spring’s last runoff;
dirt between veins of granite,
seeded with grasses, flowers
in wild profusion, abandoned.
Such profligate plentitude makes
for a profusion of wildlife fauna:
an overpopulation awaiting their
seared starvation as brittle stubble
expires, scoured by a relentless sun.
Hills turned into fodder for fire
needing only slight provocation,
ignition from outside intervention;
flames eat all to ashen gray, stony
hills turn silver in the orange dusk.
Up-thrust, boulder-rough hills
after late spring’s last runoff;
dirt between veins of granite,
seeded with grasses, flowers
in wild profusion, abandoned.
Such profligate plentitude makes
for a profusion of wildlife fauna:
an overpopulation awaiting their
seared starvation as brittle stubble
expires, scoured by a relentless sun.
Hills turned into fodder for fire
needing only slight provocation,
ignition from outside intervention;
flames eat all to ashen gray, stony
hills turn silver in the orange dusk.
Tuesday, October 6, 2015
within Roe Wood
by Kate Garrett
your feet pound
streets, pavements
bus stops – the urban
blur heading
for bluebells
as you slip downhill
& into the shadow
of leaves (curled fingers
unfurling green)
race the brook
along its obstacle
course:
forgotten blue
bicycles, lawnmower
engines & plastic
bottles without
a single message inside
your feet pound
streets, pavements
bus stops – the urban
blur heading
for bluebells
as you slip downhill
& into the shadow
of leaves (curled fingers
unfurling green)
race the brook
along its obstacle
course:
forgotten blue
bicycles, lawnmower
engines & plastic
bottles without
a single message inside
End of Summer
by M.J. Iuppa
By dusk, swallows
disappear– the barn door
left open a crack.
Now gunshot
marks distance,
close range.
Estranged hour
each second
a lost eyelash.
Work? Anyplace.
A stand of spruce
wears darkness.
Tongue
against palette
issues
small airs
there, there
consoles loneliness–
the clock’s click,
the moth’s
wobble
going mad
for the lamplight’s
humor.
By dusk, swallows
disappear– the barn door
left open a crack.
Now gunshot
marks distance,
close range.
Estranged hour
each second
a lost eyelash.
Work? Anyplace.
A stand of spruce
wears darkness.
Tongue
against palette
issues
small airs
there, there
consoles loneliness–
the clock’s click,
the moth’s
wobble
going mad
for the lamplight’s
humor.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
You have named me
by Emily Ramser
At night,
you hold me in your arms,
and whisper my name:
Gaia,
Terra,
Earth,
and
Mother,
and when I awake,
you have named me anew
under the birth of the sunrise.
At night,
you hold me in your arms,
and whisper my name:
Gaia,
Terra,
Earth,
and
Mother,
and when I awake,
you have named me anew
under the birth of the sunrise.
Endings
by Patricia Williams
Baskets of bridal-white begonia and container-grown
red impatiens, convey late summer lushness, yet
indicate human invasion; clumps of daylilies
bloom orange, in messy half-order.
Watery stems and fragile buds go limp,
signal an irrepressible first frost.
Patches of sunlight dapple the driveway
imposed on the land, but broken by natural ice heaving;
the mowed yard, once forest cover, remains a pathway
for undeterred deer on their way from the swamp
and turkey trains that move across north ridges.
The cat makes painful sounds, mourning his companion,
her frail old body found on the back bedroom floor
a few weeks ago, twenty-one years of greeting the dawn.
Baskets of bridal-white begonia and container-grown
red impatiens, convey late summer lushness, yet
indicate human invasion; clumps of daylilies
bloom orange, in messy half-order.
Watery stems and fragile buds go limp,
signal an irrepressible first frost.
Patches of sunlight dapple the driveway
imposed on the land, but broken by natural ice heaving;
the mowed yard, once forest cover, remains a pathway
for undeterred deer on their way from the swamp
and turkey trains that move across north ridges.
The cat makes painful sounds, mourning his companion,
her frail old body found on the back bedroom floor
a few weeks ago, twenty-one years of greeting the dawn.
Hindsight
by Richard D. Hartwell
Once was beauty as the Coos and Coquille Rivers merged
into the sinuous estuarine paths emptying into Coos Bay.
Now deep-water tugs languish awaiting empty freighters as
the lumber industry falters from the ravages of clear-cutting.
Automated ply and lumber companies have driven thousands to
outlaw shake mills, poaching, weed farms, desertion, and suicide.
Late afternoon and gray scud slowly
closes out blue sky and green water,
The world turns slate and dreams are held
together by only the most tenuous breath.
Once was beauty as the Coos and Coquille Rivers merged
into the sinuous estuarine paths emptying into Coos Bay.
Now deep-water tugs languish awaiting empty freighters as
the lumber industry falters from the ravages of clear-cutting.
Automated ply and lumber companies have driven thousands to
outlaw shake mills, poaching, weed farms, desertion, and suicide.
Late afternoon and gray scud slowly
closes out blue sky and green water,
The world turns slate and dreams are held
together by only the most tenuous breath.
Thursday, October 1, 2015
Leaning into Autumn
by Rachel Nix
The cool mornings linger
in the hollows, where the land
dips and divides, waiting
for the day to arrive—
the South cannot shake
the humid breath of sunlight.
The cool mornings linger
in the hollows, where the land
dips and divides, waiting
for the day to arrive—
the South cannot shake
the humid breath of sunlight.
In Cumberland Valley
by JD DeHart
Life exists high
on the mountain, plants growing
sparse in the mouths of rock.
Bits of scrub emerge as
the slope curves down to earth.
All is verdant in the valley.
A small pool of water
collects experience. A community
gathers in the shadow, blotting
out the high winds and massive
snows that blow in.
Life exists high
on the mountain, plants growing
sparse in the mouths of rock.
Bits of scrub emerge as
the slope curves down to earth.
All is verdant in the valley.
A small pool of water
collects experience. A community
gathers in the shadow, blotting
out the high winds and massive
snows that blow in.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
The tomatoes are in hoop houses
by Maury Grimm
The tomatoes are in hoop houses, as well the fall planted crops. Wire around plants I don't want trampled. And all the birds, turkeys and chickens, roam freely about the place. I can too, all the fence barriers opened up.
Łizhiní and I are more comfortable around each other day-by-day and now Molly is laying eggs behind an old stump in the Quelites. She is not nesting on them, so that is good. Five eggs today from two of the girls, and they are getting bigger. Who ever said chickens do not like grass lied. They slurp the tender greens and I am praying they discover the wealth of grasshoppers.
Peanut and Red--the turkeys--range around from front to back. This eve they are playing back by the truck, whirling around, Peanut chasing Red and then vice versa.
It felt good to get this done today, to get the garden and grasshoppers in better control, one hopes.
Red & Peanut just now outside the window. I greet them. Red seems less nervous and more friendly and I think tomorrow to trim his toenails. They are in bad need; he has a hard time roosting.
This is new to me. I have had ducks, rabbits and other small animals, but never chickens and turkeys. And never free-ranging.
I can tell all are happy to have full range around the place, fences down, no walls. There is so much to forage from Currants to young Amaranth, Purslane and Quelites. I have left some Sorel, too as I know the chickens love them along with the Oregano. I chastise them all, "Bugs, eat those grasshoppers."
They take up different aspects around the place, and sometimes it seems the turkeys herd the chickens, and then the chickens herd the turkeys.
Fences and walls. Sometimes we create them to protect what we love. However, they have to come down to allow those we love to grow. As my mother all ways said, "Fences were made for people that can't fly."
The tomatoes are in hoop houses, as well the fall planted crops. Wire around plants I don't want trampled. And all the birds, turkeys and chickens, roam freely about the place. I can too, all the fence barriers opened up.
Łizhiní and I are more comfortable around each other day-by-day and now Molly is laying eggs behind an old stump in the Quelites. She is not nesting on them, so that is good. Five eggs today from two of the girls, and they are getting bigger. Who ever said chickens do not like grass lied. They slurp the tender greens and I am praying they discover the wealth of grasshoppers.
Peanut and Red--the turkeys--range around from front to back. This eve they are playing back by the truck, whirling around, Peanut chasing Red and then vice versa.
It felt good to get this done today, to get the garden and grasshoppers in better control, one hopes.
Red & Peanut just now outside the window. I greet them. Red seems less nervous and more friendly and I think tomorrow to trim his toenails. They are in bad need; he has a hard time roosting.
This is new to me. I have had ducks, rabbits and other small animals, but never chickens and turkeys. And never free-ranging.
I can tell all are happy to have full range around the place, fences down, no walls. There is so much to forage from Currants to young Amaranth, Purslane and Quelites. I have left some Sorel, too as I know the chickens love them along with the Oregano. I chastise them all, "Bugs, eat those grasshoppers."
They take up different aspects around the place, and sometimes it seems the turkeys herd the chickens, and then the chickens herd the turkeys.
Fences and walls. Sometimes we create them to protect what we love. However, they have to come down to allow those we love to grow. As my mother all ways said, "Fences were made for people that can't fly."
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Grub Worm
by Al Ortolani
The rain that has been building all morning begins to tap the window. The sash, raised to allow the garden into the bedroom, is enough of a poem for anyone. Ink can only imitate these first drops, the quiet within the curtained room, the breeze kneading muscle, the drizzling calm. Blue jays swing through the sycamore. Already yellowed, its heavy leaves, thickened at the stem, fall like birds.
the spider’s web
collects rain drops, a mist
of late tomatoes
The rain that has been building all morning begins to tap the window. The sash, raised to allow the garden into the bedroom, is enough of a poem for anyone. Ink can only imitate these first drops, the quiet within the curtained room, the breeze kneading muscle, the drizzling calm. Blue jays swing through the sycamore. Already yellowed, its heavy leaves, thickened at the stem, fall like birds.
the spider’s web
collects rain drops, a mist
of late tomatoes
Sacramento Valley, August
by Taylor Graham
Everything’s a map to get-away.
A/C = 4 rolled down at 70 mph w/o a Delta breeze.
Freeway to arterial to cutoff to the mouth
of some tributary valley, up ladders of streambed
rock, meandering between willow and oak
remembering how it ran in winter spate – dry now
like all the little valleys emptied into this
great basin, too broad to see hills on the other
side. Ridges, canyons – figments of flatland haze.
All the map shows down here are roads
going somewhere – not wayward paths of memory.
Like salmon, I recite the way in my blood,
tracing back to beginnings, a valley where I live.
Everything’s a map to get-away.
A/C = 4 rolled down at 70 mph w/o a Delta breeze.
Freeway to arterial to cutoff to the mouth
of some tributary valley, up ladders of streambed
rock, meandering between willow and oak
remembering how it ran in winter spate – dry now
like all the little valleys emptied into this
great basin, too broad to see hills on the other
side. Ridges, canyons – figments of flatland haze.
All the map shows down here are roads
going somewhere – not wayward paths of memory.
Like salmon, I recite the way in my blood,
tracing back to beginnings, a valley where I live.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
An Embrace of Trees
by Michael H. Brownstein
How powerful to swim into your arms.
How steadfast and stubborn. The curl of your palm.
One finger finding another. A gathering
Of love’s flesh like the glorious crown of a tree
Reaching beyond a fence of silver brush
And goldenrod to lay a hand of leaf
Upon a friendly arm and find whatever wonder
Lives in the wind, the brightest day, a cool evening.
The squirrels at play. The murmur of doves.
A warmth turning everything valuable into God.
How powerful to swim into your arms.
How steadfast and stubborn. The curl of your palm.
One finger finding another. A gathering
Of love’s flesh like the glorious crown of a tree
Reaching beyond a fence of silver brush
And goldenrod to lay a hand of leaf
Upon a friendly arm and find whatever wonder
Lives in the wind, the brightest day, a cool evening.
The squirrels at play. The murmur of doves.
A warmth turning everything valuable into God.
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Sunday, September 20, 2015
Orchid
by Doug Draime
touching, like falling
through foggy, foggy clouds
of utter shit storms,
holds movement and
perpetuates movement
all at once.
Where in bright sunlight
an orchid, caresses.
touching, like falling
through foggy, foggy clouds
of utter shit storms,
holds movement and
perpetuates movement
all at once.
Where in bright sunlight
an orchid, caresses.
Schneider Valley, September
by Taylor Graham
Outside our tent, ice on the water bucket,
old-paper tinge to the willow-thicket.
The creek that cuts this meadow never forgot
its snowmelt rush down Little Round Top,
snowbanks blocking the road till end of June.
And then the flowers came, so many
shades of paintbrush, larkspur, columbine –
a hiker might think he’d climbed to heaven.
Now lupine’s gone to pod, a cold easterly
rattles mules-ears along the trail. I can believe
again in snow. Time to break camp?
The raven says, “while you can, go home.”
Outside our tent, ice on the water bucket,
old-paper tinge to the willow-thicket.
The creek that cuts this meadow never forgot
its snowmelt rush down Little Round Top,
snowbanks blocking the road till end of June.
And then the flowers came, so many
shades of paintbrush, larkspur, columbine –
a hiker might think he’d climbed to heaven.
Now lupine’s gone to pod, a cold easterly
rattles mules-ears along the trail. I can believe
again in snow. Time to break camp?
The raven says, “while you can, go home.”
Thursday, September 17, 2015
In the arroyo
by Miriam Sagan
In the arroyo
just one
sneaker
a metallic wind in the garden of marimbas
plastic bags flutter like prayer flags caught on barbed wire
gamelon of the river fills with rain after drought
In the arroyo
just one
sneaker
a metallic wind in the garden of marimbas
plastic bags flutter like prayer flags caught on barbed wire
gamelon of the river fills with rain after drought
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Par Avion
by M.J. Iuppa
Over the lake this morning, clouds
appear dinghy white, like a blanket
slipping off the foot of an unmade
bed without a shhh—
Still, clouds thicken—
rolling folds drop to the horizon’s
blue mail slot that’s waiting for
an envelope addressed to you.
Over the lake this morning, clouds
appear dinghy white, like a blanket
slipping off the foot of an unmade
bed without a shhh—
Still, clouds thicken—
rolling folds drop to the horizon’s
blue mail slot that’s waiting for
an envelope addressed to you.
Hill of the Blue Goose
by Tom Sheehan
The hill
steals lightning,
sees Boston stand up
after catching a haymaker.
This morning caught geese
like runaway shoes, tongue screech,
traffic cop calls and winter
ticket stub lost in a pocket;
has mirrors of yesterday’s thighs
the moon of the seventh of July
of our lord of “Forty-five
touched with its butter,
shows her inclined to me
and tilt of the hill.
Her thighs still count the thrust.
The cops
broke up a card game
on the left shoulder, toward the river
and West Lynn, in ‘Thirty-nine;
the pot’s never surfaced.
Now a specter in tight pants
sells angel dust, gives
green stamps.
Has new options on street war:
use hammers, screwdrivers, no sunlight.
Night kisses the hill with lonely.
Do not be lured there.
No pig in a poke.
Has anyone seen
Frank Parkinson lately,
meant to die outside Tobruk
in the mutilating horrors of the sands,
but didn’t? Hangs on the hill
like cloud root, spills images,
has literate left hand, flies
with the awesome geese.
Oh, Frankie!
Throws hill shadow
ominous as dice toss;
a family’s left a photograph
in a friend’s scrapbook
in a trunk in a cellar
in the thrown shadow.
Nothing else. No dandruff.
No acne. No evidence of being.
Gone off the waterfall of Time.
Nobody remembers they were here
halfway up the hill once.
Lone blue goose,
tandemless, no fore
and aft, plunges over,
cries high noon of search,
drags feathers, drops
the quick flutter
of a shadow
on Earth's
curve.
The hill
steals lightning,
sees Boston stand up
after catching a haymaker.
This morning caught geese
like runaway shoes, tongue screech,
traffic cop calls and winter
ticket stub lost in a pocket;
has mirrors of yesterday’s thighs
the moon of the seventh of July
of our lord of “Forty-five
touched with its butter,
shows her inclined to me
and tilt of the hill.
Her thighs still count the thrust.
The cops
broke up a card game
on the left shoulder, toward the river
and West Lynn, in ‘Thirty-nine;
the pot’s never surfaced.
Now a specter in tight pants
sells angel dust, gives
green stamps.
Has new options on street war:
use hammers, screwdrivers, no sunlight.
Night kisses the hill with lonely.
Do not be lured there.
No pig in a poke.
Has anyone seen
Frank Parkinson lately,
meant to die outside Tobruk
in the mutilating horrors of the sands,
but didn’t? Hangs on the hill
like cloud root, spills images,
has literate left hand, flies
with the awesome geese.
Oh, Frankie!
Throws hill shadow
ominous as dice toss;
a family’s left a photograph
in a friend’s scrapbook
in a trunk in a cellar
in the thrown shadow.
Nothing else. No dandruff.
No acne. No evidence of being.
Gone off the waterfall of Time.
Nobody remembers they were here
halfway up the hill once.
Lone blue goose,
tandemless, no fore
and aft, plunges over,
cries high noon of search,
drags feathers, drops
the quick flutter
of a shadow
on Earth's
curve.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Proverb
by Doug Draime
Five thousand years
of solid darkness,
can not hold its own
to one
shifting slither
of light.
Five thousand years
of solid darkness,
can not hold its own
to one
shifting slither
of light.
Green Valley
by Taylor Graham
Dry Creek’s a bucking torrent after winter rains.
This afternoon, dregs of summer, willow boughs
smell brittle as old pulp fiction, and buckeye’s
a brown ghost of dead leaves. Only wild plum
stays true to the name of this place, dancing
green to any breeze that reaches up the valley.
Two young Herefords know only drought,
grasses that snap – matchsticks under-hoof.
Whoever named this valley must have come
in spring, wading knee-deep through fields
of vetch entangling native bunchgrass.
How dry the creek. Our way down-stream’s
a two-lane that stops for nothing but the first
red traffic light, eight miles down the road.
Dry Creek’s a bucking torrent after winter rains.
This afternoon, dregs of summer, willow boughs
smell brittle as old pulp fiction, and buckeye’s
a brown ghost of dead leaves. Only wild plum
stays true to the name of this place, dancing
green to any breeze that reaches up the valley.
Two young Herefords know only drought,
grasses that snap – matchsticks under-hoof.
Whoever named this valley must have come
in spring, wading knee-deep through fields
of vetch entangling native bunchgrass.
How dry the creek. Our way down-stream’s
a two-lane that stops for nothing but the first
red traffic light, eight miles down the road.
Anglo in Saxony
by Terrence Sykes
beech forests
poplar meadows
chestnut groves
dusty roads slice fallowed fields
birch embroidering streams
through fog & mist
amongst the stars
almond & apricot lanterns
paper mâché poppy cosmos
cling upon & amongst
planets & moons
beyond
below
descent & ascent
confined by rail slats
lullabied & cradled
alone along
the Elbe
river valley
dirt to stone to asphalt
steel sparks smoke
window bound
on the overnight
Prague – Dresden train
beech forests
poplar meadows
chestnut groves
dusty roads slice fallowed fields
birch embroidering streams
through fog & mist
amongst the stars
almond & apricot lanterns
paper mâché poppy cosmos
cling upon & amongst
planets & moons
beyond
below
descent & ascent
confined by rail slats
lullabied & cradled
alone along
the Elbe
river valley
dirt to stone to asphalt
steel sparks smoke
window bound
on the overnight
Prague – Dresden train
Thursday, September 10, 2015
A Hard Rain
by Maury Grimm
A hard rain. Łizhiní calls the girls together under the currant bush. For awhile there I feared hail, but it is blessed rain.
The coop run is about finished and there is still a door to make and hang, but that will be for another day. My hands hurt incredibly from pounding nails, pulling wire. A blister forming at the base of my finger and I managed to hit my finger with the hammer once, but it is not so bad.
The wind blows the rain into some windows so I shut them, think about what to make for an afternoon meal, what is easy. Some asparagus soup in the reefer, maybe a sandwich. There is plenty to make a salad as well.
The sheep are now in part of the pasture that has been untouched. It was a sight to watch them rush in, joyful at the bounty.
The work of men, and then the work of women. And then it goes on.
A hard rain. Łizhiní calls the girls together under the currant bush. For awhile there I feared hail, but it is blessed rain.
The coop run is about finished and there is still a door to make and hang, but that will be for another day. My hands hurt incredibly from pounding nails, pulling wire. A blister forming at the base of my finger and I managed to hit my finger with the hammer once, but it is not so bad.
The wind blows the rain into some windows so I shut them, think about what to make for an afternoon meal, what is easy. Some asparagus soup in the reefer, maybe a sandwich. There is plenty to make a salad as well.
The sheep are now in part of the pasture that has been untouched. It was a sight to watch them rush in, joyful at the bounty.
The work of men, and then the work of women. And then it goes on.
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
Oregon Coast
by Doug Draime
Tide pools
sand dollars
gull-dung &
pippins dancing in the surf like
bow-legged children
Tide pools
sand dollars
gull-dung &
pippins dancing in the surf like
bow-legged children
