Friday, June 17, 2016

A Poem by Joyce Joslin Lorenson

Fox Dreams

Walking to the vegetable garden
while morning is damp and wrinkled,
north side of the old addled stone wall
near the pass-through gap,
a single gooseberry bush grows
contemplating the seasons,
fouled with prickles,
lobed leaves clustered
along arching branches,
dangling fruit, ovoid,
pallid green, the color
of jade droplets
adrift on plaited silk,
translucent as an old woman's
skin revealing the veins
in her quavering hands,
slippery with dew.
In the night
I wake and hear
the hum of it's whirling leaves,
the rattle of it's celadon beads,
footsteps of a fox
circling near the bush,
the swish of her tail
under a swale of stars.

Joyce Joslin Lorenson lives in Rhode Island, grew up on a dairy farm and records the daily happenings in nature around her rural home.  She has been published in several print and electronic journals.

Thursday, June 16, 2016

Two Poems from ayaz daryl nielsen

once upon the tree limb
of an old box elder in a
woodland I remember
I was a boy, yes, a
careless and happy boy
singing a hymn to my future
and yes, I remember,
and it comes to me now,
it comes to me now

evening path into the country
an owl hooting in a maple
apple and cherry trees in bloom
monarch butterflies on milkweed
murmurs from wild geese
grazing on these stilled fields
squat pines in the swamp
hold up a flock of blackbirds
the brown squirrel watches quietly
from the limb a nest rests upon
today's journal entry written full
and sometimes my life opens
its eyes a little bit more

ayaz daryl nielsen, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/125+ issues), homes for poems include Lilliput Review, SCIFAIKUEST, Shemom, Shamrock, Kind of a Hurricane Press and online at bear creek haiku.

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Three Poems by Ken L. Jones

Though Memory Allows You To Deepen

Darkening seagulls on wings of great fragility
Glide on the wind cries time machines
During this fermenting summer
That lasts through all of October
Now that comic book spinner racks
That once grew like wild flowers
Are so rare that it makes one wonder
Why superheroes rule the movies and the TV air
But I think very little of that
Lost as I am in shadows of orange groves now long gone
And of a station wagon that smelled of deep fried giant fantailed shrimp
Eaten at the Pink Spot burger joint way up the street
All of this like some other planet to me now
But one I would gladly journey back to if only I knew how.

Thousands of Windmills

These blue smoke ducklings at day's end are hard to part with
Now that nighttime blooms as if it is on a trampoline
Near the soft ground of the cornrows
That loom so briskly in all of this blue jade emptiness
As they echo through every ripe cherry
And all of this is evaporating yet as eternal
As any summer beach you've ever trod upon in this life
Or the one that is promised beyond the prism of the clouds
Beyond all this sorrow and all this strife.

Songbirds Again and Again

There is a tingle in the air
As this February morning's tentacles trail behind it
And as all vaporizes like torn silk whispers
Inscrutable is the tree's benediction
As the gray squirrel waves goodbye from deep within it

For the past thirty-five years Ken L. Jones has been a professionally published author who has done everything from writing Donald Duck Comic books to creating things for Freddy Krueger to say in some of his movies.  In the last six years he has concentrated on his lifelong ambition of becoming a published poet and he has published widely in all genres of that discipline in books, online, in chapbooks and in several solo collections of poetry.  

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Three Poems by Lynne McEniry

kemp ridley

kemp ridley, I see you
with my dream eyes      braving New England
waters         so early in the season
I see you

swimming in the deep here with
right whales and jellies       although
freezing, you flock to  chockfull
feeding grounds--neither of us
can spare the worry of why we traveled

to these forbidding waters        so far
from the welfare of warmer shores       neither
the time to wonder whether it's courage
or cowardice that leads more quickly
toward extinction


do you like to listen
to the birds?  I ask as we lie
quiet in the morning light

I'm listening
to at least six different
birds, I think--warble, whistle
and caw, a chatter,
a trill and a tweet--
songs and calls that carry me

back to Mr. Weitz's seventh
grade Listening to Today's
Music class          my desk
on the third   step up   my eye's
closed, ears open to the sound
booth         all its mysterious
knobs and boards that somehow
flooded our classroom with sound.

Mr. Weitz played a game with us
where we had to pick out each
instrument we could hear in the song.
When he said, needle to vinyl now we knew
we really had to listen.
He's start us out slow with acoustic
vs. electric in Ramblin' Man, maybe move
on to the brass ensemble in some
Chicago song before quizzing us
on the Orchestra Baobab, a melting pot
of sounds that carried me into
a world outside the classroom walls.

I like to listen, too, you whisper as
the yellow-bellied sapsucker   pecks
busily at some bark just outside
our window     I wonder how
I'd missed his sound earlier, and
I wonder where the birdsongs and calls
had carried you in that quiet morning light.

A Fractured Sand Dollar, A Sliver of Sponge

On the window sill at the Villa Caprice rests
a fractured sand dollar
a sliver of sponge like a hand signing peace
a crew of coquinas stripped to delight
each bathed clean

of sand, of salt.  A fractured sand dollar
a sliver of sponge demand their own attention
in spite of coquinas striped to delight.  Each
bathed clean they rest refreshed upon the sill.
Window screen dew drops

envy the sliver, envy the fracture that rest
refreshed upon the sill, so they drip down
to striped crew of coquinas, bathing them
in a dazzling glaze.  Now dew drops do envy
the crew of coquinas, knowing that sun will shine

will claim praise for the gift they gave.
Palm fronds wave in the sun, scatter
dew drops, dry up envy,
a fracture, some dazzle,
a hand signing
peace:  life:  window:  Villa Caprice.

Lynne McEniry has poems and reviews published or forthcoming in 5 AM, Adanna, The Stillwater Review, Paterson Literary Review, The Lake Rises Anthology, The Wide Shore, and others.  She won honorable mention for the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Award and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  She is a regular guest editor for Adanna Literary Journal for which she edited several special issues including, "Hurricane Sandy:  Students Speak Out"  and "How Women Grieve."  Lynn earned her MFA in Poetry from Drew University and works at the College of Saint Elizabeth in Morristown, NJ.

Monday, June 13, 2016

Two Poems from Stefanie Bennett

Blanks from the Other World

Suppose the Sassafras spreads its leafage
As far as the far-off "danger man"
Nodding at symbolic warheads.

Suppose the dispirited Mountain Woodchuck
Turns her back
On the Wojak land of legend.

And suppose the fortune-telling Chickadee
Refuses to whistle
"Abide with me . . ."

The cryptic tempest flower wouldn't
Bear too well
                      No sir!


As Lady Day
To fade
The yellow
Voices freedom . . .

In the blink
Of an eye
                 & working
Overtime he
The sky
And its Saviour.

Stefanie Bennett has published several volumes of poetry & has had poems appear with Dead Snakes, The Lake, The Fib Review, Poetry Pacific, The Plum Tree Tavern, High Coupe & others.  Of mixed ancestry [Irish/Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Queensland, Australia.  Stefanie's latest poetry title is published by Walleah Press & is available from Walleah, Amazon & Fishpond Books.

Sunday, June 12, 2016

Three Poems by Jonathan Beale

The Daffodils

After Marianne Moore

Under the demonic winter air
From beneath the tuber
Ridden in black:  this interlocked
World woven in kindness.
And anticipation of light
Waiting until the invisible
Grows yellowingly visible.
A clock chimes.  The trumpets
Call, they look to congregate.

As they genuflect under
the new sun light.
Offering a simple thought
To their own god for their own existence
As they rotate in the breeze
Facing their god's passing
Their days:  privately offering
Their wishes and desires upon the altar
of the new dawn air.


Here the golden weave--impenetrably obvious
               Golden gods whisper and wish their dreams, to you
To be caught, by you--cast your mind's eye imagination

               The gold is now beginning to fade:  drowned in new black
Only the few find the nights heart here
               Only us human dogs find the solace of here & now

The night is found in a darken Byronic mood
               This desire for desire as the morning claws toward . . .
. . . Breathing; awaiting the first days air on our skin.

Low Mood Months

The eyes slowly sag
With the expiring October
The day of the day brings
A new opening; a new gate
Into another garden, most
Would rather not enter.
The leaves red fire
Cannot fire a passion
In these dark dark days
In these low mood months
The expiring light
Chased away by the
Freezing cold wind--
Hides behind the blankets
And the wood fires
Cinders breathe some
Hope, some life, some light . . .

Jonathan Beale has 400 plus poems published in such journals as Decanto, Penwood Review, The Screech Owl, Danse Macabre, Danse Macabre du Jour, Poetic Diversity, Voices of Israel in English, Miracle E-zine, Voices of Hellenism Literary Journal, The Journal, Ink Sweat & Tears, Down in the Dirt, The English Chicago Review, Mad Swirl, Poetry Cornwall, Leaves of Ink, Ariadne's Thread, Bijou Poetry Review, Calvary Cross, Dead Snakes Review, The Bitchin Kitsch, Poetry by Birkbeck alumnus, The Dawntreader, I am not a Silent Poet, Pyrokinection, Festival of Language, Festivalwriter, Don't Be Afraid:  An Anthology of Seamus Heaney, Ygdrasil, The Four Seasons Anthology, The Seventh Quarry, Van Gogh's Ear Anthology, The Curly Mind, The Beatnik Cowboy, and Dali's Love Child.

Saturday, June 11, 2016

A Poem by Edward Ahern

The Swamp Oak

Balding leafage
lets the eye slip through
to scabrous bark
that runs past rot holes
hiding squirrels.

Twisted branches
contort around power lines,
reaching upward
and straining to
recover grace.

The tree sways
toward a century
it will not reach,
and strews its seeds
with wanton hope.