by Susan N Aassahde
bramble platoon jazz
lemon twist
Kingfisher panic keg
Wednesday, April 29, 2020
Sunday, April 26, 2020
tikkun olam
by Madison Zehmer
tell me again how seaweed aches for breath,
how the fawn cries out for its mother,
how snakes wrap around oak.
show me butterflies flattened on gravel,
crow innards eaten by vultures,
buzzards sleeping away guilt under willow trees.
tell me there is hope
in birds that still fly south for the winter,
in flowers that blossom from concrete,
in the scarred dirt you cradle in your hand
and then whisper back to earth.
tell me again how seaweed aches for breath,
how the fawn cries out for its mother,
how snakes wrap around oak.
show me butterflies flattened on gravel,
crow innards eaten by vultures,
buzzards sleeping away guilt under willow trees.
tell me there is hope
in birds that still fly south for the winter,
in flowers that blossom from concrete,
in the scarred dirt you cradle in your hand
and then whisper back to earth.
Autumn Morning
by Ray Greenblatt
Marmalade moon
burns in mauve sky.
Cold frames filled
with gold Incan masks
as first sunlight fills trees.
Marmalade moon
burns in mauve sky.
Cold frames filled
with gold Incan masks
as first sunlight fills trees.
Wednesday, April 22, 2020
Rainy Afternoon, Garden Valley, Idaho
by Yash Seyedbagheri
up and down Sunrise Drive
Garden Valley Idaho, hills rise and fall
dip and curve
a soft rain falls
light gray clouds above
a mist to the east
up and down Sunrise Drive
Garden Valley Idaho, hills rise and fall
dip and curve
a soft rain falls
light gray clouds above
a mist to the east
Sunday, April 19, 2020
Wednesday, April 15, 2020
Patterns
by Ray Greenblatt
Crows on swaying wires
rule the early morning.
A stroke of gulls
against distant woods
across the Great Elk River.
Clouds move up the river,
tide now ebbing.
Trees shuffle in place
and wave branches in rhythm.
From the north Boreas
is the unseen
music maestro.
Like a sub-atomic particle
one moth defies plotting.
Crows on swaying wires
rule the early morning.
A stroke of gulls
against distant woods
across the Great Elk River.
Clouds move up the river,
tide now ebbing.
Trees shuffle in place
and wave branches in rhythm.
From the north Boreas
is the unseen
music maestro.
Like a sub-atomic particle
one moth defies plotting.
Sunday, April 12, 2020
Unmeditated
by Stew Jorgenson
A robin has returned
with spring
as I sit here
this morning
not thinking
about it
just listening
to
the earth breathing
through me
taking each one in
and letting it go
waiting for another one
to return.
A robin has returned
with spring
as I sit here
this morning
not thinking
about it
just listening
to
the earth breathing
through me
taking each one in
and letting it go
waiting for another one
to return.
The Simplicity of Water
by Colin James
It hardly ever seems under duress
just expands or contracts,
evaporates or condenses
at its environment's indulgence.
Patiently sorting out
its workload by category.
It hardly ever seems under duress
just expands or contracts,
evaporates or condenses
at its environment's indulgence.
Patiently sorting out
its workload by category.
Wednesday, April 8, 2020
Crows
by Philip C. Kolin
A cortège of black clouds,
They sweep acrosss
A frightened sky.
Gloom calls them
To a country of corpses--
Fouled air, red flares.
Trees with wild hair
Cannot hide or hush
Nestlings in their
Last taint of breath.
For most fallen
The duration of death
Is swift, a hunter's shot,
a bigger predator's spoil.
Pieces of flesh left behind
On highways or back roads
Waiting for these dark undertakers.
Over each they mutter
A one-syllable requiem
Before ravaging them.
Or carrying off
Pieces of flesh
To their aeries.
The wind goes silent.
A cortège of black clouds,
They sweep acrosss
A frightened sky.
Gloom calls them
To a country of corpses--
Fouled air, red flares.
Trees with wild hair
Cannot hide or hush
Nestlings in their
Last taint of breath.
For most fallen
The duration of death
Is swift, a hunter's shot,
a bigger predator's spoil.
Pieces of flesh left behind
On highways or back roads
Waiting for these dark undertakers.
Over each they mutter
A one-syllable requiem
Before ravaging them.
Or carrying off
Pieces of flesh
To their aeries.
The wind goes silent.
Sunday, April 5, 2020
Early spring in the Blue Hills
by Lucy Chae
past the foothills where timber rattlesnakes
meander in fat, lazy lines
and dogwoods lie unblossomed,
the narrow clearings wither into thorn.
whitetails scramble farther,
breaking through the thickets,
snapping wispy branches
for a place still as clear as winter.
past the foothills where timber rattlesnakes
meander in fat, lazy lines
and dogwoods lie unblossomed,
the narrow clearings wither into thorn.
whitetails scramble farther,
breaking through the thickets,
snapping wispy branches
for a place still as clear as winter.
Saturday, April 4, 2020
Wednesday, April 1, 2020
Sunday, March 29, 2020
After Bonnie
by José Stelle
Moon out and a forced lull.
No woozy waterspout
Dragging the fractured sea
To a dark rage.
The hacked, wrecked hulls
Heaped on the shore
Loom like whale bones
In a strange glow.
The well bottom is shorn
Of the fleece clouds.
Only some scattered planets
Make a pale show.
Across the water
The dock lights drown
In their own reflections.
All around, demented
Crickets scrape their wings off.
Moon out and a forced lull.
No woozy waterspout
Dragging the fractured sea
To a dark rage.
The hacked, wrecked hulls
Heaped on the shore
Loom like whale bones
In a strange glow.
The well bottom is shorn
Of the fleece clouds.
Only some scattered planets
Make a pale show.
Across the water
The dock lights drown
In their own reflections.
All around, demented
Crickets scrape their wings off.
Wednesday, March 25, 2020
Sunday, March 22, 2020
Winter’s Afternoon, Garden Valley, Idaho
by Yash Seyedbagheri
Up Sunrise Drive
sun illuminates hills of white
air crisp and still
shadows of pine trees zigzag in leftover snow
road rises and dips and curves
Up Sunrise Drive
sun illuminates hills of white
air crisp and still
shadows of pine trees zigzag in leftover snow
road rises and dips and curves
Wednesday, March 18, 2020
Squirrel Selecting Bouquet
by Wesley D. Sims
A squirrel sits upright
on hind legs amid a patch
of lavender, lilies, and goldenrod
as though trying to select
a bouquet to pick and take home
to his out-of-sorts mate,
needing to make up
for his horrible habits
like hoarding the acorns,
leaving a mess of hulls
scattered around the house
and other irritable actions
constantly driving her nuts.
A squirrel sits upright
on hind legs amid a patch
of lavender, lilies, and goldenrod
as though trying to select
a bouquet to pick and take home
to his out-of-sorts mate,
needing to make up
for his horrible habits
like hoarding the acorns,
leaving a mess of hulls
scattered around the house
and other irritable actions
constantly driving her nuts.
Sunday, March 15, 2020
Lake Morey
by Corey D. Cook
Red and white bobber pins the sky’s
reflection to the surface of the lake,
an expanse of light blue borrowed
from Sisley, crowded with schools
of clouds, their bellies round and ripe.
Red and white bobber pins the sky’s
reflection to the surface of the lake,
an expanse of light blue borrowed
from Sisley, crowded with schools
of clouds, their bellies round and ripe.
Blank Look #302
by Carl Mayfield
Standing on the escarpment,
city pollution at eye level.
In the valley below fossil fuels
are pushing their weight around.
Standing on the escarpment,
city pollution at eye level.
In the valley below fossil fuels
are pushing their weight around.
Winter
by Craig Kennedy
Gregorian chant, burning wood,
the midnight blue Croton River
frozen thick and bittersweet,
congealed near Orchard Road.
Gregorian chant, burning wood,
the midnight blue Croton River
frozen thick and bittersweet,
congealed near Orchard Road.
Wednesday, March 11, 2020
Overwinter
by Kathryn Ganfield
Canada geese break their vee
into a sine curve.
Four lag behind, beating hard to regain the flock
that wends northeast on a winter afternoon.
Geese or ganders, identical,
whether near or far.
Wings a gauntlet gray,
heads stretched and black like asps.
In the air,
bright and ceaseless honks,
capped only by a downy woodpecker,
its head a slice of Red Delicious.
Knocking, knocking,
rapping, bashing.
Not too loosen insects, but because
this is the only song they sing.
Canada geese break their vee
into a sine curve.
Four lag behind, beating hard to regain the flock
that wends northeast on a winter afternoon.
Geese or ganders, identical,
whether near or far.
Wings a gauntlet gray,
heads stretched and black like asps.
In the air,
bright and ceaseless honks,
capped only by a downy woodpecker,
its head a slice of Red Delicious.
Knocking, knocking,
rapping, bashing.
Not too loosen insects, but because
this is the only song they sing.
Sunday, March 8, 2020
City Street Performance
by M.J. Iuppa
This winter there will be
no winter—only snow
mixed with rain— the filthy
kind of slush that gets thick
in the smear of wheels
spinning around corners—
all vowels stick
as pedestrians arch
their backs & raise
their arms, like pigeons
dispatched—not
a moment too soon.
This winter there will be
no winter—only snow
mixed with rain— the filthy
kind of slush that gets thick
in the smear of wheels
spinning around corners—
all vowels stick
as pedestrians arch
their backs & raise
their arms, like pigeons
dispatched—not
a moment too soon.
Wednesday, March 4, 2020
Pima Canyon Sunday
by David Chorlton
Cactus wrens mark distance by their calls.
Winter sparrows come out
from seclusion, and the sun
is a spirit clock at noon.
The desert trail’s a pilgrim’s
way, where lizards cling to
the rocks and every
Curve-billed thrasher has a tiny Compostela
in the cactus where it makes a nest.
Sunday, March 1, 2020
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
Ravens
by Walker Abel
At daybreak in desert
two ravens on rock
moon still up in west.
Hills wrinkled deep with shadow.
When the birds fly north
no one stays behind.
At daybreak in desert
two ravens on rock
moon still up in west.
Hills wrinkled deep with shadow.
When the birds fly north
no one stays behind.
Sunday, February 23, 2020
Estuary
by Mike Dillon
Sanderling’s wicker tracks in mud.
A breeze ticks the sedge that nearly hides
a rotting dory. Gull mew. Clack of clamshell
upon rocks dropped from a hovering height.
The quiet mixing place where salt water
meets fresh, its bits of seaweed and a rainbow trout.
Back of all — a silence that does not speak.
Sanderling’s wicker tracks in mud.
A breeze ticks the sedge that nearly hides
a rotting dory. Gull mew. Clack of clamshell
upon rocks dropped from a hovering height.
The quiet mixing place where salt water
meets fresh, its bits of seaweed and a rainbow trout.
Back of all — a silence that does not speak.
Decaying
by Farzana Israt
a sigh in unison
amongst the Willow Trees
as the cicadas
sing their
mournful song
a sigh in unison
amongst the Willow Trees
as the cicadas
sing their
mournful song
kingdom
by Geoffrey Aitken
seasonally
they return to the south
our Australian Parrots
to fly above us
on intermittent show
celebrate September springtime
with feasts of fresh pine nuts
in Conifer treetops
take water
from recent winter rains
then preen
mate
and nest
then with familial dawn song
remind us of incumbency
evolutionary longevity
and ownership
before flight beckons -
as if to brag
seasonally
they return to the south
our Australian Parrots
to fly above us
on intermittent show
celebrate September springtime
with feasts of fresh pine nuts
in Conifer treetops
take water
from recent winter rains
then preen
mate
and nest
then with familial dawn song
remind us of incumbency
evolutionary longevity
and ownership
before flight beckons -
as if to brag
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
Tannenbaum
by Andrew Hutto
The bear-whelps scratch on fir trees
and mourning doves eat safflower seeds.
To bracket out epoché between unseen
and seen-world.
There is no adieu.
Ice will not ornament the forest this winter,
there will be no way to cross the river.
The hot air in the morning will drive
all the martens to the stream but they will not
dip their paws into the boiling water.
The bear-whelps scratch on fir trees
and mourning doves eat safflower seeds.
To bracket out epoché between unseen
and seen-world.
There is no adieu.
Ice will not ornament the forest this winter,
there will be no way to cross the river.
The hot air in the morning will drive
all the martens to the stream but they will not
dip their paws into the boiling water.
Sunday, February 16, 2020
over the crest of Kerchouan
by James Bell
bare boughs beneath the sky
trace in hazel woods
remains of long gone oaks
great rocks of granite
skirt small ravines where humanity
has had no effect on the always been
standing stones have dotted horizons
for thousands of years
in attempts to understand
the beyond over brows of hills
as far as the eye cannot see –
its limits clear of mist today
bare boughs beneath the sky
trace in hazel woods
remains of long gone oaks
great rocks of granite
skirt small ravines where humanity
has had no effect on the always been
standing stones have dotted horizons
for thousands of years
in attempts to understand
the beyond over brows of hills
as far as the eye cannot see –
its limits clear of mist today
Wednesday, February 12, 2020
Three Crows on a Pine Bough
upon Buson’s ink-brush painting
by GTimothy Gordon
Late fall parched mustard wheat
modest as a Norse king, no risqué
bluebell, poppy, scarlet paintbrush,
or even outré desert aspen, bronze turning
among mangroves of sand speckling this end
of earth, not Kyoto, in fall, the blackest of ravens,
goblins, trolling from husks of stumps bone-dry things,
all for the scent of blossom, sight of bloom,
every prickly Joshua beseeching heaven.
Late fall parched mustard wheat
modest as a Norse king, no risqué
bluebell, poppy, scarlet paintbrush,
or even outré desert aspen, bronze turning
among mangroves of sand speckling this end
of earth, not Kyoto, in fall, the blackest of ravens,
goblins, trolling from husks of stumps bone-dry things,
all for the scent of blossom, sight of bloom,
every prickly Joshua beseeching heaven.
Sunday, February 9, 2020
January Evening, Garden Valley, Idaho
by Yash Seyedbagheri
Garden Valley, Idaho night,
a January evening
luminous half moon mingles with brightness of snow
white meets white
across hills and valley
around the curves of Sunrise Drive
over rising and falling hills dotted
white mingling with remnants of ice
from the last storm, the storm before it
fresh and glass-like
and moon shimmers through groves of pines
stillness in the air, shadows
broken only by lights from an A-framed lodge
bright white holiday lights
the occasional roar of a truck, a car
fading away without echo
footsteps of a walker in the night
en route somewhere,
replaced by the crispness of thirty-degree cold, dropping, and the moon,
drifting through clouds, opening and disappearing.
Garden Valley, Idaho night,
a January evening
luminous half moon mingles with brightness of snow
white meets white
across hills and valley
around the curves of Sunrise Drive
over rising and falling hills dotted
white mingling with remnants of ice
from the last storm, the storm before it
fresh and glass-like
and moon shimmers through groves of pines
stillness in the air, shadows
broken only by lights from an A-framed lodge
bright white holiday lights
the occasional roar of a truck, a car
fading away without echo
footsteps of a walker in the night
en route somewhere,
replaced by the crispness of thirty-degree cold, dropping, and the moon,
drifting through clouds, opening and disappearing.
Guineas
by Wesley D. Sims
A knot of guineas swung
around the pasture
like a swirl of twigs
pinned to a rubber band,
picking grass seeds
and singing their squeaky
alto song of contentment
All-right, all right.
A knot of guineas swung
around the pasture
like a swirl of twigs
pinned to a rubber band,
picking grass seeds
and singing their squeaky
alto song of contentment
All-right, all right.
Wednesday, February 5, 2020
Wildlife
by Darrell Petska
The zoo giraffe
treading its concrete
winter quarters
pauses
with each circuit
before the small
high window
looking out on
the chain-link enclosure
of the Somali wild ass
listlessly chewing hay
beneath its lean-to
capped with snow
and the grey slate of sky
nearly as far from spring
as Africa.
The zoo giraffe
treading its concrete
winter quarters
pauses
with each circuit
before the small
high window
looking out on
the chain-link enclosure
of the Somali wild ass
listlessly chewing hay
beneath its lean-to
capped with snow
and the grey slate of sky
nearly as far from spring
as Africa.
Sunday, February 2, 2020
Kolibri
by Sterling Warner
iridescent feathers
greenish-red flashes
zipping, darting among
coral honeysuckle vines,
wings buzzing 52 beats a second,
ruby throated hummingbirds
pause, hover, penetrate, feed,
long tongues lapping nectar,
plucking aphids and mites within
each trumpet-shaped
blossom.
iridescent feathers
greenish-red flashes
zipping, darting among
coral honeysuckle vines,
wings buzzing 52 beats a second,
ruby throated hummingbirds
pause, hover, penetrate, feed,
long tongues lapping nectar,
plucking aphids and mites within
each trumpet-shaped
blossom.
Kallar elephant corridor, Western Ghats
by Ajay Kumar
Some just came to drink
across a table of water,
others just left,
pudding-pipes in their way,
a calf sniffs to the side,
alone a bull’s tusks
point to his raised trunk,
movement of myriad grey.
A flycatcher, a blue of his own,
excavated in the sky
from the sun, rests on a Neem.
Soap pods in patches. Snaky
trunks smell a cardamom memory.
The ones that came to drink leave
for wild plantains, more come
across the water again.
Some just came to drink
across a table of water,
others just left,
pudding-pipes in their way,
a calf sniffs to the side,
alone a bull’s tusks
point to his raised trunk,
movement of myriad grey.
A flycatcher, a blue of his own,
excavated in the sky
from the sun, rests on a Neem.
Soap pods in patches. Snaky
trunks smell a cardamom memory.
The ones that came to drink leave
for wild plantains, more come
across the water again.
Spider Constellation
by Wesley D. Sims
A large gray spider
in an almost deserted
restroom at the campground
has spun a silky mural
of long legs and little
brown bodies,
strung up a constellation
of granddaddy long-legs,
their wire-thin legs splayed radially
outward like arms of a galaxy.
Their lights have gone out,
their carcasses kept
on cold storage in the spider’s
private mausoleum,
hidden in a corner
of little used web-space.
A large gray spider
in an almost deserted
restroom at the campground
has spun a silky mural
of long legs and little
brown bodies,
strung up a constellation
of granddaddy long-legs,
their wire-thin legs splayed radially
outward like arms of a galaxy.
Their lights have gone out,
their carcasses kept
on cold storage in the spider’s
private mausoleum,
hidden in a corner
of little used web-space.
Wednesday, January 29, 2020
Missive from a Blue Whale
by Susan L De Miller
My world is your ocean
So you say
Floating on blue
you pay to see me
I am your fascination
You offer me no peace no warning
you are here there everywhere
Refuse spills from your world into mine
Blue sky
Blue ocean
Blue whale
Multi hued human
I am starving
We are all starving
Starving for blue
You can not build
a new planet
a new ocean
a new sky
Gone
is
gone
is
gone
My world is your ocean
So you say
Floating on blue
you pay to see me
I am your fascination
You offer me no peace no warning
you are here there everywhere
Refuse spills from your world into mine
Blue sky
Blue ocean
Blue whale
Multi hued human
I am starving
We are all starving
Starving for blue
You can not build
a new planet
a new ocean
a new sky
Gone
is
gone
is
gone
