Sasazuka Night, After Rain

by David Eves

Buildings rub shoulders.
Streetlight blots the moon's hue, rusts
gullible puddles

Untitled

by Miriam Sagan

out to the west
something burning
pillar of smoke
on the long plains
how can I remember
before this world
started burning
even
an unscorched
Lama Mountain

Lines

by JS Absher

short night
the pinch-waist wasps
sleeping upside down

Of Sahara

by Andrea Wyatt

Of the bow and the clearing                                                
of the granary and the spear

of Sahara
    in naked beauty more adorned

with bark and resin
with hide and horn
move across the primal rock
the ancient and eroded tableland
of our heart

we are on the rim of the desert                                  
   a barren waste and wild of sand

looking
(not the american vision east to west)
but southerly
from the encircling shore of dunes
to the rim of Sahel
the dry zone

hide and horn, blood and bone of cattle
dug deep into the small scratched fields
of sorghum and millet
of cotton, rice and yams

quickly planted and harvested
in the shrinking seasons
down through the rainforests
of orchids and baboons
down across the savannah
the endless herds of antelopes and zebra
the tectonic plunge
down into our dream selves
a resonance of sound
we cannot hear
pitched high and keen
across the vast lands
of flat plains
caught tight
in the burn of youth

Creation

by Sarah Henry

Human life did not crawl
out of a swamp
It began with Adam and Eve.
Plants and animals watched
the apple cut their teeth.

Man soon lived in harmony
with nature. Zebra prints
decorated the throw
pillows of beauty shops.
Trees grew daggers and
initials on their bark.
Fireplaces burned fake logs.
A man wore cargo shorts
in advance of the flood.

After the Burn

by Taylor Graham

A moonscape – mid-Sierra forest
since the fire. River runs clear again
after winter storms. Familiar switchbacks.
Ash and char. On both sides of the road
stand ponderosa snags like splints
to hold the mountain together. But here,
peavine binds the hillside in vibrant
pink like sunrise after a dark night.
And fireweed – first to come back after
inferno – a whole blooming meadow
of flaming spikes, the lobes
of each corolla open like a blessing.

Lines

JS Absher

dry pond
the cattle are gazing
at the moonlight

Vancouver in April

by Yuan Changming

Don’t even think of
Trying to pretend, but
Just show your most natural
Charm and grace; stand straight
Amidst the greening maple trees
Hold all the blooming cherry flowers
Closer to your heart; face towards
The bluest sky above the pacific
Move a bit more forward
Before the grouse mountain
Shake off the rain drops of last long winter
On your hair, and

Say cheese, you vancouver in april

Coltrane’s Reign

by Catfish McDaris

Fat folks will suffer,
Cedrick yelled on the dock,
we unloaded mail

Sweating animals
in the Brew City post office
Coltrane blasting loud

Quiet men like jazz,
black clouds bursting with thunder
no rain no refrain.

No Place Special

by M.J. Iuppa

The seam between night &
day is a bluish crease

that splits without a sound, with-
out  having the hook of  a sickle

moon to hold onto— we slip out
of life’s fickle temperament &

vanish for one hundred days of
summer— this hush-hush life-

style— you & I, sinking in-
to soil’s soft crumble.

Blight

by Sarah Henry  

A sullen man trims his hedge
unevenly with many false
starts and unhappy endings
He could be doing something
else. He stops pruning and
rakes away the scattered
clippings. A few brown leaves
do not impress him.

The man shrugs and
walks toward his house.
He goes inside,
closes the door, and
more leaves darken.

Wilderness

by AE Reiff

I will tell the wilderness
beneath a bear.

The tail is cedar,
the bones are subway tubes

of glistening bronze.
Come and pierce the nose.

Open its mouth,
lie down upon a row of shields.

Put its tongue on a leash for girls,
that head harpoon you mountaineers,

a well-worn wake of undersides
as deep as hair.

Pigeon

by Chantal Gaudiano

A pigeon with deformed legs
Scuttles across tiled cement
At the train station.
It rests on the
'Mind the Gap' studded white steel border
That warns of the rail line's edge.
Texas summer sun heats bird and metal.
Whistle blows, and metal vibrates.
Train approaches, and pigeon
Flies.

June Journal: Wednesday, June 5, 2013

by Donald Mager

Humping along in tandem sleek black pairs,
six Starlings glean the fresh mown lawn.  They
harvest  ants and seeds.  Dusk-lit grass glows
in jade shadows.  Onyx feathers gleam.
Bobbing beaks flash yellow stabs and pricks
like toy machines.  In a parallel
with the Starlings’ now, with different laws
another now presides.  Ankle-high
moist tang of hay teems with conclaves of
mosquitoes gathering to ply their
trade in thirst and blood.   They too know how
best to stab and prick.  Their now hungers
too. Each shape of now is as supple
as who observes—what stands where—and why.

Lines

by Nancy Scott McBride

finches in the knotweed
hungry hawk watching from
the tall pine tree

Sign

by AE Reiff

There was a sign
when sun emerged
from fingers tips and rain.

A language fell above the breast.
I don’t know if lips were moving
but the hands spoke.

June Journal: Sunday, June 2, 2013

by Donald Mager

Night’s shrinking band of sky sets up shop
between the tree-lined horizon and
the tent-top shelf of clouds.  The oblique
triangle of Venus, Jupiter
and speck-white Mercury drift behind
the northwest mound of trees.  Applause
ends.  The sky’s silence steps forward in
black.  Behind the cloud tarp, the sequin
gown of stars hides.  Binoculars sit
abandoned on the deck table. The
show is over.  The bedroom door slides
and snaps its lock.  Clouds ooze farther down
across the slice of sky and slowly
inundate what’s left of memory.

Krishnochura

by Sayeeda T Ahmad

Krishnochura blossom across Bangladesh in the spring,
rows of Krishnochura trees on crimson fire, crimson petals
scattered throughout the village grounds and fields,
scattered throughout the footpaths and city streets
of Dhaka, Sylhet, Chittagong, Rajshahi,
cover every district town,
melt like crimson droplets in the rain.
They are a yearly reminder
of the blood of its people in 1971
drenching the village grounds and fields,
drenching the footpaths and city streets,
and rows of Krishnochura trees on fire.
Krishnochura petals still burn memories,
still leave crimson bloodstains on the ground.

Global Warming as Evidenced by Coral on the Beach at Heron Island

by P. J. Wren

we walk with
naked soles across
the brittled staghorn

touch of salt water
intake of breath
thin red stream

Lines

by Carl Mayfield

afternoon sun
the lizard
once again

The Mutts of Dhaka are Survivors

by Sayeeda T Ahmad

These mutts lap up spilled tea or snack crumbles on the footpath,
curl up in a spot of sun near a streetside tong,
till the tong owner kicks them away
for disturbing his customers.
These mutts trot down every alley and road they know,
next to and through piles of rotting refuse,
till nearly or fully run over by careless chauffeurs,
driving their owners’ to the next NGO meeting.
These mutts scramble under empty pull carts in the rain,
till chased away by goons or street kids
intent on cutting off their tails for kicks.
Just another nonentity, infested with fleas and welts.
Just another beggar with no bowl.
Just another carcass among the millions.

Call for Clean Water

by Ingrid Bruck

The lit upper levels
of the world’s oceans 
produce most of the oxygen 
earth needs for life. 

Water is holy, blessing optional. Life began in water. Come quench your thirst at the open faucet, drink mouthfuls of water straight from the tap. Dawn braids a sparkling rope of light from sun to sea to shore, the setting sun a pale mirror on the ocean. 

Wet uninhabitable deserts grow, 
five great sea patches of desolation,
405 dead zones,
the whale-path littered with plastic that whales choke on. 

The surface crackles, white flames dance on lit upper levels of the world’s oceans. Whales sing  joy for the light show, a lung deep hum, a pulse that spirals and echoes between each other under water. 

Dirty water smothers
algae, diatoms, plankton,
fowl, flowers and fish 
gasp for air. 

A fish gets caught on a hook, mouth open agape, lungs on fire, a silent scream for clean water. He can’t pull oxygen-rich water through his mouth and pump it over his gills so he can breathe. Lidless black eyes spark terror. The color of the ocean echoes a silver scaled sky on a stormy day.  

The After-Light

by Ed Hack

The after-light, late afternoon, a spill
of silvered glow as clear as ice that holds
the world before light leaves. The tree is still
as breath when something mortal has been told,
or beauty has just caught you by surprise--
a red, thin Cheshire Moon in early spring,
or Dogwood ghostly as the evening sighs
before the world goes black and stars can sing
their silver song of Time more quietly
than snow. You blink. You can't believe
your eyes. This is a kind of piety,
this haunted glow that cannot last, reprieve
from change's avalanche that pours and roars
each second's tick on life's storm-pounded shores.

LInes

by Joanna M. Weston

the intricate beauty
of this tumour -
an unfolding rose

Lines

Joanna M. Weston

the wheel trapped
in its shadow -
solstice

April

by Sayeeda T Ahmad

The perfect time to hike the trails of the Bandarbans,
“dam of monkeys” in Bangla.
Be wary of capped leaf monkeys, and capped langur,
as you clamber up the grassy peaks of Keokaradong and Saka Haphong.
Goat on nimble feet,
thickset branch clasped in one hand,
instinct in the fingertips of the other.
You must know to skip past the rotting leaves,
hiding python or king cobra princelings beneath,
on your way down to Sangu River, and back on the trail.
Thin spirals of smoke linger in the air as the jhum chaash goes on,
slash and burn, slash and burn.
Better to hike now, climb now in the dryness,
than let the monsoon mudslide kill you next season.

Night Watering

by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Yet firm
Soil saturated

Roots engorged
Lifting again in morning sun

Bent down by rain
Grasslands.

Taking Place

by Stefanie Bennett

 ... Babble along
 With
 The mendican
 Brook
 And look how
 Eccentric
 The risen sun
 Shines.

For the Raven

by David Chorlton

The stone light on a slow road
runs straight past a raven
who bounces from a fence post
with a bone held shining in his beak.

The yard is full of ice

by Sarah Henry

when the hail storm comes.
Ice bounces hard on the grass.
They say an oak feels pain
when another falls in the forest.
Both trees collapse, screaming.
In the spruce, a nest like spun
glass holds an uneasy finch.
Songbirds navigate by radar
and the stars at night.
The storm was all
a big mistake.
The yard is full of ice.

Mother Earth, am I your daughter?

by Emily Ramser

Mother, just before I fall asleep each night,
I can almost see
your rivers beneath my skin
rippling with each breath I take
and your rushes swaying
on my boney banks,
their roots entangled with my veins
and the backs of your silver
fish flashing as they swim amongst
my blood cells and antibodies,
and Mother, I can almost see
your wheat growing
in my skin between the blonde hairs,
waving back and forth
in the light breeze
that tickles my goosebumps.

May Day Hook-up

by Jan Hamlett

Dressed in mousy brown,
she perches confidently on the cable
and raises her tail feathers.
The fiery male cardinal swoops down
to share the swinging wire.
Facing her, he begins his dance.
He hops over her,
first one side, then the other,
and back again.
Furiously flapping his wings,
he is above her.
In less than a heartbeat, it's over.
She flies east; he flies west.

Mother Owl

by Kel McNeal

Universally solitary
Til her beak locks his
Monogamously mating
Epitomizing gender dichotomy
She lays and waits
         For him
Fiercely protecting
What is theirs

That’s Actually Oregano

by Todd Mercer

Some people know what thyme it is—lemony or savory.
Most take a guess or else they generalize.
Eagle-eyed forestry scholars can name each species of tree—
Latin terms or popular. Others lose the Linneaen distinctions
at level of class or phylum. They’re content to know
a leaf-dropper from an evergreen. Adam (no last name),
busy crafting Genesis myth, made a word for every creature.
They probably appreciated it, new titles.
His average descendant can’t remember
what they ate for breakfast or where their keys are.
They couldn’t tell you where they’ve been.
since the Garden closed for maintenance.
Some know a grouse from a mourning dove.
If it flies, most people just say, bird.

Pine Pollen

by Michael Friedman

Yellow dust from yellow pines
wring loose
and mist across a paved road.
The intense strain of immobile
copulation. Unbridled from
from cones, not pumped and spilled,
but shaken forth,
smeared onto the lips of another.

Twilight Brings The Renaissance

by Narendra Kumar Arya

Beside my house
Flows a river
In the nights it has cold
At the noons it has fever.

There are trees
that are unfamiliar to me
And I ask the botanist
And they say, we?
Too much old, Very tall,
Teaching me lessons in recent history.

And twilight brings the Renaissance
About the nests and birds
Of too many tongues,
Which are dying for lack of many
I yearned I were Salim Ali
They sing, I observe
Clouds rush following
Each other’s cacophony.

Lines

by Nancy Scott McBride

vixen in the clearing-
her turf
where the strip-mall’s going up

Lines

by Theresa A. Cancro

low sunset –
a red fox skims
the grass

A Home for World's Clouds

by Narendra Kumar Arya

Last month I travelled a place
Said home to world's clouds
Floating there in measures unknown
In forms and feature so versatile
As if they had their proper names.

Sometimes they appeared from the next turn of road
And like a sweet stranger asked to share the space
We were three people in the car,
Many a times they walked like neighbors
And after long walk said, " dear let us return,
It seems heavy rains
Want our company;
But oh! we have forgotten to bring parasols."

It was cold and it started raining
And when the trees started shivering
Clouds brought their thick blankets closer
Wrapping the trees as if children innocent
Drenched in waters from heavens
Lest they fall ill
Tomorrow they might have to attend schools.

Sometimes they ascended like airplanes
From green grassy valleys
As if they have to travel to other lands
Where people might be waiting to see
Relatives from distant lands
Full of tears.

In the place called clouds' abode I knew
Clouds are moving mind of Nature.
Sometimes these lovely creatures retained ugly memories
Inflicted by invisible wounds
When they cried to say goodbye
I felt it was not tears
It was gasoline on my face
Mucked with Middle East's airs.

Who Killed the Honeybees?

by Ingrid Bruck

grass no longer hums
flowers don’t buzz
and you stop looking down
when you walk barefoot in clover

the sting of silence

each third mouthful of food
depends on bees for pollination,
they sustain the food chain
and are dying

the sting of silence

when bees starve for lack of flowers
or get lost going home and vanish,
when thirty countries ban American food
and GMOs enter our DNA

the sting of silence

when bees rain down in a parking lot at Walmart,
red wing blackbirds fall from the sky on highways,
and a million fish die in the Arkansas River,
when captive dolphins and whales turn killers

the sting of silence

half the world’s animals have perished since the 70s,
six gulls in a flock, instead of wheeling hundreds,
when only one Monarch visits your garden in a  year
and few bats rake insects on the currents of night

the sting of silence

oceans turn to deserts, fishermen left jobless,
acid rain drains life out of lakes and rivers.
only a quarter of the frogs are left
to croak a night song of coming death

kill-offs, die-offs, honeybees vanished

the sting

In May the Santa Fe River is Alive

by Carl Mayfield

In the month of melting snow
the burgeoning river gathers itself
west of Baldy, flowing past fir
and spruce to ponderosa pines,
to gambel oaks, locust trees with thorns
to die for, the sound of moving water
muted once it reaches town, a steady
downslope all the way to Cochiti Pueblo
where no one even listens any more
to the dry stories of what was left behind.

In the Garden in May

by g emil reutter

It is a dreary day in May as rain has fallen for days but today

is a day to visit the garden under cloudy skies that do not drip.

Squirrels scamper up the face of the dogwood that drops pink

blossoms onto the damp lawn. Around the old stump of mimosa

peonies sprout from the soil. Stalks of Tiger Lilies, Day Lilies fill

the bed as velvet blue flowers of Irises bend and bow. Neat pinks

and reds of Azalea are joined by dazzling purple of Rhododendron.

Thick leaves of Black Eyed Susan lift off mulch, grand basal leaves

of Hosta unfold and within prepare the racemes of white and violet.

Full blossoms of red peak out through thick leaves of Camellia as

roses bloom along the fence line where just below blue bells sway

silently in breeze. . Just past the green of Forsythia in pots along

the steps, Snap Dragons, Geraniums bloom in reds, pinks, whites

and yellows.  Within the colors of this beautiful display those rascally

squirrels dig in soil for bulbs of tulips and hyacinth, robins pull worms

from the soaked lawn never noticing the hawk gliding, hunting from

above.

Misty Morning

by Ed Hack

It's all quite still in mist--the distant pines,
full-grown and dark, the bare, thin dying tree,
the purplish winter brush en masse, a line
behind the still-wet grass. The day's decree
is gray, again, light shrouded in a veil
spring trees glow through, banked fires that seem to purr
through misted air. White dogwoods float as pale
as ghosts; around them nothing wants to stir.
This silence is as deep as Time, a gap
between that doesn't need a single thing.
This is a land for which there is no map,
and what it gives is only what you bring.
Two pair of geese fly low, fly side-by-side,
honk twice, are gone. Their echoes quickly die.

Gestalt: Landlocked

by Karla Linn Merrifield

Sagemothsavor
batsilence
owllight
coyotenight

If I am not among
the all-consumed,
I will become
a rogue ocean wave.

Lines

by Denny E. Marshall

lands body and hands
wrapped tightly with barbed wire
of roads and bridges

Untitled

by Stephen A. Rozwenc

brick after brick
sown in harkened earth
by anonymous monks
this stairwell of silent prayers
ascends straight up
the puckered mountainside

where unutterable genius
envelopes the highest peak
in palpable mist
a gold leaved temple
beholds the green valley far below
bluer than the simple ability
to accept love
without the paraplegic futility
of desire

Double Helix

by Mark Danowsky

two red tails lock
in spiral descent
after a crow chase
fall with the sun
glinting off feather

A Lizard

by Taylor Graham

Under chickweed, foxtail, thistle bursting
green between rocks where I cut a path, trying
to clear defensible-space around my house
against wildfire – a glimpse of silver
wrinkles fast away from the spin of my weed-
eater, a flash of darting dark that disappears
into uncut grass, safety; invisible now.
I’ll leave a wide wild swath in my mowing,
to remind how uncertain and ragged
is the world we share, alligator lizard and I,
between fire and the clearing line.

The Avian and the Cetacean for Beau Cutts

by Karla Linn Merrifield

He is the wandering albatross flying
every thermal of my great heart
in ceaseless flight, effortlessly driving

on great wingèd beats this steady rhythm
I pulse with him, his humpback;
he is the bird; I am the whale.

We are pelagic creatures of synchronicity,
at one with the sea and the sky.
It is a scientific fact; it is a myth.

Sand Harbor, Nevada

by Stefanie Bennett

When nobody’s shore-
Watching
The unspoken
Stones
Wing it
And sing...