Sunday, January 14, 2018

The way back

by Samara Golabuk

Tannin stains the riverbed
with the waters' carmine flow.
Strings of weeds—
undine's pleistocene strands—
point the way forward
toward bends and narrows,
and later, toward a dock
with orange buoy floats
that mark off the danger.

there is a darkening, a bonfire,
then a casserole, and
for the morning,
coffee from the bean.
The bellow and rattle of the kettle
will wake us. The river, in our muscles now,
follows the long road to memory,
jeweled and dark.


by Carl Mayfield

at first light
pick up
their shadows
and go

The Morning after the Fire

by  Jude Cowan Montague

Two huge hares
leap like glory through the tufts.
They go left, they go right,
in search of food.
The light is quiet and golden.
One reaches the fence and waits.
The other goes past, far and fast.

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Prague Sonata

by Terrence Sykes

turmeric & ginger
copper early dusk
along the Vltava

faded rose moon
reluctantly tendrils across
ashened stars

autumn cicada
murmur & chant
cluttered linden grove

ancient medlar
merely staging
poetic lament

amongst  branches
longing  nightingale
I remember sky

Sunday, January 7, 2018

we do not touch our living
half so well as elephants touch their dead

by Samara Golabuk

What staticky mud is skin. Be thou not a
germophobe, worlds are we. Biomes.

The grandmothers know, we are
moths pinned by their knowing —

eyes, lancets to the soul. Matr-
ix of flesh most modern still

goes dark with the clay, ochre
smear, the blood a marker.

A dowsing rod nicks water’s veins,
pricks tongues turned to their magic,

shapes runes in the dusky dark
of our mouths as clavichord keys bite

the winds in half, knot its spillways,
turn them toward the caverns of our hearts,

(that corded beast, Hephaestus forge),
thumb-dump, thumb-dump, some

dumb thing stunts the pumps but
there’s no water here in heaven,

we are born in the milky gray
middleway between morning and stillness,

little puddles, withered udders,
we drink and are animals together.


by Paul Waring

September sparks the rush:
razor-eyed sprees to stock
and store as autumn opens
for business.

Summer retires, goodbyeless,
before want-away geese
flee in formation
on damp-smoked air.

Squirrel, grounded, scoops
first falls after fuss of wind
and mob-handed rains
fleece crowds of trees.

Memory-mapped burials
in musty larders; a network
of near and far relays, stop-
start dashes that risk life

on roads as cold-stiffened
days shrink into dark; call
you back to winter’s grip
as land and lake shiver

beneath glass-sharp sheets.
Now there’s nothing to see,
do or lose sleep over. Sit tight:
save your breath.

Perennial Petunias Weeping on a Lonely Store Corner

by Adam Levon Brown

Sugar-shocked Preamble for decadence is swung
triangularly south for the Winter greed

Ducks flock eastward, bounding telephone
wires flying towards motorway heaven

The ducks fly to the north, delving deeper into denial,
reaching for a place where hunters of vengeance cannot shoot

Premonitions of a lonely world lead one to consider a darkened
alley where light never graces soulless sidewalks of smog

Moments of clarity bring unhinged pearl avenues of death
to a roaring end, meeting mule-tide occasions of froth

Perennial seasons of corruption end in tides of gray
nuanced jubilation for the eves of convoluted joy

Wednesday, January 3, 2018


by Lindy Le Coq

hyper-action birds
dance with waves at oceans edge
gleaning intently

cha-cha out with tide
about-face and quick-step in
tiny feet churning

peck in sand then up
to survey - pirouette - preen
tuck beak under wing

Sunday, December 31, 2017

The Lake

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.

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.

Highway T in the Kettle Moraine

by Peggy Turnbull

sky’s soft brush
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

Three Photographs
G. Tod Slone

Road Back

Man Rock


Wednesday, December 27, 2017

Winter Scene #1

by Lynda Lambert

wintry nights
frozen Maple branches
curled russet leaves
weaving on a silvery weft

Sunday, December 24, 2017

The Gulf Country (Northern Australia)

by Stefanie Bennett

Because happenstance
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

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.

Wednesday, December 20, 2017


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.

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
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