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

Monday, November 13, 2017


by Denny E. Marshall

Fall echoes “Help I’m falling”
Winter says, “Don’t worry”
I’m right behind you

Sunday, November 12, 2017


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

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.


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
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.

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

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

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

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

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.


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.

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.

Sunday, October 22, 2017


by Carl Mayfield

hummingbird still between his wings

The Horned Lark’s Song

by Pepper Trail
This is what we want
The short grass
The hard horizon, all around
Here we know where we are
At the center
Here, nothing else
At the center


by Carl Mayfield

Russian sage: that purple brushing the drought

Wednesday, October 18, 2017

Hinge Breach

by Rachel Barton

someone’s taken the door off the hinges wind
howls and wails against the open walls leaves
and grit flail and scritch in a scatter of eddies across
open floorboards across the valley at least the rain

clings to distant mountains and coast we make
the most of joists creaking dryly in the yawn of open air
dry creek bed of our brains threatens flames
everywhere the in is out we want to shout

enough but the cotton in our mouths
thwarts our tongues’ longings our eyes
red with the assail of grit grow weary
doors unhinged all barriers are permeable

openness an assault and a wonder
radioactive boars defy containment
run wild around Fukushima
we are scatter shot to the stars

Sunday, October 15, 2017


by Carl Mayfield

Bark is the only
bite offered.
The pine sucks
the earth
into its trunk,
moment by moment
into the sky
where the
three needle
meet the wind.

In the Forest

by Elizabeth Burnside

Water seeps
up, enough pools,
until dribbling, gurgling,
falling water forms
water falling,
gurgling, dribbling,
until pools enough,
up seeps water.

Pollen falling
with golden
leaves beneath
still wet streams,
glistening moss slakes
creek, slakes moss, glistening
streams wet still,
beneath leaves
golden with
falling pollen.

Lofting trees
now dormant, trunks
fallen into slopes,
lacing streams
amongst layered decay,
nascent decay
layered amongst streams
lacing slopes into
fallen trunks, dormant
now, trees lofting.

Wednesday, October 11, 2017


by Don Thompson

Smoke from distant wildfires
creates the illusion of clouds—
of faux cumulonimbus
offering rain like those promises of peace
that no one falls for.

And behind its pall this morning,
the sun glows almost saffron
as if to honor a self-immolated monk
who died for
some long forgotten lost cause.

The fires will keep burning for miles,
for days; and years from now,
driving by, we’ll see snags
like blackened skeletons
still standing upright in the new growth.

Sunday, October 8, 2017

gorilla rain

by Elizabeth Kuelbs

he knuckles around his cage around
                   the tub it smells of plastic it smells
of rain that wets bamboo nests
                   somewhere he would eat ants from
his lovers’ and his babies’ faces where
                   he would thunder dirt where he
would tremble forests it smells


he climbs into
                   cool wet
he claps splashes stretches
                   his great arms stormwide he
                                      spins he
                                                     spins and spins
                                                                      his own rain and he
                                                     is he is he
                   his eyes on a
somewhere sky