by José Stelle
The ducks must have flown,
Beating their wings in the night.
Ripples on slate and a light breeze
Cannot console the barefoot girl
Standing on the back porch,
A cup of lukewarm cocoa
In her hand.
Sunday, December 31, 2017
Foamy Wrath
by Kerry Kelly
Ancient cliffs embrace the crushing sea's foamy wrath.
Under the misty panes of ebbing tide green weeds glide,
hovering magnificently above the sands, wedged in rock.
Majestically darting fish colour the canvas, weaving.
Spiked sweets hide in nooks; crimson and orange.
Purple stripes on transparent jellies palpate;
the sea's ballerina.
Ancient cliffs embrace the crushing sea's foamy wrath.
Under the misty panes of ebbing tide clear bags glide,
hovering magnificently above the tin cans, wedged in rope.
Majestically darting driftwood colours the canvas, soaking.
Spiked metal sinks and racks of abandoned nails rust.
Black stripes on unpleasant oils palpate;
entrapping the sea's screaming gulls.
Ancient cliffs embrace the crushing sea's foamy wrath.
Under the misty panes of ebbing tide green weeds glide,
hovering magnificently above the sands, wedged in rock.
Majestically darting fish colour the canvas, weaving.
Spiked sweets hide in nooks; crimson and orange.
Purple stripes on transparent jellies palpate;
the sea's ballerina.
Ancient cliffs embrace the crushing sea's foamy wrath.
Under the misty panes of ebbing tide clear bags glide,
hovering magnificently above the tin cans, wedged in rope.
Majestically darting driftwood colours the canvas, soaking.
Spiked metal sinks and racks of abandoned nails rust.
Black stripes on unpleasant oils palpate;
entrapping the sea's screaming gulls.
Highway T in the Kettle Moraine
by Peggy Turnbull
sky’s soft brush
gray-feathered
wet as dew
plow-etched earth
between dark
seams of grass
sturdy brown
strips of field
curve over
kettles shaped
like earth’s breast
sky’s soft brush
gray-feathered
wet as dew
plow-etched earth
between dark
seams of grass
sturdy brown
strips of field
curve over
kettles shaped
like earth’s breast
Saturday, December 30, 2017
Wednesday, December 27, 2017
Winter Scene #1
by Lynda Lambert
wintry nights
frozen Maple branches
ensnared
curled russet leaves
weaving on a silvery weft
wintry nights
frozen Maple branches
ensnared
curled russet leaves
weaving on a silvery weft
Sunday, December 24, 2017
Shine:
The Gulf Country (Northern Australia)
by Stefanie Bennett
Because happenstance
likes
to play truant
the colour
of the smoke-house
is indigo...
twirling much
as a prayer-wheel
does before
the River Wild
sucks it on
back up
a full throated
November gullet
not quieting
the Sandpiper.
Because happenstance
likes
to play truant
the colour
of the smoke-house
is indigo...
twirling much
as a prayer-wheel
does before
the River Wild
sucks it on
back up
a full throated
November gullet
not quieting
the Sandpiper.
Short-billed Dowitcher
by Lindy Le Coq
tide flat migrant flock
knee deep in muck - long straight bills
probe deeply for feed
subarctic breeder
winter coast-wetland dweller
on the way somewhere
tide flat migrant flock
knee deep in muck - long straight bills
probe deeply for feed
subarctic breeder
winter coast-wetland dweller
on the way somewhere
Turning Off the News in the Sonoran Desert
by Kristin Berger
Caught in the throat
collard dove remembers
a map south
survival script song locates tree
three a.m. blooms
above our white bed
heartsick in the arroyo
in fibers of shade
desert sage passes
all checkpoints
we sleepwalk the wash
rearranging dust
for justice.
Caught in the throat
collard dove remembers
a map south
survival script song locates tree
three a.m. blooms
above our white bed
heartsick in the arroyo
in fibers of shade
desert sage passes
all checkpoints
we sleepwalk the wash
rearranging dust
for justice.
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Ignorance
by Atul Kumar Nayyar
Deep river changes course,
Mighty mountains shift,
Live oceans
Become deadly deserts
I never knew.
Sun gets shadowed,
Earth tears own womb,
Moon possess darkness,
In twinkling stars exist fire,
I never knew.
Flowers loose fragrance,
Leaves stop swaying,
Branches cease swinging,
Live trees become pyre wood,
I never knew.
Mind betrays thoughts,
Heart it's beats,
Beings shed their skin
Body thy soul,
Oh! if I ever knew.
Deep river changes course,
Mighty mountains shift,
Live oceans
Become deadly deserts
I never knew.
Sun gets shadowed,
Earth tears own womb,
Moon possess darkness,
In twinkling stars exist fire,
I never knew.
Flowers loose fragrance,
Leaves stop swaying,
Branches cease swinging,
Live trees become pyre wood,
I never knew.
Mind betrays thoughts,
Heart it's beats,
Beings shed their skin
Body thy soul,
Oh! if I ever knew.
Sunday, December 17, 2017
Past the Expiration Date
by Steve Briske
You breathe in
They breathe out
You breathe in
They breathe out
That is the rhythm of life in the coordinated age
Assigned at birth your time to breathe
You breathe in when they breathe out
It’s all very structured
Coordinated
If it wasn’t
You could breathe in while they were breathing in
And there wouldn’t be enough room for all that synchronized inhalation at once
Humanity is packed in with no room to go or do
No room to grow or think
No room to engage or enrage
No room to enter or exit
There is only breath
You breathe in
They breathe out
You breathe in
They breathe out
Such is the rhythm of life in the coordinated age
Packed
Managed
Stale
You breathe in
They breathe out
You breathe in
They breathe out
That is the rhythm of life in the coordinated age
Assigned at birth your time to breathe
You breathe in when they breathe out
It’s all very structured
Coordinated
If it wasn’t
You could breathe in while they were breathing in
And there wouldn’t be enough room for all that synchronized inhalation at once
Humanity is packed in with no room to go or do
No room to grow or think
No room to engage or enrage
No room to enter or exit
There is only breath
You breathe in
They breathe out
You breathe in
They breathe out
Such is the rhythm of life in the coordinated age
Packed
Managed
Stale
Mary Oliver Leaves the Back Door Open
by Kristen Berger
Tell me which bird wakes first.
The meadowlark’s throated plea or the wren’s woodlot concerto,
mourning dove releasing the seam of sky from the earth
with her notes of clear sight and cant?
Wake to learn how it’s done.
How to leave yesterday’s song alone, how to clutch and release.
The harrier’s wing throws enough shadow
to find the life it needs.
Terror of sun. Blessing of thermals.
True center lives behind the breastbone.
There is no song it slices the morning with –
Soft wake of the hunt,
day, yet to live.
Tell me which bird wakes first.
The meadowlark’s throated plea or the wren’s woodlot concerto,
mourning dove releasing the seam of sky from the earth
with her notes of clear sight and cant?
Wake to learn how it’s done.
How to leave yesterday’s song alone, how to clutch and release.
The harrier’s wing throws enough shadow
to find the life it needs.
Terror of sun. Blessing of thermals.
True center lives behind the breastbone.
There is no song it slices the morning with –
Soft wake of the hunt,
day, yet to live.
Cost
Jacob Parsons
The wound is still raw
A fire ripped through yesterday
This place is muted now and alien and wrong
Only the basic shape is preserved
Like a terrible forgery abandoned
I drift through and try to keep
The silence. I am a breath in a coffin.
As my shoes scuff the sooted land
The wind picks up the unsettled ash
To scatter for a final time.
I pass an old pine that stood longer than I will,
It lies naked, still softly weeping smoke.
The tears whispering as they rise to console
Those trees still upright, the defiant, that have
Been turned into mocking self-silhouettes.
The landscape has been left monochrome
The colours inhaled
So that flames could breathe brilliance.
I can almost see it.
The bush ablaze and shouting to be noticed
And all the creatures in a frenzy to escape
Beneath the rapt eye of crow.
It was horror and choking and beauty
And it was brief but it was alive. Most alive.
For that zenith the forest gave
And gave, until it ran out of gifts.
The wound is still raw
A fire ripped through yesterday
This place is muted now and alien and wrong
Only the basic shape is preserved
Like a terrible forgery abandoned
I drift through and try to keep
The silence. I am a breath in a coffin.
As my shoes scuff the sooted land
The wind picks up the unsettled ash
To scatter for a final time.
I pass an old pine that stood longer than I will,
It lies naked, still softly weeping smoke.
The tears whispering as they rise to console
Those trees still upright, the defiant, that have
Been turned into mocking self-silhouettes.
The landscape has been left monochrome
The colours inhaled
So that flames could breathe brilliance.
I can almost see it.
The bush ablaze and shouting to be noticed
And all the creatures in a frenzy to escape
Beneath the rapt eye of crow.
It was horror and choking and beauty
And it was brief but it was alive. Most alive.
For that zenith the forest gave
And gave, until it ran out of gifts.
Saturday, December 16, 2017
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
Crows Seen in Late Afternoon
News Report: Last night a crew dispersed a large flock of crows from a downtown park.
by Paula Weld-Cary
A swarm of crows
thick as a cave wall
hundreds this afternoon
swooping, cawing, shouting
like a mob of miners in revolt.
Perhaps they speak of last week’s wages
or tell stories of the streetlights’ pale
reflections in the park downtown
where they slept until their recent eviction.
Now they circle maple trees and rooftops
deciding where they’ll go at dusk when they’ll rise
up and ride the swelling currents of the sky.
A swarm of crows
thick as a cave wall
hundreds this afternoon
swooping, cawing, shouting
like a mob of miners in revolt.
Perhaps they speak of last week’s wages
or tell stories of the streetlights’ pale
reflections in the park downtown
where they slept until their recent eviction.
Now they circle maple trees and rooftops
deciding where they’ll go at dusk when they’ll rise
up and ride the swelling currents of the sky.
Sunday, December 10, 2017
The Resistance is Green
by Aaron Conklin
Decrepit buildings strangled with ivy,
crestfallen roofs penetrated by water,
saturating then drying, corroding plaster ceilings,
and softening interior wood to rot.
I welcome the ruin of civilization’s structures,
I secretly applaud the falling of the rain.
Foundation walls eventually surrender
to the obsolete encumbrance of their impermanence,
Man’s impenetrable fortresses subsiding to a verdant victory.
I silently admire the persistent erosion of the metropolis.
Sidewalks fractured by tempered roots writhing beneath the concrete,
Tendrils of grass penetrating the undulant fissures of disintegrating driveways.
The vacant lot’s asphalt is crumbling,
amassing rainwater, and birthing vengeful vegetation.
With a burlap sack slung over my shoulder,
I herald the resistance with showering handfuls of seeds,
sown as they are thrown and sprinkled upon the soil,
I celebrate the patient revolution of the weeds.
Decrepit buildings strangled with ivy,
crestfallen roofs penetrated by water,
saturating then drying, corroding plaster ceilings,
and softening interior wood to rot.
I welcome the ruin of civilization’s structures,
I secretly applaud the falling of the rain.
Foundation walls eventually surrender
to the obsolete encumbrance of their impermanence,
Man’s impenetrable fortresses subsiding to a verdant victory.
I silently admire the persistent erosion of the metropolis.
Sidewalks fractured by tempered roots writhing beneath the concrete,
Tendrils of grass penetrating the undulant fissures of disintegrating driveways.
The vacant lot’s asphalt is crumbling,
amassing rainwater, and birthing vengeful vegetation.
With a burlap sack slung over my shoulder,
I herald the resistance with showering handfuls of seeds,
sown as they are thrown and sprinkled upon the soil,
I celebrate the patient revolution of the weeds.
Post Twilight Again
by Alan Britt
Creepers weld hinges to darkness. Sunlight corrals clouds into Leipzig Stallions nudging & bobbing for angelic attention—this herd of sunlit clouds dusted by the moon’s cataract eyelid. Patio chair ghost slumps against a white-washed shed. One creeper spirals a patchouli ribbon around the geisha thighs of a split-rail fence. Cricket removes his bandoneon, tossing its canvas case aside, & cradles the bandoneon between his knees. Below forsythia & like a stained-glass fingernail one cicada blazes octaves beyond the most esteemed pop singer. Charcoal tears smearing the sky’s canvas, a housepainter’s canvas, drip from a white tin suburban rain gutter.
Friday, December 8, 2017
Of Numerous Fires
by Carl Mayfield
The cars snared by the humans
sway in the smog
to a dubious octane waltz.
Driving from here to there
requires internal combustion,
explosions we can't hear
over the wail of Los Angeles.
A fire on the mountain
takes a while to get there,
traveling as the wind sees fit.
Trees go off like spilled
gunpowder, message still
not received, oblivious
to the earth punching back,
we lament ash and smoke
smudging the skies now moved
into abandoned kitchens.
A vague highway roar
hovers around the emptiness,
scorched hands holding keys
to a house no longer there,
soot being the only color alive,
the wind laying down to rest,
speechless and abiding.
Heartless in every gear,
cars roll between city
and ocean and all the veins
in between, always ready
for someone itching
to get back on the road,
to start the next fire.
The cars snared by the humans
sway in the smog
to a dubious octane waltz.
Driving from here to there
requires internal combustion,
explosions we can't hear
over the wail of Los Angeles.
A fire on the mountain
takes a while to get there,
traveling as the wind sees fit.
Trees go off like spilled
gunpowder, message still
not received, oblivious
to the earth punching back,
we lament ash and smoke
smudging the skies now moved
into abandoned kitchens.
A vague highway roar
hovers around the emptiness,
scorched hands holding keys
to a house no longer there,
soot being the only color alive,
the wind laying down to rest,
speechless and abiding.
Heartless in every gear,
cars roll between city
and ocean and all the veins
in between, always ready
for someone itching
to get back on the road,
to start the next fire.
Wednesday, December 6, 2017
Polynesian morning
by Stephanie V Sears
Indecision before creation
sea and sky still immersed
in each other’s reflection.
Intangible horizon veiled in
naught, beyond reach
of the defining hour.
At the combed edge of sand
water melts in a spasm
as if saying ‘at last’ and
irons out deception.
At the tip of the shoal
invisible footsteps
neither alight nor take off
but to everywhere at once.
A radiance appears where
smelted green and blue
fulfill an alien calm.
The sky catches its breath,
leaks colors and contrast,
complicates everything.
Indecision before creation
sea and sky still immersed
in each other’s reflection.
Intangible horizon veiled in
naught, beyond reach
of the defining hour.
At the combed edge of sand
water melts in a spasm
as if saying ‘at last’ and
irons out deception.
At the tip of the shoal
invisible footsteps
neither alight nor take off
but to everywhere at once.
A radiance appears where
smelted green and blue
fulfill an alien calm.
The sky catches its breath,
leaks colors and contrast,
complicates everything.
Sunday, December 3, 2017
connection drama
by Adrienne Veronese
once again i have followed winter to its natural conclusion
after one too many false starts toward this eventual spring,
am perched precariously in the fleeting sense of belonging
on the truant side of school road, late for this education
in asphalt & pavement dreams, therefore powerless
against the red-tailed hawk circling overhead,
his habitat disappearing beneath freshly poured cement
& piercing cry demanding to know what our connection is
where survival beats just as persistently at the door
of misbegotten subdivisions as his wings do
against the offshore breeze
i am collecting scattered showers for excuses
& he has taken a bride against all odds,
the crows chasing them from bull pine to ponderosa,
making sport of a chase we dismiss as territorial
without considering its implications
here, where the odds of survival make gamblers of us all
we rarely look each other in the eye
& though he is no different it seemed i caught his gaze for just a moment
while lifting his fallen feather from the underbrush
he seemed to be waiting, as errant players down rabbit holes
& other ministers of subterranean justice often do
waiting for me to define
just how
we are
connected
once again i have followed winter to its natural conclusion
after one too many false starts toward this eventual spring,
am perched precariously in the fleeting sense of belonging
on the truant side of school road, late for this education
in asphalt & pavement dreams, therefore powerless
against the red-tailed hawk circling overhead,
his habitat disappearing beneath freshly poured cement
& piercing cry demanding to know what our connection is
where survival beats just as persistently at the door
of misbegotten subdivisions as his wings do
against the offshore breeze
i am collecting scattered showers for excuses
& he has taken a bride against all odds,
the crows chasing them from bull pine to ponderosa,
making sport of a chase we dismiss as territorial
without considering its implications
here, where the odds of survival make gamblers of us all
we rarely look each other in the eye
& though he is no different it seemed i caught his gaze for just a moment
while lifting his fallen feather from the underbrush
he seemed to be waiting, as errant players down rabbit holes
& other ministers of subterranean justice often do
waiting for me to define
just how
we are
connected
Flotsam
by B. Anne Adriaens
Traipsing through driftwood and debris,
stumbling
over tarred and feathered birds
washed up on the shore,
tangled
in seaweed and old fishing nets,
among bottles and broken toys.
Plastic:
its garish colours an insult
refusing to fade, an enduring
reminder
of those things we thought we’d buried.
Traipsing through driftwood and debris,
stumbling
over tarred and feathered birds
washed up on the shore,
tangled
in seaweed and old fishing nets,
among bottles and broken toys.
Plastic:
its garish colours an insult
refusing to fade, an enduring
reminder
of those things we thought we’d buried.
Saturday, December 2, 2017
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
Lone Wolf
by Ilene Millman
No revenants climb the shoulder
of rock
only you
far from home a transient in shabby overcoat
running past all ability to breathe
busted radio collar hanging from your neck.
Last time anyone caught
even a glimpse of you prowling
the north rim of Grand Canyon, FDR was president.
How many miles crossing iron-stained cliffs
pulled by earth’s pole mineral scents
soil water blood.
On the plateau tonight, no shadows fall
there is only light
drawn out of midnight
out of daybreak’s rise
and you
hungry sore
the world narrowed down to this
as it is however it is.
No revenants climb the shoulder
of rock
only you
far from home a transient in shabby overcoat
running past all ability to breathe
busted radio collar hanging from your neck.
Last time anyone caught
even a glimpse of you prowling
the north rim of Grand Canyon, FDR was president.
How many miles crossing iron-stained cliffs
pulled by earth’s pole mineral scents
soil water blood.
On the plateau tonight, no shadows fall
there is only light
drawn out of midnight
out of daybreak’s rise
and you
hungry sore
the world narrowed down to this
as it is however it is.
Sunday, November 26, 2017
Picking up the Pieces
by Elaine Christie
A black sweater water soaked
looks like - congealed blood of a
Faceless Rhino - the worlds stigmata.
Chip paper with remains of barbecued ribs
A Flamingo - some boys thought would be
fun to kick to death.
My gripper pulls a soggy carrier from the mud
leaving drag marks - of White Lions
hauled into cages for canned hunting.
A rubbish bag vomits on grass -
One grey glove -
the amputated paw of a Wolf
who struggled too hard.
Brown belt with large round buckle -
protrudes from a Dancing Bear's nose.
A spotted slipper -
Cheetah Cubs killed for rich Arab feet.
Flattened coke cans -
Crush videos from China
where women in stilettos pierce flesh
again and again and again.
Half full Dr Pepper bottle -
Vinegar filled Victorian jars
Of tiger embryos - pickled
to make wine from their bones.
Even the downy of a dead Pigeon
haunts my dreams.
The earth is a fragile body
of gaping red wounds, blue bruises
rainfall can't cleanse.
A black sweater water soaked
looks like - congealed blood of a
Faceless Rhino - the worlds stigmata.
Chip paper with remains of barbecued ribs
A Flamingo - some boys thought would be
fun to kick to death.
My gripper pulls a soggy carrier from the mud
leaving drag marks - of White Lions
hauled into cages for canned hunting.
A rubbish bag vomits on grass -
One grey glove -
the amputated paw of a Wolf
who struggled too hard.
Brown belt with large round buckle -
protrudes from a Dancing Bear's nose.
A spotted slipper -
Cheetah Cubs killed for rich Arab feet.
Flattened coke cans -
Crush videos from China
where women in stilettos pierce flesh
again and again and again.
Half full Dr Pepper bottle -
Vinegar filled Victorian jars
Of tiger embryos - pickled
to make wine from their bones.
Even the downy of a dead Pigeon
haunts my dreams.
The earth is a fragile body
of gaping red wounds, blue bruises
rainfall can't cleanse.
"Breakdown."
by Ruth Summersides
Breakdown.
Sunbeam breaks the dawn,
Dawn breaks the mist.
Black crow breaks the silence,
Cuckoo breaks the egg.
Honeybee breaks its fast.
Red rose breaks the dew,
grass breaks the ground.
Heat breaks the ice.
Forest breaks the hart.
Moonlight breaks the night,
Barn owl breaks the sleep,
Sleep breaks the dream,
Dream breaks the darkness,
Sunbeam breaks the dawn.
Breakdown.
Sunbeam breaks the dawn,
Dawn breaks the mist.
Black crow breaks the silence,
Cuckoo breaks the egg.
Honeybee breaks its fast.
Red rose breaks the dew,
grass breaks the ground.
Heat breaks the ice.
Forest breaks the hart.
Moonlight breaks the night,
Barn owl breaks the sleep,
Sleep breaks the dream,
Dream breaks the darkness,
Sunbeam breaks the dawn.
Friday, November 24, 2017
Beloved Woods
by Diane Wing
The beloved Pennypack woods embrace
With branches of American beech, oak, and fern lace
Fluttering excitement fills the soul;
An exhilarating sense of being whole.
The forest grants entrance to this realm of power
Allowing thoughts to bud and flower
Shaded, cool protection encourages one to wander
The spectacular journey offers lessons to ponder
Fallen tulip poplars uprooted and dead
Moss clings to the bark signifying new growth ahead
Ducks glide by without a care
Reflecting serenity in their gentle stare
Through the canopy the sun beams
Fertilizing thoughts of life, love, and dreams
Illuminating souls deep into the night
And nourishing one’s inner light
The scurrying chipmunks and honking geese
Bring about ultimate peace
The music of the flowing creek
Gives voice for the silent rocks to speak
Discoveries around every bend
The fascination never ends
The majesty of the forest green
Holds reverent magic yet to be seen
The beloved Pennypack woods embrace
With branches of American beech, oak, and fern lace
Fluttering excitement fills the soul;
An exhilarating sense of being whole.
The forest grants entrance to this realm of power
Allowing thoughts to bud and flower
Shaded, cool protection encourages one to wander
The spectacular journey offers lessons to ponder
Fallen tulip poplars uprooted and dead
Moss clings to the bark signifying new growth ahead
Ducks glide by without a care
Reflecting serenity in their gentle stare
Through the canopy the sun beams
Fertilizing thoughts of life, love, and dreams
Illuminating souls deep into the night
And nourishing one’s inner light
The scurrying chipmunks and honking geese
Bring about ultimate peace
The music of the flowing creek
Gives voice for the silent rocks to speak
Discoveries around every bend
The fascination never ends
The majesty of the forest green
Holds reverent magic yet to be seen
I Watched the Butterfly
by Martin Wiles
I watched the butterfly
Emerge from its shell of change,
I wondered at the metamorphosis—
Once a caterpillar, now like a bird in the sky.
I gazed upon each maneuver it made,
Fluttering gently in the morning breeze.
Like the restlessness of one driven by a dream,
It flew from flower to tree, from flower to tree.
Upon its wings the sun cast its rays,
Enhancing the beauty once hidden from view.
The wind carried it tranquilly along
Like the gentle flowing melody of a song.
Void of all care and concern,
It glided slowly through each day—
No worries or troubles afflict its soul,
No heartaches carried to the grave.
Happiness was embedded upon its face,
A song played by the stroke of each wing.
No prettier sight could I ever behold
As beauty seeped from its every pore.
Until he gazed upon the man
Who often lied and stole and harmed his kind.
He saw so little kindness and peace—
though bound it was in his heart.
Then wished he to return to his cocoon
Where peace and joy and love abode,
But chose instead to spread his wings of beauty and love
And drop it on the ugliness below.
I would love to be a human!
by John Voulgaris
Some say, I am the most beautiful thing in life.
But the truth is, I am only a short living flower.
I can make a single girl, say yes to being a wife.
But, if I was a human, then I would have power.
How is it they don’t get old? Do they use magic?
My life span is in days or weeks. Yes it is tragic!
I can’t imagine living a life that is in many years.
It’s enough to make you cry, if I had some tears.
It seems that, I am here only to please others.
Girls, sweethearts and of course the mothers!
Wherever they take me, I take the centre stage.
I am adored by females, regardless of their age.
They love my beautiful colours and sweet scent.
As long as I am perfect without a mark or dent.
The minute I lose my fullness, I get thrown out.
“Chuck the flowers out!” I hear the ladies shout!
I envy humans, how they move at ease walking.
I like that, they can express themselves talking.
If only all plants and flowers could do the same.
Imagine all the wonder, the glory and the fame.
But our Creator simply did not make it that way!
It is solely up to him. He has the ultimate say.
I admire many attributes about the human life.
But I don’t like the fact, they have created strife.
They are greedy, selfish and destroy all in sight.
All they want to do is disagree, and pick a fight.
As the top species, not much they do, is right.
Yes I would rather be a flower. I think I might!
Some say, I am the most beautiful thing in life.
But the truth is, I am only a short living flower.
I can make a single girl, say yes to being a wife.
But, if I was a human, then I would have power.
How is it they don’t get old? Do they use magic?
My life span is in days or weeks. Yes it is tragic!
I can’t imagine living a life that is in many years.
It’s enough to make you cry, if I had some tears.
It seems that, I am here only to please others.
Girls, sweethearts and of course the mothers!
Wherever they take me, I take the centre stage.
I am adored by females, regardless of their age.
They love my beautiful colours and sweet scent.
As long as I am perfect without a mark or dent.
The minute I lose my fullness, I get thrown out.
“Chuck the flowers out!” I hear the ladies shout!
I envy humans, how they move at ease walking.
I like that, they can express themselves talking.
If only all plants and flowers could do the same.
Imagine all the wonder, the glory and the fame.
But our Creator simply did not make it that way!
It is solely up to him. He has the ultimate say.
I admire many attributes about the human life.
But I don’t like the fact, they have created strife.
They are greedy, selfish and destroy all in sight.
All they want to do is disagree, and pick a fight.
As the top species, not much they do, is right.
Yes I would rather be a flower. I think I might!
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Autumn Light
by Steve Dieffenbacher
Here, along the unused tracks,
noisy waxwings disperse
to rejoin in nearby willows.
Beside the muddy road
that frames a dry field
they shake their desolate branches.
On the slope beyond, November gleams,
meadows sheep in painters’ greens,
lightens the grim orchards.
Searching, the eye moves on,
marking a high-planked barn,
tree-fenced with yellow and copper leaf,
while higher still, the season blurs,
hills of oaks burnished dull gold,
too remote to define.
Here, along the unused tracks,
noisy waxwings disperse
to rejoin in nearby willows.
Beside the muddy road
that frames a dry field
they shake their desolate branches.
On the slope beyond, November gleams,
meadows sheep in painters’ greens,
lightens the grim orchards.
Searching, the eye moves on,
marking a high-planked barn,
tree-fenced with yellow and copper leaf,
while higher still, the season blurs,
hills of oaks burnished dull gold,
too remote to define.
But I will tend you: a poem of thanksgiving
by Stacey Zisook Robinson
In the beginning -
when there was mostly just dark, and light
and a little bit of chaos to sweeten the pot,
God nodded in approval.
"This is good, but not enough."
So then there was water, and heaven and earth.
There was an above, and a below,
and a somewhere in between,
where God's breath hung,
water to the fertile ground.
To the earth, I say thank you
for the abundance of your gifts.
There is grace in the wheat that dances, and bounty.
I cannot own you, but I will tend you.
To the heavens I say thank you for your glory.
There is such wonder
in the play of stars and light.
For you, I reach; in you I find.
I cannot own you, but I will tend you.
To the water I say thank you
for your lithesome, liquid beauty.
There is power in your ceaseless surge and release.
I cannot own you, but I will tend you.
To God I say thank you for bringing us here
to this season of joy.
We cannot own Your bounty,
but we must tend it all with care,
so that we may come again
to this season of joy.
In the beginning -
when there was mostly just dark, and light
and a little bit of chaos to sweeten the pot,
God nodded in approval.
"This is good, but not enough."
So then there was water, and heaven and earth.
There was an above, and a below,
and a somewhere in between,
where God's breath hung,
water to the fertile ground.
To the earth, I say thank you
for the abundance of your gifts.
There is grace in the wheat that dances, and bounty.
I cannot own you, but I will tend you.
To the heavens I say thank you for your glory.
There is such wonder
in the play of stars and light.
For you, I reach; in you I find.
I cannot own you, but I will tend you.
To the water I say thank you
for your lithesome, liquid beauty.
There is power in your ceaseless surge and release.
I cannot own you, but I will tend you.
To God I say thank you for bringing us here
to this season of joy.
We cannot own Your bounty,
but we must tend it all with care,
so that we may come again
to this season of joy.
Wednesday, November 22, 2017
Ode to Legoland
by B. Anne Adriaens
A prefab dream fed by Nestlé – compulsory
joy catching at times – imitates life in plastic,
greying and weathering in an attempt
to fit in with the shrubs and the dirt.
Acres of canned amusement encroach upon
sweet chestnut, elder, rowan and lime,
their goodness dropping to the ground
for want of approved plastic packaging.
Thousands bare their flesh to the sun’s heat,
munch on roast meat and sweets,
suck on plastic, easily grabbed
and consumed to appease forgotten needs.
Children are willingly corralled
under a canopy of plastic sheeting, grateful
for the illusion, unaware that the world was taken
away from them long before they entered.
A prefab dream fed by Nestlé – compulsory
joy catching at times – imitates life in plastic,
greying and weathering in an attempt
to fit in with the shrubs and the dirt.
Acres of canned amusement encroach upon
sweet chestnut, elder, rowan and lime,
their goodness dropping to the ground
for want of approved plastic packaging.
Thousands bare their flesh to the sun’s heat,
munch on roast meat and sweets,
suck on plastic, easily grabbed
and consumed to appease forgotten needs.
Children are willingly corralled
under a canopy of plastic sheeting, grateful
for the illusion, unaware that the world was taken
away from them long before they entered.
Sunday, November 19, 2017
Zeke
by Gale Acuff
One day I’ll be dead and then I’ll show God
who’s King of the Jungle since He’s dead,
too, He’s old-dead but me, I’ll be new-dead
and meet Him face to face and give Him what-
for and maybe take a swing at Him for
being all-spirit but creating me
as a spirit trapped in a body and
not a very nice one at that, body
I mean, for ten years old I poot a lot
and smell pretty bad considering I’ve
got no hair between my thighs or under
my armpits, none that you can see, I mean
hair, not armpits, no, all my hair’s on my
head and it refuses to be combed and
when it is there’s always a cowlick and
God saw that that was good? good and ugly
is more like it and if He tries to dis
-arm me by saying that He’s been human, too,
I’ll just say How convenient and ask Him
why is it when Jesus is around, not
that He ever is, at least not these days,
You vanish, like Clark Kent and Superman?
If I really wanted to go to Hell
I guess I’d hit God right between the eyes
with all of this righteous indignation
I'm not sure how much the Old Boy would take
before he booted me into Hell and
the Hell of it is I'd do the same thing
if the tables were turned, I don't blame God
but I sure as Hell don't blame myself, I
never asked to be born and I guess He
didn't, either, He's always been full-grown,
maybe He was born in a manger just
to get a taste of how we come about
down here, on Earth I mean, in poverty
to boot, which is good of Him but still He
lives like a king and better in Heaven
with Jesus--Who's really God as well--on
His left side, or is it His right, and then
there's the Holy Ghost, He's my favorite,
I know a lot less about Him but then
that's why I like Him, He's a mystery
and God and Jesus no matter how good
they are are like Eudora Welty, damn
fine authors but a bit of a snore so
one day when it's my day to justify
to God why I've lived the life I've lived I
think I'll tell them, just before or after
they condemn me to Hell, Walk a mile
in my sandals, Pal, just to see the look on
His face, Jesus's, too, if He's hard by
or even if He and the Father are
one and looking out through the same eyes and
even though the Holy Ghost adds up to
a Trinity, I bet I'll see Him roll
-ing His eyes inside Jesus's inside
God's, wheels within wheels, that's Ezekiel,
I know my Bible, I mean where it counts.
One day I’ll be dead and then I’ll show God
who’s King of the Jungle since He’s dead,
too, He’s old-dead but me, I’ll be new-dead
and meet Him face to face and give Him what-
for and maybe take a swing at Him for
being all-spirit but creating me
as a spirit trapped in a body and
not a very nice one at that, body
I mean, for ten years old I poot a lot
and smell pretty bad considering I’ve
got no hair between my thighs or under
my armpits, none that you can see, I mean
hair, not armpits, no, all my hair’s on my
head and it refuses to be combed and
when it is there’s always a cowlick and
God saw that that was good? good and ugly
is more like it and if He tries to dis
-arm me by saying that He’s been human, too,
I’ll just say How convenient and ask Him
why is it when Jesus is around, not
that He ever is, at least not these days,
You vanish, like Clark Kent and Superman?
If I really wanted to go to Hell
I guess I’d hit God right between the eyes
with all of this righteous indignation
I'm not sure how much the Old Boy would take
before he booted me into Hell and
the Hell of it is I'd do the same thing
if the tables were turned, I don't blame God
but I sure as Hell don't blame myself, I
never asked to be born and I guess He
didn't, either, He's always been full-grown,
maybe He was born in a manger just
to get a taste of how we come about
down here, on Earth I mean, in poverty
to boot, which is good of Him but still He
lives like a king and better in Heaven
with Jesus--Who's really God as well--on
His left side, or is it His right, and then
there's the Holy Ghost, He's my favorite,
I know a lot less about Him but then
that's why I like Him, He's a mystery
and God and Jesus no matter how good
they are are like Eudora Welty, damn
fine authors but a bit of a snore so
one day when it's my day to justify
to God why I've lived the life I've lived I
think I'll tell them, just before or after
they condemn me to Hell, Walk a mile
in my sandals, Pal, just to see the look on
His face, Jesus's, too, if He's hard by
or even if He and the Father are
one and looking out through the same eyes and
even though the Holy Ghost adds up to
a Trinity, I bet I'll see Him roll
-ing His eyes inside Jesus's inside
God's, wheels within wheels, that's Ezekiel,
I know my Bible, I mean where it counts.
Saturday, November 18, 2017
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
Coney Island
by Katie Gray
Blue sky misbehaves
Ocean waves come out to play
Coney Island Queen
Provocative sun
Ocean waves making me cry
The sunset Princess
Cotton candy lunch
Boardwalk is alone today
The Goddess remains
Vanilla clouds rise
Colorful carousel rides
Siren of the sea
Neptune Avenue
The mermaid sleeps peacefully
Angel of the beach
Blue sky misbehaves
Ocean waves come out to play
Coney Island Queen
Provocative sun
Ocean waves making me cry
The sunset Princess
Cotton candy lunch
Boardwalk is alone today
The Goddess remains
Vanilla clouds rise
Colorful carousel rides
Siren of the sea
Neptune Avenue
The mermaid sleeps peacefully
Angel of the beach
Monday, November 13, 2017
Teammates
by Denny E. Marshall
Fall echoes “Help I’m falling”
Winter says, “Don’t worry”
I’m right behind you
Fall echoes “Help I’m falling”
Winter says, “Don’t worry”
I’m right behind you
Sunday, November 12, 2017
Beak
by Anita Sullivan
The bird sings.
See the beak vibrate, almost a blur, as if it were
flexing like a fiddle string, which surely it must not be.
The bird sings.
There is a happy certainty, as the small body endures
continuous aftershocks from this seismic event,
that the violence will do it no damage – no more
than an orgasm will harm a human, and in fact. . . .
An overwhelming
mistaken for temporary,
for verging on, for disparity, for ad hoc, for incomplete – .
Which could have led to a chaff of tiny bones at the bottom of a cliff
making nary an etch in the document of stones.
Instead, an end run around order to ecstasy.
Sings through a prow that drills a future into air:
lower bill falls and rises, upper bill holds
(barely keeping the angle acute),
not making the sound per se, but mollifying
something.
As if the beak assumes temporarily a role other than its
assigned . . . ingesting.
Like a fisherman pressed into performing
an emergency appendectomy on a kitchen table
because he has some familiarity with guts.
Will sit in for flute, for falling water, for castanets – .
The bird sings.
See the beak vibrate, almost a blur, as if it were
flexing like a fiddle string, which surely it must not be.
The bird sings.
There is a happy certainty, as the small body endures
continuous aftershocks from this seismic event,
that the violence will do it no damage – no more
than an orgasm will harm a human, and in fact. . . .
An overwhelming
mistaken for temporary,
for verging on, for disparity, for ad hoc, for incomplete – .
Which could have led to a chaff of tiny bones at the bottom of a cliff
making nary an etch in the document of stones.
Instead, an end run around order to ecstasy.
Sings through a prow that drills a future into air:
lower bill falls and rises, upper bill holds
(barely keeping the angle acute),
not making the sound per se, but mollifying
something.
As if the beak assumes temporarily a role other than its
assigned . . . ingesting.
Like a fisherman pressed into performing
an emergency appendectomy on a kitchen table
because he has some familiarity with guts.
Will sit in for flute, for falling water, for castanets – .
Ideals of the Storm
by William Allen
Before there was you,
Before there was me,
There was the Storm.
She does not hunt for a kill.
She does not desire your destruction.
She does not seek to ruin.
She is a wanderer
And has been for millions of years.
She is also a teacher.
We disrespect her with the careless toss of a bottle.
We fill her ears with words of promise that we do not mean.
She is a lesson.
We block our ears with the roar of an engine.
We blind ourselves with eyes covered in smog.
She is a test,
One that we have failed.
Before there was you,
Before there was me,
There was the Storm.
She does not hunt for a kill.
She does not desire your destruction.
She does not seek to ruin.
She is a wanderer
And has been for millions of years.
She is also a teacher.
We disrespect her with the careless toss of a bottle.
We fill her ears with words of promise that we do not mean.
She is a lesson.
We block our ears with the roar of an engine.
We blind ourselves with eyes covered in smog.
She is a test,
One that we have failed.
Ivy
by David Subacchi
Slowly it crept up from the drain,
Spiny fingers feeling out cracks
In the crumbling stone wall
That blocked daylight
From the rear of our home.
Tantalisingly it displayed
Green and yellow flowers
With small petals,
Fruit ripening from late winter
Into mid spring.
Hungrily birds dispensed its seed,
Gobbling berries,
Joined by the ivy bee
That exists only
For this purpose.
And when fearful of collapse
We tore away
The winding water supply,
It clung even tighter
To the dark surface
Desperate to survive,
Indignant at our ignorance
Of its ecological
Importance.
Protesting innocence.
Slowly it crept up from the drain,
Spiny fingers feeling out cracks
In the crumbling stone wall
That blocked daylight
From the rear of our home.
Tantalisingly it displayed
Green and yellow flowers
With small petals,
Fruit ripening from late winter
Into mid spring.
Hungrily birds dispensed its seed,
Gobbling berries,
Joined by the ivy bee
That exists only
For this purpose.
And when fearful of collapse
We tore away
The winding water supply,
It clung even tighter
To the dark surface
Desperate to survive,
Indignant at our ignorance
Of its ecological
Importance.
Protesting innocence.
Wednesday, November 8, 2017
Urban Garden
by g emil reutter
Summer is slowly fading into autumn as October fluctuates from warmth to frost and yet the perennials continue on. A small flock of Orioles rest in the top of a sycamore, the garden welcomes swallow tales, sparrows and squirrels who feed upon the cone heads black eyed susans, daises, phlox bee balm, hydrangea and sage. Blue Jays linger, queen bees buzz about the plants, the sweet aroma of mums idles about the walkway, a rabbit flops on a bed of sedum. Day and tiger lilies, hosta have faded into the bed, iris blades stand tall, turtle heads sway in breeze, A lone flower hangs from a wild bleeding heart. Caterpillars pay a visit sliding down an electric line on brick wall, eat butterfly weed upon arrival in the garden. Cat birds are noisy as ravens fly above rooftops. The feeder and bath are fully occupied, roses still in bloom. Come November winter preparation will begin for this city garden full of color, full of life anticipating springs arrival here in this small slice of nature and the beauty it brings.
Sunday, November 5, 2017
"Pheasants are making love by the green grass"
by Margarita Serafimova
Pheasants are making love by the green grass,
and their cries are secret
like the leafless bush.
Pheasants are making love by the green grass,
and their cries are secret
like the leafless bush.
Rio en Medio
by Ann Hunkins
Oak-tannic rooted stream
trout trap up under dark rock hang
turgid foam froth
towhee twit tangle thorn
chokecherry glutted bank
Oak-tannic rooted stream
trout trap up under dark rock hang
turgid foam froth
towhee twit tangle thorn
chokecherry glutted bank
silver glazed meadow
by Lynda Lambert
silver glazed meadow
velvet sumac trees clustered
on the ridge
cool frost on bare branches
black-capped chickadees leave slight impressions in the snow
silver glazed meadow
velvet sumac trees clustered
on the ridge
cool frost on bare branches
black-capped chickadees leave slight impressions in the snow
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
To a Water Strider
by Pepper Trail
Things seen and unseen compose the world
And where they meet, you make your life.
Watching you glide across sun and cloud
Wings folded away, in idle grace
I learn that even superficiality has its perfection
And that I, breaker of mirrors, maker of waves
Shiver away sense with every careless gesture
Forever mere amphibian
Things seen and unseen compose the world
And where they meet, you make your life.
Watching you glide across sun and cloud
Wings folded away, in idle grace
I learn that even superficiality has its perfection
And that I, breaker of mirrors, maker of waves
Shiver away sense with every careless gesture
Forever mere amphibian
Sunday, October 29, 2017
lyrical songs
by Lynda Lambert
lyrical songs
mingle through foggy layers
abandoned nests
hidden among wet branches
mulberry trees without tender berries
lyrical songs
mingle through foggy layers
abandoned nests
hidden among wet branches
mulberry trees without tender berries
Desert Rain
by Ann Hunkins
Seven nights of rain in the high desert.
Steam puffs off flowering chamisa,
woody apache plume, curled gramma grass.
Even the shattered granite softens
to take raccoon and squirrel tracks.
A Townsend¹s Solitaire rises through sunlight
wing flutter flash, catch and release brilliance.
Dark side of the hill cold. Sun slips through valleys,
lights up tops of two tall ponderosas, candles.
The warm side slopes up in bright red soil
toward clothed mountains, needles silver with rain,
mist in the hollows, juniper berries shining sapphire.
No one here complains about the wet.
Seven nights of rain in the high desert.
Steam puffs off flowering chamisa,
woody apache plume, curled gramma grass.
Even the shattered granite softens
to take raccoon and squirrel tracks.
A Townsend¹s Solitaire rises through sunlight
wing flutter flash, catch and release brilliance.
Dark side of the hill cold. Sun slips through valleys,
lights up tops of two tall ponderosas, candles.
The warm side slopes up in bright red soil
toward clothed mountains, needles silver with rain,
mist in the hollows, juniper berries shining sapphire.
No one here complains about the wet.
Forest-hope
by Thriveni C. Mysore
Raging wild-fire swept
through sun-burnt forest.
Seven dawns passed through
smoky air that carried
stifled scared cries of
insects, birds and beasts.
Hurried raindrops fell
to sooth sprouts.
a chirp, a song, a growl
promised the coming of
fertile, New-life.
Raging wild-fire swept
through sun-burnt forest.
Seven dawns passed through
smoky air that carried
stifled scared cries of
insects, birds and beasts.
Hurried raindrops fell
to sooth sprouts.
a chirp, a song, a growl
promised the coming of
fertile, New-life.
Saturday, October 28, 2017
Wednesday, October 25, 2017
In Constantinople
by Margarita Serafimova
Allah is calling the parakeets
to pass over the grass,
and they are passing,
greener than light.
Allah is calling the parakeets
to pass over the grass,
and they are passing,
greener than light.
