by David Chorlton
The vultures claim their portion of the sky
each day, and surrender it
with grace when the pines on the mountain
draw light through their roots
and a glow
spreads from inside.
You can see them from the porch
of an old house, built before convenience
when the miners arrived thirsty
and left without finding
what they came for. The roads
they used have outlived them,
still winding up and around
to where a shaft begins
its descent into darkness, still turning
to the dust a truck kicks out
on a day when the light is so dry
you can peel it away from the suede
colored slopes and watch
Whitetail Canyon erode.
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Rain Dance
by Wayne Scheer
they do rain dances
but have no rhythm
they sing songs
but chant off key
I offer what they need
so the rivers flow
still, they dance and sing
wanting more or less
they do rain dances
but have no rhythm
they sing songs
but chant off key
I offer what they need
so the rivers flow
still, they dance and sing
wanting more or less
Sunday, September 25, 2016
Afternoon with Closed Windows
by Olga Moskvina
Today the house burned down with me in it.
The smoke smelled like incense or something
far away, and I went back to sleep,
though it was afternoon and avocados
were rotting idly on the counter,
while fans turned like skeletal sunflowers
toward bottles of warm beer.
Were those the objects I was secretly waiting for,
trying to close suitcase after suitcase
to protect myself from them? The past tense
with avocados comes naturally,
and I no longer need to open windows
that are no longer there.
Today the house burned down with me in it.
The smoke smelled like incense or something
far away, and I went back to sleep,
though it was afternoon and avocados
were rotting idly on the counter,
while fans turned like skeletal sunflowers
toward bottles of warm beer.
Were those the objects I was secretly waiting for,
trying to close suitcase after suitcase
to protect myself from them? The past tense
with avocados comes naturally,
and I no longer need to open windows
that are no longer there.
Virago on the Ocean
by Clifford Brooks
A virago enjoys smooth indigo.
To contain her knack
to knee-jerk push back,
she wears heavy boots.
Not unhealthy or unwise,
she is seasoned.
Four unquestionable words
cement the good news
she’s signed with the crew:
I believe in you.
There’s good business
in smart romance.
Sailing without an argumentative tide,
Costa Rica ripples off
the starboard side; two twisting in love,
now listing
toward mankind.
They get close enough
to smell the sand, then
muscle beyond it
to a valley that splays open
an orchard of olive,
fig, and apple trees.
It’s too soon for tourists,
shrieking children,
and souvenirs. Tomorrow
will be all about sneaking out
for skinny dipping.
A virago enjoys smooth indigo.
To contain her knack
to knee-jerk push back,
she wears heavy boots.
Not unhealthy or unwise,
she is seasoned.
Four unquestionable words
cement the good news
she’s signed with the crew:
I believe in you.
There’s good business
in smart romance.
Sailing without an argumentative tide,
Costa Rica ripples off
the starboard side; two twisting in love,
now listing
toward mankind.
They get close enough
to smell the sand, then
muscle beyond it
to a valley that splays open
an orchard of olive,
fig, and apple trees.
It’s too soon for tourists,
shrieking children,
and souvenirs. Tomorrow
will be all about sneaking out
for skinny dipping.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
the faithful almanack
by Richard Thompson
old laws
did not obtain:
that year
frost came
before the snow—
the fragile blossoms
with no frozen blankets
froze.
the sky
betrayed us:
rain burned
the leaves
black
as the looming sun
old laws
did not obtain:
that year
frost came
before the snow—
the fragile blossoms
with no frozen blankets
froze.
the sky
betrayed us:
rain burned
the leaves
black
as the looming sun
Morning Mist
by Ed Hack
The sun burns off the mist--no mystery,
but still. . .I wake up into morning mist;
the sun is softly radiant in trees
enmeshed in glowing gems, the dawn's last gift
before the clarity of day. Each gain
means loss, the basic mathematics of
our lives. You see. It leaves. The light explains
the rules. The worlds below, the worlds above,
the worlds inside, delirious with need,
arise like dawn, mature through afternoons,
demand the rest of night where dream exceeds
the reach of thought to ply the deep mind's loom.
Like mist our dreams with their peculiar skills
burned off by day. No mystery, but still.
The sun burns off the mist--no mystery,
but still. . .I wake up into morning mist;
the sun is softly radiant in trees
enmeshed in glowing gems, the dawn's last gift
before the clarity of day. Each gain
means loss, the basic mathematics of
our lives. You see. It leaves. The light explains
the rules. The worlds below, the worlds above,
the worlds inside, delirious with need,
arise like dawn, mature through afternoons,
demand the rest of night where dream exceeds
the reach of thought to ply the deep mind's loom.
Like mist our dreams with their peculiar skills
burned off by day. No mystery, but still.
Succession
by Laurinda Lind
Two hours south, it is not as dry and the grass
in the median of the interstate is actually green
or something like it. It is the same in the overflow
parking lot next to the funeral home, chlorophyll
coming through and even water scattering from
the sky and across the windshield. But behind
the back walk between the lot and the building,
the Little Salmon River has turned into a mud
meander with a pond at one end where every
thing alive in there must have come to coexist
in the same way we who just parked are about
to be alive together in a room with a dead cousin.
Two hours south, it is not as dry and the grass
in the median of the interstate is actually green
or something like it. It is the same in the overflow
parking lot next to the funeral home, chlorophyll
coming through and even water scattering from
the sky and across the windshield. But behind
the back walk between the lot and the building,
the Little Salmon River has turned into a mud
meander with a pond at one end where every
thing alive in there must have come to coexist
in the same way we who just parked are about
to be alive together in a room with a dead cousin.
Sunday, September 18, 2016
Drink the Ramen
by David Lohrey
It rains every day but there is no water.
In Chitose-Funabashi, the puddles are fine and the river runs wide,
But showers are on timers.
Take the wrappers off the bottles, keep the lettuce in the larder,
The neighbors eye our bin.
This summer, lightning strikes harder but the rains lose heart.
Locals don’t taste the noodles, the flavor’s in the broth.
It rains every day but there is no water.
It rains every day but there is no water.
In Chitose-Funabashi, the puddles are fine and the river runs wide,
But showers are on timers.
Take the wrappers off the bottles, keep the lettuce in the larder,
The neighbors eye our bin.
This summer, lightning strikes harder but the rains lose heart.
Locals don’t taste the noodles, the flavor’s in the broth.
It rains every day but there is no water.
Invasive Species Part 6
by Carla Schwartz
Trim the fire bushes, before they bloom,
before they flame.
Trim the fire bushes, before they bloom,
before they flame.
Wednesday, September 14, 2016
Mourning rose
by Mercedes Webb-Pullman
Her letter said 'Your yellow rose
covered the end of the shed
and climbed up onto the roof.
The dark red scented one near the drive
ran down the fence to the street.
Best rose season in years.”
All through the drought I'd kept them alive,
rationed water carefully, caught shower waste
and turned my skin to petals.
When I left, the rain started.
It hasn't stopped yet.
Her letter said 'Your yellow rose
covered the end of the shed
and climbed up onto the roof.
The dark red scented one near the drive
ran down the fence to the street.
Best rose season in years.”
All through the drought I'd kept them alive,
rationed water carefully, caught shower waste
and turned my skin to petals.
When I left, the rain started.
It hasn't stopped yet.
Salty Wounds
by Chris Butler
Pour the rain upon me,
cook the dragon in the spoon.
Pour the brown into the shot glass,
and don’t wake me before noon.
The salty water around me
seeps into the wounds,
penetrating my nerve endings,
but don’t wake me before you.
I’m swimming
with the great whites,
I’m swinging
within the a rope tire,
I’m flipping
on a shore of carbon dioxide.
Pour it all upon me,
the world and its monsoons,
let me drown above ground
when the levees break through
walls built to fail.
Pour the rain upon me,
cook the dragon in the spoon.
Pour the brown into the shot glass,
and don’t wake me before noon.
The salty water around me
seeps into the wounds,
penetrating my nerve endings,
but don’t wake me before you.
I’m swimming
with the great whites,
I’m swinging
within the a rope tire,
I’m flipping
on a shore of carbon dioxide.
Pour it all upon me,
the world and its monsoons,
let me drown above ground
when the levees break through
walls built to fail.
Succession
by Laurinda Lind
Two hours south, it is not as dry and the grass
in the median of the interstate is actually green
or something like it. It is the same in the overflow
parking lot next to the funeral home, chlorophyll
coming through and even water scattering from
the sky and across the windshield. But behind
the back walk between the lot and the building,
the Little Salmon River has turned into a mud
meander with a pond at one end where every
thing alive in there must have come to coexist
in the same way we who just parked are about
to be alive together in a room with a dead cousin.
Two hours south, it is not as dry and the grass
in the median of the interstate is actually green
or something like it. It is the same in the overflow
parking lot next to the funeral home, chlorophyll
coming through and even water scattering from
the sky and across the windshield. But behind
the back walk between the lot and the building,
the Little Salmon River has turned into a mud
meander with a pond at one end where every
thing alive in there must have come to coexist
in the same way we who just parked are about
to be alive together in a room with a dead cousin.
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Doppler Farms
by Todd Mercer
They dance to make rain, seed clouds with silver iodide. They pray
over cracks in the field, summon up a freelance climatologist,
but saturated air won’t condense to drops to save the crops. The loan looms
like a scythe overhanging the end of October. They skirt the sharp edge of it,
kick up dust that was topsoil. Before. Water—they pack it by buckets
from the well-head to mist the crop rows. The brute labor,
his and hers, passes days quickly, but the drought holds on.
The green-screened TV rain-man lacks answers. He’s primed
to evaporate, dissolve into the atmosphere, where farmers
can’t find him. Like them he’s losing precious sweat
at the mercy of the Fates, the Guy Upstairs,
and the Southern Oscillation.
They dance to make rain, seed clouds with silver iodide. They pray
over cracks in the field, summon up a freelance climatologist,
but saturated air won’t condense to drops to save the crops. The loan looms
like a scythe overhanging the end of October. They skirt the sharp edge of it,
kick up dust that was topsoil. Before. Water—they pack it by buckets
from the well-head to mist the crop rows. The brute labor,
his and hers, passes days quickly, but the drought holds on.
The green-screened TV rain-man lacks answers. He’s primed
to evaporate, dissolve into the atmosphere, where farmers
can’t find him. Like them he’s losing precious sweat
at the mercy of the Fates, the Guy Upstairs,
and the Southern Oscillation.
Curve Wind
by Joe Hess
The devil’s latest commitment
to global warning is a strange ocean
concoction with a cocktail
umbrella the size of Texas
growing in the Pacific. It’s been
pretty impolite to suggest the devil
is anything but a sweet and sexy
taboo artist, ever since
Rita Hayworth first suggested
in the forties to: “Put the Blame
on Mame,” as she peeled one
white, satin glove down her arm.
Now mother nature pays
for our seductive game of chicken
with the Mr. Big—in blood
as his final event horizon creeps
like a curving zephyr
through our half-tapped
wilderness, touched irrevocably,
profanely naked, and all
the sacred veils are falling away.
The devil’s latest commitment
to global warning is a strange ocean
concoction with a cocktail
umbrella the size of Texas
growing in the Pacific. It’s been
pretty impolite to suggest the devil
is anything but a sweet and sexy
taboo artist, ever since
Rita Hayworth first suggested
in the forties to: “Put the Blame
on Mame,” as she peeled one
white, satin glove down her arm.
Now mother nature pays
for our seductive game of chicken
with the Mr. Big—in blood
as his final event horizon creeps
like a curving zephyr
through our half-tapped
wilderness, touched irrevocably,
profanely naked, and all
the sacred veils are falling away.
Harsh Realities
by Patricia Tyrer
Predators lazily waiting atop the bluff, patiently alert to harsh realities
hanging over unseen life too small to notice and of no use to coyotes.
Ragged brush covering narrow paths amidst the rocks,
righteous in its authority to squeeze out the slighter undergrowth.
Cowering mesquite waiting for the un-initiated vulnerable to its razor-like spurs.
Secretive flora and fauna ready to entangle the unwary.
Sudden bursts from ragged skies swallow lesser creatures foolishly sunning in the dusty burn. The creek a red running miasma giving, taking.
Sun slipping off the western sky leaving its reddened breath
Shadows barely dimming the high plains
still saturated with dense heat.
Insects rush against the evening skies.
Predators lazily waiting atop the bluff, patiently alert to harsh realities
hanging over unseen life too small to notice and of no use to coyotes.
Ragged brush covering narrow paths amidst the rocks,
righteous in its authority to squeeze out the slighter undergrowth.
Cowering mesquite waiting for the un-initiated vulnerable to its razor-like spurs.
Secretive flora and fauna ready to entangle the unwary.
Sudden bursts from ragged skies swallow lesser creatures foolishly sunning in the dusty burn. The creek a red running miasma giving, taking.
Sun slipping off the western sky leaving its reddened breath
Shadows barely dimming the high plains
still saturated with dense heat.
Insects rush against the evening skies.
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
On One More Drought Day
by John Grey
Wind whispers why the rain won't come
to brown wheat,
to bony cattle,
to falling fence posts.
In the sweltering bar,
beer, underwear crackle,
random hugs eschew the feral hormone smell.
Beneath the rickety bridge,
old shoes ride brown current
to the death.
Weatherman flutters about
on a storefront television,
paints the screen a torrid red.
Wind whistles through
the silence of the cop
steering his car in circles.
July thickens his brow
with gluey sweat.
On melting sidewalks,
by dried up marshlands
and burnt-out gardens,
old men, heads buried in each other's,
whisper the past into better shape
than the searing present.
Wind whispers why the rain won't come
to brown wheat,
to bony cattle,
to falling fence posts.
In the sweltering bar,
beer, underwear crackle,
random hugs eschew the feral hormone smell.
Beneath the rickety bridge,
old shoes ride brown current
to the death.
Weatherman flutters about
on a storefront television,
paints the screen a torrid red.
Wind whistles through
the silence of the cop
steering his car in circles.
July thickens his brow
with gluey sweat.
On melting sidewalks,
by dried up marshlands
and burnt-out gardens,
old men, heads buried in each other's,
whisper the past into better shape
than the searing present.
Daybreak, Drought
by Joe Cottonwood
Sun rises in a dry sky,
we walk a dirt road,
the dog and I.
Rounding a bend
little Mickey halts,
one paw lifted.
Three deer—a buck, a doe, a fawn—
senses ablaze with the twitch of ear,
quiver of nose, blink of eye
take our measure.
The buck has a handsome rack
but I can see ribs, count the bones.
I once saw a doe maul an Aussie shepherd, cracking
the skull with her forelegs to protect a fawn.
Mickey with uncommon good judgment
stays frozen by my ankle.
A moment, mild,
of silent negotiation,
the domestic and the wild.
With such hunger the fawn, at least,
might eat from my hand
before the buck spears me.
The doe breaks first, up a hillside so vertical
her hooves can’t hold. She slides back,
then on a switchback leaps again
followed quickly by the fawn
as the buck remains, impassive and supreme,
gentleman and protector,
what you wish in your own father, frankly,
and then he follows with that head-bobbing walk
balancing antlers into the parched brush
holding our gaze until vanished.
Sun rises in a dry sky,
we walk a dirt road,
the dog and I.
Rounding a bend
little Mickey halts,
one paw lifted.
Three deer—a buck, a doe, a fawn—
senses ablaze with the twitch of ear,
quiver of nose, blink of eye
take our measure.
The buck has a handsome rack
but I can see ribs, count the bones.
I once saw a doe maul an Aussie shepherd, cracking
the skull with her forelegs to protect a fawn.
Mickey with uncommon good judgment
stays frozen by my ankle.
A moment, mild,
of silent negotiation,
the domestic and the wild.
With such hunger the fawn, at least,
might eat from my hand
before the buck spears me.
The doe breaks first, up a hillside so vertical
her hooves can’t hold. She slides back,
then on a switchback leaps again
followed quickly by the fawn
as the buck remains, impassive and supreme,
gentleman and protector,
what you wish in your own father, frankly,
and then he follows with that head-bobbing walk
balancing antlers into the parched brush
holding our gaze until vanished.
Last Night's Storm
by Ed Hack
Day dawns with mist and meadow soaked with rain
and sun across a swath of grass as crows
are barking loudly through the air. The train
is rumbling, speeding by, its horn a low,
long, mournful note that ribbons out like smoke.
A rabbit hops into the brush away
from hunger's eyes that circle in the cloak
of distances of sky, weak blue, not gray
that shattered into rain's strange mystery,
exploding air and what the crazed world flings,
hysteria of fire broken free,
the world seen by the flash of angels' wings.
There're diamonds glinting in the grass from last
night's storm, perfected by its lightning blasts.
Day dawns with mist and meadow soaked with rain
and sun across a swath of grass as crows
are barking loudly through the air. The train
is rumbling, speeding by, its horn a low,
long, mournful note that ribbons out like smoke.
A rabbit hops into the brush away
from hunger's eyes that circle in the cloak
of distances of sky, weak blue, not gray
that shattered into rain's strange mystery,
exploding air and what the crazed world flings,
hysteria of fire broken free,
the world seen by the flash of angels' wings.
There're diamonds glinting in the grass from last
night's storm, perfected by its lightning blasts.
Sunday, September 4, 2016
Crane
by Laughing Waters
autumn sky
absorbing
last scream
of the crane
autumn sky
absorbing
last scream
of the crane
autumn sky
absorbing
last scream
of the crane
As for bird me and my daddy catch him with my daddy's jacket he was doctored and released back to the wilderness in the Spring.
This haiku it is very dear to my heart story. My father always wanted a boy but I came to this world and when my sister was born they find out that they can't have no more children so he become very close to me because I was a wild one in the family, tree climbing, bugs, mud rides, risque homeless animals and I was bringing in the house anything I could find.
autumn sky
absorbing
last scream
of the crane
Once late September he took me fishing on the lake and it was early winter, cold nights and short days. Birds was gathering and they was ready to fly South for winter. Cranes love that lake and one of them get hurt, his wing was injured so he couldn't fly so that early morning they took off and he was left behind he was calling for them and they would answer, but far they fly he would scream louder and louder but they keep on going south. And if you ever hear crane screaming you will never forget that I promise you, this sound so desperate it will chill your blood and make your heart skip the beat. I will never forget that scream.
autumn sky
absorbing
last scream
of the crane
Years later I was visiting Big Easy aka New Orleans me and girl friends was walking late right before sunrise and it was time when finally everyone went to sleep. Trash was everywhere and wind was blowing it around few love couples and it was so quiet and to our surprise we heard scream "Amanda, Amanda please come back to me" it was a man very well dressed and he was standing on the balcony, holding champagne bottle and he was keep on calling her. For some reason I remembered my favorite series Frazier. And main character was Dr. Frazier Crane. He has everything in his life, money, fame but no love. So all this create this haiku. Birds and humans we alike we love and we want to be loved.
autumn sky
absorbing
last scream
of the crane
As for bird me and my daddy catch him with my daddy's jacket he was doctored and released back to the wilderness in the Spring.
Rain Comes in the Fourth Year
by Laura Hogan
Drought-flamed leaves wake
in bewilderment under
the unfamiliar caress of
liquid mercy,
a strange drenching of hope.
Sugar maple fingers drip
myrrh, precious dew
persimmons gather courage,
gasping pepper trees and
wasting cottontails revive.
Roots remember
Elijah casting prayer
over the sea long ago;
changed hearts
watered the dust of Carmel.
Every living thing
drinks, colors deepen,
darken with wet blessing.
The collective breath draws damp,
sighs relief.
At last you have turned your face
to us, wreathed in cloud.
Your gentle rain
quiet as the prayer
of our very cells.
And the towhees and larks,
darting acrobats
in air washed
clean
of the dry multitude of regrets,
pierce the sky with
reaching cascades of joy.
Drought-flamed leaves wake
in bewilderment under
the unfamiliar caress of
liquid mercy,
a strange drenching of hope.
Sugar maple fingers drip
myrrh, precious dew
persimmons gather courage,
gasping pepper trees and
wasting cottontails revive.
Roots remember
Elijah casting prayer
over the sea long ago;
changed hearts
watered the dust of Carmel.
Every living thing
drinks, colors deepen,
darken with wet blessing.
The collective breath draws damp,
sighs relief.
At last you have turned your face
to us, wreathed in cloud.
Your gentle rain
quiet as the prayer
of our very cells.
And the towhees and larks,
darting acrobats
in air washed
clean
of the dry multitude of regrets,
pierce the sky with
reaching cascades of joy.
Landing A Steelhead
by Lee Seese
Thigh-deep in the Queets in wool and waders on St. Patrick's Day,
I stand below a tailout, the water dark and still as Jacob's dream.
In drizzled dawn, drawled and drawn, the ceiling low,
I am sodden, stiff, half-asleep even after coffee. And yet,
my appetite is keened for the electric instant when the trout’s life
courses through my fingertips. I watch the bobber drift the surface,
walking speed. Fifteen feet below, a roe sack bumps along the bed.
Now it strikes! The jagged current courses down the line.
I give a flick to set the hook. Long before the sixteen pounds of
fight has left the fish, before the photo shot with mossy backdrop
highlights iridescent silver shining from its flank, I feel the spooling out,
the conscience-bothered sense, that it is wrong for only one of us
to end this day at home.
Thigh-deep in the Queets in wool and waders on St. Patrick's Day,
I stand below a tailout, the water dark and still as Jacob's dream.
In drizzled dawn, drawled and drawn, the ceiling low,
I am sodden, stiff, half-asleep even after coffee. And yet,
my appetite is keened for the electric instant when the trout’s life
courses through my fingertips. I watch the bobber drift the surface,
walking speed. Fifteen feet below, a roe sack bumps along the bed.
Now it strikes! The jagged current courses down the line.
I give a flick to set the hook. Long before the sixteen pounds of
fight has left the fish, before the photo shot with mossy backdrop
highlights iridescent silver shining from its flank, I feel the spooling out,
the conscience-bothered sense, that it is wrong for only one of us
to end this day at home.
Thursday, September 1, 2016
Sunday, August 28, 2016
thanatos
by Lee Seese
in the driest season
anyone around here can remember
embers under fallen cedars
inch up needle-bedded rills
on the cusp of conflagration as
a chiggering itch in all of us
half-despairs half-hopes
to find release
in the driest season
anyone around here can remember
embers under fallen cedars
inch up needle-bedded rills
on the cusp of conflagration as
a chiggering itch in all of us
half-despairs half-hopes
to find release
Drought
by Diane Lee Moomey
You could, fed up
with red and blue flashing lights
and sickened by the siren howls
of human misery that never stop, could
slip through any window and follow
the thread back to Narnia.
You could
backtrack your own trail
and know that, had you turned north
in 1981 instead of west, she might
have said “yes” and you might now
be sitting in a different chair.
Or not.
Or you could, reflecting upon lawns
and empty lakes and on the vanishings
of certain birds, either slide into a glass
with ice, or, ranting, take to the streets
and by now, both those roads will lead
to the same place.
It’s been such a long drought. So many
things were never born.
You could, fed up
with red and blue flashing lights
and sickened by the siren howls
of human misery that never stop, could
slip through any window and follow
the thread back to Narnia.
You could
backtrack your own trail
and know that, had you turned north
in 1981 instead of west, she might
have said “yes” and you might now
be sitting in a different chair.
Or not.
Or you could, reflecting upon lawns
and empty lakes and on the vanishings
of certain birds, either slide into a glass
with ice, or, ranting, take to the streets
and by now, both those roads will lead
to the same place.
It’s been such a long drought. So many
things were never born.
The Summer of Heat
by Michael H. Brownstein
A shallot of cloud
silver gray
braised oyster
lucid.
What happened
to the rain?
The liner notes
of cloud?
The hiding place
for wind and weather?
Nightfall
the moon onion shaped
the darkening sky
silverback and empty.
A shallot of cloud
silver gray
braised oyster
lucid.
What happened
to the rain?
The liner notes
of cloud?
The hiding place
for wind and weather?
Nightfall
the moon onion shaped
the darkening sky
silverback and empty.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Untitled
by Stephen A. Rozwenc
through the open temple door
a jade Buddha glints
like an emerald jelly fish
swimming the ocean
of benign munificence
the intrepid rapscallion
peers down
down down
all the way down
to where foolish attachment
lets go
of its chattering monkey self
through the open temple door
a jade Buddha glints
like an emerald jelly fish
swimming the ocean
of benign munificence
the intrepid rapscallion
peers down
down down
all the way down
to where foolish attachment
lets go
of its chattering monkey self
A Golden Thread
by Julie Ramon
Only the people that live on the outskirts
of town, down long roads littered with
shadows and cows understand when you’re
mid-recipe and need an egg, you can’t leave
to buy one. Instead, you walk through fields
and listen to the sound of drought crunch and notice
the way grasshoppers lead the way. And, neighbors
know the squeak of their gate opening at the end
of the drive. They meet you half way and ask
what you’re making, and you return home
egg in fist, following the step you made before,
the parts through grass. You, the thread
that weaves from one place to another
always headed home to finish what you started.
Only the people that live on the outskirts
of town, down long roads littered with
shadows and cows understand when you’re
mid-recipe and need an egg, you can’t leave
to buy one. Instead, you walk through fields
and listen to the sound of drought crunch and notice
the way grasshoppers lead the way. And, neighbors
know the squeak of their gate opening at the end
of the drive. They meet you half way and ask
what you’re making, and you return home
egg in fist, following the step you made before,
the parts through grass. You, the thread
that weaves from one place to another
always headed home to finish what you started.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Dry Spell
(Northern Territory: Australia)
by Stefanie Bennett
Waiting on the inevitable...
The purple plain
Recycles its dust
Into the Sky Spirit’s
Blue-firestar starlight –and
The Summertime
Cut-out whirlwind.
There are no crop circles
Here. No stone-washed
Galaxy. Just
Gondwanaland’s nomadic
Electrons gathering
(I warn you!) The oldest
Of Old Souls.
Waiting on the inevitable...
The purple plain
Recycles its dust
Into the Sky Spirit’s
Blue-firestar starlight –and
The Summertime
Cut-out whirlwind.
There are no crop circles
Here. No stone-washed
Galaxy. Just
Gondwanaland’s nomadic
Electrons gathering
(I warn you!) The oldest
Of Old Souls.
The Drought Close to Home
by Marianne Szlyk
So close to the sea, the Scituate reservoir
contracts to shards of clouds and sky.
Smashed on thick mud, these shards
shrink from the tree trunks and stones
rising where water once flowed.
Humid air promises rain but does not
release it. Blue sky persists
though towering clouds form.
No storms arise,
even rumors of thunder
off the coast.
Afternoon sun
grinds the shards to dust.
So close to the sea, the Scituate reservoir
contracts to shards of clouds and sky.
Smashed on thick mud, these shards
shrink from the tree trunks and stones
rising where water once flowed.
Humid air promises rain but does not
release it. Blue sky persists
though towering clouds form.
No storms arise,
even rumors of thunder
off the coast.
Afternoon sun
grinds the shards to dust.
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
In the clouds
by Martha Landman
See that woman, lying on her back
chin up, dressed in grey-white fluff.
Long slow strands of mist float upwards
from underneath her,
changes her shape,
arches her back.
Now she’s Freud,
looking in the opposite
direction, stone-faced.
A baby sitting on his forehead
softens his Hitler nose and moustache.
Now his arms drift away from his body.
The silver-blue halo looks out of place.
His laughter, thick and thundery,
drones through the sky.
See that woman, lying on her back
chin up, dressed in grey-white fluff.
Long slow strands of mist float upwards
from underneath her,
changes her shape,
arches her back.
Now she’s Freud,
looking in the opposite
direction, stone-faced.
A baby sitting on his forehead
softens his Hitler nose and moustache.
Now his arms drift away from his body.
The silver-blue halo looks out of place.
His laughter, thick and thundery,
drones through the sky.
Native Climate
by Karla Linn Merrifield
On Dominica rain proves
rainforest abundance.
Giant tree ferns bow with weight
of sheets of rainfall.
Fringe of moss gathers rain droplets to one by one
drop into rain rivulets running
leaf litter routes to rain-full streams
streaming into gullies through volcanic
valleys gorging on rain flowing
into the island’s rivers of rain,
one rain-swollen river for year’s each day.
Rain for farm fields. Rain for ships’ holds.
Rain. Raining. Rainbow. Rain again.
On Dominica rain proves
rainforest abundance.
Giant tree ferns bow with weight
of sheets of rainfall.
Fringe of moss gathers rain droplets to one by one
drop into rain rivulets running
leaf litter routes to rain-full streams
streaming into gullies through volcanic
valleys gorging on rain flowing
into the island’s rivers of rain,
one rain-swollen river for year’s each day.
Rain for farm fields. Rain for ships’ holds.
Rain. Raining. Rainbow. Rain again.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
August Journal: Monday, August 5, 2013
by Donald Mager
Afternoon pants uncontrollably.
Scummed over with mosquito larvae,
its water dish is low. As okras’
spear-tipped fingers stiffly beckon to
monarchs and chameleons, heat hangs in
harsh layers. The stream is almost dry.
Sluggish pools, shadowed below tree roots
dangling their thick calves over the bank,
swarm with black darts of frog spawn. The heat
paw-pads around and around the dirt
radius of its ten foot rusty
chain. It thirsts for shade and whimpers a
somnolent dirge. Dirt’s baked adobe
wears thin cracks of fine heirloom china.
Afternoon pants uncontrollably.
Scummed over with mosquito larvae,
its water dish is low. As okras’
spear-tipped fingers stiffly beckon to
monarchs and chameleons, heat hangs in
harsh layers. The stream is almost dry.
Sluggish pools, shadowed below tree roots
dangling their thick calves over the bank,
swarm with black darts of frog spawn. The heat
paw-pads around and around the dirt
radius of its ten foot rusty
chain. It thirsts for shade and whimpers a
somnolent dirge. Dirt’s baked adobe
wears thin cracks of fine heirloom china.
We Came Back
by Tammy Stone
A prior world of raucous sounds we
Made, riots of clanging bells but also
Hushed caress. Where each tenderness
Melted like snow a river gone by, anger
Whipped loud, and everything that could,
Happened. But it still wasn’t enough, so
Here we are, marking our cold re-entry in
Soundless, everlasting space, coursing
Through the warring bits, all of it a kind
Of alchemy we’re not here to understand.
We’re here to listen, though we don’t.
It can only start from here, the beating
Heart. The rhythm of palpation, how we
Wandered for years to get here. Times
I rest in that pause, shivering, bone dry,
Waiting for an outstretched hand. This is
How I learned music can be touched. The
Sweet sounds that have made us and the
Ache of memories trailing through Time.
We are ruffled and ravaged. The world as
Sonorous Remembrance, reverberating in a
Thousand ways a feared, desired emptiness.
I try as hard as I can to listen to each note,
Devastating, beautiful, inchoate and true.
A prior world of raucous sounds we
Made, riots of clanging bells but also
Hushed caress. Where each tenderness
Melted like snow a river gone by, anger
Whipped loud, and everything that could,
Happened. But it still wasn’t enough, so
Here we are, marking our cold re-entry in
Soundless, everlasting space, coursing
Through the warring bits, all of it a kind
Of alchemy we’re not here to understand.
We’re here to listen, though we don’t.
It can only start from here, the beating
Heart. The rhythm of palpation, how we
Wandered for years to get here. Times
I rest in that pause, shivering, bone dry,
Waiting for an outstretched hand. This is
How I learned music can be touched. The
Sweet sounds that have made us and the
Ache of memories trailing through Time.
We are ruffled and ravaged. The world as
Sonorous Remembrance, reverberating in a
Thousand ways a feared, desired emptiness.
I try as hard as I can to listen to each note,
Devastating, beautiful, inchoate and true.
Gray Hope
by Tricia Knoll
I fold back our bed sheets this morning
to match the rolls of cloud billows
sliding like pillows into the naked hot sky.
My feet slip to the tuck at the mattress
to test the cool slickness that may be rain
on a horizon of gray hope
this drought might end.
I fold back our bed sheets this morning
to match the rolls of cloud billows
sliding like pillows into the naked hot sky.
My feet slip to the tuck at the mattress
to test the cool slickness that may be rain
on a horizon of gray hope
this drought might end.
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
Nature Being Natural
by Patricia Williams
Sky, sallow yellow and ominous –
a radio voice warns,
sirens scream,
warm moist draft, cool dry gust –
no sparrow chirps,
the dog doesn’t bark,
no leaves undulate –
mortuary stillness
Sky, sallow yellow and ominous –
a radio voice warns,
sirens scream,
warm moist draft, cool dry gust –
no sparrow chirps,
the dog doesn’t bark,
no leaves undulate –
mortuary stillness
The Rain in Spain
by Terrence Sykes
The gracious yet unknowing Spanish rains
Carelessly lay across the barren parched landscape of my desolate secular soul
Fragile - fractured - faded clay earthen tiles peel - crack - roll
Bordering on the dusty receded river banks
From & Of a future by gone era - of today - the unknown present - tense unperfected
Liken to the thirsty desperate soil longing to be drenched
The thoughts of latent seeds - the seeds of laden thought
In a precious gift from a band of seemingly approving gods - above - while - below
Fear - Desire to be frantically - helplessly drowning
In my saline sea of tears - torment - despair
A solitary man shipwrecked on an enchanted isle
Yet without sweet water to quench the hungering thirst
Yet liken to a solitaire ecru flower in the arid scorched desert
I desire to bloom - blossom forth with grand - great expectations
Like a strutting peacock with his feathers aplomb
I held a glimmering - brief vision from the afar - but where
Multitude rainbow colored roses in the blinding snow
While scaling the craggy withering heights
of the Pyrenees - d’hiver - in winter
Lingering traces of the last breath (com)mingle and rise
Rise forth - forward - toward
The awaiting patient heavens on high - above
In simple - silent - sacred - sarcastic exaltation
But the brief yet acidic - sweet waters pass for the barren isolated desert island
Uncharted topography - unknown sands of time - my raspy skin
Too dry - faithless - barren - bitter to accept the rare - perhaps divine gift
To quench the thirst of desire - or perhaps even doubt
Migrating clouds disburse - dissipate - traveling without rhyme or reason
Unknown parallel latitude on the horizontal longitude
Aimlessly following the meandering wayward wind
The revealing harsh light of reality prevailingly returns
With it - my lot of misfortune - misery - daily burden
A gift - a curse - predestination - my oath
In the drudgery of my existence - scorched - rutted tracks I drown
The gracious yet unknowing Spanish rains
The gracious yet unknowing Spanish rains
Carelessly lay across the barren parched landscape of my desolate secular soul
Fragile - fractured - faded clay earthen tiles peel - crack - roll
Bordering on the dusty receded river banks
From & Of a future by gone era - of today - the unknown present - tense unperfected
Liken to the thirsty desperate soil longing to be drenched
The thoughts of latent seeds - the seeds of laden thought
In a precious gift from a band of seemingly approving gods - above - while - below
Fear - Desire to be frantically - helplessly drowning
In my saline sea of tears - torment - despair
A solitary man shipwrecked on an enchanted isle
Yet without sweet water to quench the hungering thirst
Yet liken to a solitaire ecru flower in the arid scorched desert
I desire to bloom - blossom forth with grand - great expectations
Like a strutting peacock with his feathers aplomb
I held a glimmering - brief vision from the afar - but where
Multitude rainbow colored roses in the blinding snow
While scaling the craggy withering heights
of the Pyrenees - d’hiver - in winter
Lingering traces of the last breath (com)mingle and rise
Rise forth - forward - toward
The awaiting patient heavens on high - above
In simple - silent - sacred - sarcastic exaltation
But the brief yet acidic - sweet waters pass for the barren isolated desert island
Uncharted topography - unknown sands of time - my raspy skin
Too dry - faithless - barren - bitter to accept the rare - perhaps divine gift
To quench the thirst of desire - or perhaps even doubt
Migrating clouds disburse - dissipate - traveling without rhyme or reason
Unknown parallel latitude on the horizontal longitude
Aimlessly following the meandering wayward wind
The revealing harsh light of reality prevailingly returns
With it - my lot of misfortune - misery - daily burden
A gift - a curse - predestination - my oath
In the drudgery of my existence - scorched - rutted tracks I drown
The gracious yet unknowing Spanish rains
Sunday, August 7, 2016
Kanaka Valley
by Taylor Graham
A kink in the road, kind of a dog-leg
kicking east. A snag whose hanging tip
fell unheard in storm. The folks who
settled here would dive into rivers,
pick up nuggets – gold. Seems they
picked the place parched-dry. No well,
no cabin, no hearth. Corridors of oak
and pine. Clouds, a bit of breeze
to stir the hunger of this land, secrets
weightier than gold in the pan.
A kink in the road, kind of a dog-leg
kicking east. A snag whose hanging tip
fell unheard in storm. The folks who
settled here would dive into rivers,
pick up nuggets – gold. Seems they
picked the place parched-dry. No well,
no cabin, no hearth. Corridors of oak
and pine. Clouds, a bit of breeze
to stir the hunger of this land, secrets
weightier than gold in the pan.
A Bite Out of September
Trout Lake, Washington
by Tricia Knoll
Last night gorge wind blustered down and shook the barn,
frantic wind to follow up weeks of droughted summer.
Crunchy hard fall pears, some call them winter pears, plunked
down into golden grass. We still hoped wind brought rain.
We got mist. Floaty fog, a sky-lifting mid-morning
curtain opening on foothills but not Mt. Adams. A gauziness
that did not water. The golden lab grabbed a knocked-down
tennis ball-green pear, tossed it as if it might bounce.
She took bites, one, then another and another,
one bite per fruit, the pears I’d hoped to poach.
Those pears with white, oxidizing-brown bites,
gouges the shape of fallen angels.
Last night gorge wind blustered down and shook the barn,
frantic wind to follow up weeks of droughted summer.
Crunchy hard fall pears, some call them winter pears, plunked
down into golden grass. We still hoped wind brought rain.
We got mist. Floaty fog, a sky-lifting mid-morning
curtain opening on foothills but not Mt. Adams. A gauziness
that did not water. The golden lab grabbed a knocked-down
tennis ball-green pear, tossed it as if it might bounce.
She took bites, one, then another and another,
one bite per fruit, the pears I’d hoped to poach.
Those pears with white, oxidizing-brown bites,
gouges the shape of fallen angels.
A Private Ceremony
by Tom Sheehan
It was underfoot all the time,
under the sprawling pines, clutch
of alders in their secret weeping,
under bank and half scrutinies,
under an oft-remembered scum
of yellow residuals and blatant ash,
under booming barrage of business
and turmoil gone amuck inland,
this river coming back from the dead.
One strike of trout, silver in slashing,
its quick upstream knifing as if bowed
outward from a grand archer, a slight
speckling of oddly hurried hues
gathered loosely on bright scaling,
announced the comeback ceremony.
Twelve years since the other trout,
thick in the middle, hungry, hurried,
slammed into my hook in river’s gut;
twelve years’ surface garbage, underwater
death in the quick and quiet reign,
the dread reach for root and soft gill
too tender and slow to be refused;
twelve years of idle Saturdays,
dawns spent over lusterless bait
and the image of a river buried
in another time. By the golf course,
where the banks curved under grass
overhangs lush as ever, on April
Nineteenth for thirteen years,
I caught my limit less and hour of sun.
The drought came, the dozen years
between the two trout, the gangrenous
river sore all the way to its falls,
winter-tied flies bouncing hitless
and superficially off crested surface,
targetless, taking the low fly-by
for nothing, soft whiplash of flight
whirring into fast silence of dawn.
A river’s dying aches into Earth’s heart,
begins upstream, inland, begins with us
who envy its freedom, its plunge to seas,
its long passage feeding the mother of all,
we, upright and erect, we inheritors
of all we deposit on Earth, at sea.
And so this rite began, underfoot,
below my waders’ light green refraction
in the clearer waters, began the notion
of the comeback, the ritual dues paid
out over the lost years, the way clear
upstream for one lone trout at history,
the spawning germ buried behind his eyes,
a drum beating upon the silver scales,
the whole vast Atlantic pushing him home,
the clockwise spin of Earth driving inland
this new adventurer, this white water
daredevil banging at my boot, moving on.
I celebrated, hurling back into the dream
the capture of my hook, silver champion
of the return, ghost of the missing years
rushing under the soldered and pewtered
wrestling of waters becoming Atlantican,
this voyager on the prowl, this river mouth,
this wide-angled thrasher at work,
this ceremonial fact of coming clean
upriver, a new glistening gone at large
where my boots stumbled where they trod.
I vow now to free all my taking, to loose
any celebrator on this bright passage,
and if I should halt the harbinger
with the crook of my hook, its corruptible
barb buried in his mouth as deeply
as memory allows the undertaking,
I will loose my hand on the hallowed rod,
I will feed the river with itself.
It was underfoot all the time,
under the sprawling pines, clutch
of alders in their secret weeping,
under bank and half scrutinies,
under an oft-remembered scum
of yellow residuals and blatant ash,
under booming barrage of business
and turmoil gone amuck inland,
this river coming back from the dead.
One strike of trout, silver in slashing,
its quick upstream knifing as if bowed
outward from a grand archer, a slight
speckling of oddly hurried hues
gathered loosely on bright scaling,
announced the comeback ceremony.
Twelve years since the other trout,
thick in the middle, hungry, hurried,
slammed into my hook in river’s gut;
twelve years’ surface garbage, underwater
death in the quick and quiet reign,
the dread reach for root and soft gill
too tender and slow to be refused;
twelve years of idle Saturdays,
dawns spent over lusterless bait
and the image of a river buried
in another time. By the golf course,
where the banks curved under grass
overhangs lush as ever, on April
Nineteenth for thirteen years,
I caught my limit less and hour of sun.
The drought came, the dozen years
between the two trout, the gangrenous
river sore all the way to its falls,
winter-tied flies bouncing hitless
and superficially off crested surface,
targetless, taking the low fly-by
for nothing, soft whiplash of flight
whirring into fast silence of dawn.
A river’s dying aches into Earth’s heart,
begins upstream, inland, begins with us
who envy its freedom, its plunge to seas,
its long passage feeding the mother of all,
we, upright and erect, we inheritors
of all we deposit on Earth, at sea.
And so this rite began, underfoot,
below my waders’ light green refraction
in the clearer waters, began the notion
of the comeback, the ritual dues paid
out over the lost years, the way clear
upstream for one lone trout at history,
the spawning germ buried behind his eyes,
a drum beating upon the silver scales,
the whole vast Atlantic pushing him home,
the clockwise spin of Earth driving inland
this new adventurer, this white water
daredevil banging at my boot, moving on.
I celebrated, hurling back into the dream
the capture of my hook, silver champion
of the return, ghost of the missing years
rushing under the soldered and pewtered
wrestling of waters becoming Atlantican,
this voyager on the prowl, this river mouth,
this wide-angled thrasher at work,
this ceremonial fact of coming clean
upriver, a new glistening gone at large
where my boots stumbled where they trod.
I vow now to free all my taking, to loose
any celebrator on this bright passage,
and if I should halt the harbinger
with the crook of my hook, its corruptible
barb buried in his mouth as deeply
as memory allows the undertaking,
I will loose my hand on the hallowed rod,
I will feed the river with itself.
Wednesday, August 3, 2016
Like Everything In Time
by Ed Hack
Dull day. The light's an afterthought, mere sheen,
not shine, a something left behind, a used-
to-be whose smoke has thinned, what's almost seen
like half-remembered dreams you cannot lose
because they linger in your bones. But just
like that a streak of sun and dullness lifts,
it vanishes like hopes you couldn't trust.
And then, like everything in Time, clouds shift
and light that seems a shadow of itself
returns, a mirror in an empty room
that waits to be fulfilled, an empty shell
upon a beach where mindless ocean booms.
And now, again, the sun, and all it brings--
the glow of things, as if the light was wings.
Dull day. The light's an afterthought, mere sheen,
not shine, a something left behind, a used-
to-be whose smoke has thinned, what's almost seen
like half-remembered dreams you cannot lose
because they linger in your bones. But just
like that a streak of sun and dullness lifts,
it vanishes like hopes you couldn't trust.
And then, like everything in Time, clouds shift
and light that seems a shadow of itself
returns, a mirror in an empty room
that waits to be fulfilled, an empty shell
upon a beach where mindless ocean booms.
And now, again, the sun, and all it brings--
the glow of things, as if the light was wings.
Bill Hook
by Peter Branson
Bill’s working hazel coppice, cropped
before the sap’s inspired to rise,
a five year cycle, each bald swathe
twin chains, the wood a furlong wide.
Hand grinding fines the whining edge
to razorblade, the ultimate
design, hooked like an eagle tooth
‘n’ claw, part sickle, hatchet, knife.
A slashing tool, one blow’s enough
for most, a kinder cut, the coup
de grace, held back for bolder staves.
No snarling power saw for him;
no goggles, helmet, gloves, gnarled fist
burl-oak, arm sculpted, leather-bound;
in shadow of his jaunty wide-
brimmed hat, face weathered-conker brown.
Shoots bolt, each season adding size,
like contour lines, man-made, contrived.
He bundles poles, above twelve foot
for hurdles, less for thatching pins;
trails brush on boles to shield new sprouts
from deer; relights old fires, that fresh
bread smell, a role for faggots in
his youth, the baker’s famished pyre.
Bill’s working hazel coppice, cropped
before the sap’s inspired to rise,
a five year cycle, each bald swathe
twin chains, the wood a furlong wide.
Hand grinding fines the whining edge
to razorblade, the ultimate
design, hooked like an eagle tooth
‘n’ claw, part sickle, hatchet, knife.
A slashing tool, one blow’s enough
for most, a kinder cut, the coup
de grace, held back for bolder staves.
No snarling power saw for him;
no goggles, helmet, gloves, gnarled fist
burl-oak, arm sculpted, leather-bound;
in shadow of his jaunty wide-
brimmed hat, face weathered-conker brown.
Shoots bolt, each season adding size,
like contour lines, man-made, contrived.
He bundles poles, above twelve foot
for hurdles, less for thatching pins;
trails brush on boles to shield new sprouts
from deer; relights old fires, that fresh
bread smell, a role for faggots in
his youth, the baker’s famished pyre.
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Sasazuka Night, After Rain
by David Eves
Buildings rub shoulders.
Streetlight blots the moon's hue, rusts
gullible puddles
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
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
