Wednesday, October 1, 2014
the mountain answers their
soulful cries, calling into the
Cristine A. Gruber has had work featured in numerous magazines, including: North American Review, Writer's Digest, Writers' Journal, Ascent Aspirations, California Quarterly, Dead Snakes Online Journal, The Endicott Review, Garbanzo Literary Journal, The Homestead Review, Iodine Poetry Journal, Kind of a Hurricane Press's: Something's Brewing Anthology, Miller's Pond Poetry Magazine, The Penwood Review, Poem, Thema, The Tule Review, and Westward Quarterly. Her first full-length collection of poetry, Lifeline, was released by Infinity Publishing and is available from amazon.com.
Friday, September 26, 2014
San Francisco to Seattle
Cathedrals of Redwoods
Whispers of mist
Circles of clouds
Sighing across the skies
Fog moving in -- fog moving out
The cold thunder of the Pacific
Pine-arms uplifted to the heavens
Waltzing with the Pacific off to the side
A dance of tides
Weather-beaten shanties huddled together
Shivering in the rainy gloom
Green, green; gleaming green
Skies through the branches
Pools of sunlight
Meadows weaving garlands
Of foxgloves and roses
Winks of poppies
Golden flashes of broom
Ribbons of daisies
Mosses rushing to cover all
Mountains rising through the mist
Rock beds dotting rivers
Carpets of moss smothering forest floors
Buttercups hop-scotching down hillsides
Indian drumbeats echoing across streams
Streams rushing to rivers
Rivers flowing into lakes
Lakes flowing to the ocean
The Pacific waving greetings to the Atlantic
Watery arms joining to embrace the earth
Slices of Spring
Wave willow fronds
Your tender green arms
A thin coat of color
On the cold stare
Overlapping of colors
White to shy
To green-eyed spring
Ink sketches of branches
The moon full
with sacred rite
The sacred rite
through the clouds
With rainy eyes
And pink-slipper feet
over the hill
The Song is Gone
A 60's waltz
slipped into quietus
The dancers gone too
Their footprints washed away
by the heartbeat of a lake, persistent,
ever flowing onwards
We danced our days across the Lake's currents
Rainbow seashells, driftwood sculptures
Broken glass scrubbed gentle
Behind this rock, that
answered with a chorus of remembering
Walking across thin sands of seaweed and bloated fish
to grimace our way into rocky waters
past a broken pier
into a sunset horizon
falling into twilight rising
Slivers of shadows creeping thin
The soul of remembering
Wrapped tight in the tides of yesteryear
Susan Dale's poems and fiction are on Kind of a Hurricane Press, Ken*Again, Penman Review, Inner Art Journal, Feathered Flounder, Garbanzo, and Linden Avenue. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan. She has two published chapbooks on the internet: Spaces Among Spaces by languageandculture.org and Bending the Spaces of Time by Barometric Pressures.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
The Sunflower Chronicles
Sunflowers cram into the morning bus,
they unfold yellow newspapers
and droop their heads reading over
each other's shoulder.
They crowd about me
as I open to the Gospel,
their yellow heads
wait for that moment
when Jesus speaks
and only as they can,
bow their heads
in prolonged adoration.
The Countenance of a Sunflower
She leans towards the Virgin Mary
her yellow Stole swept back,
two Queens in an earthly garden,
one hastening to the other
in a peaceful acquiescence to radiance.
William G. Davies, Jr. is the 2013 Poet Laureate of Perry County, Pennsylvania.
Friday, September 19, 2014
A drop, a drizzle, a driving rain,
a stellar jay mocking mockingbirds
out on a wire in the monsoon, jeering
at the catcalls, the coos from the cover,
sings tough-guy talk, schoolyard bully-brag,
bold enough to ignore wet wings, cold, death.
On this day the stellar jay is the only shiny
and winged thing--it struts,
a stain the rain cannot wash away.
It shoots through wind, grabs the highest line
of the staff of telephone wires,
heckles the throng of sparrows that flicker
in the shrubs, jangles a grating key
as it stands king of concrete on the walk
trilling, drop-speckled, spackled
by the downspout foam.
He heard the mountains ring hammered by the sky,
the driving head of thunder with forked claws of rain,
was not afraid to travel the road.
It was when he faced the interrogating glare
of headlights that he learned to fear
the whining saws of tires unimpeded by a sudden turn,
the certain aiming of lights which reduce the world
to muffled cries in murky shadows.
For this he came to value the knowledge of pipes,
fissures, gulleys, the first quick step
into foliage and culvert the lights
will not, cannot, investigate.
Jeff Burt has published works in Dandelion Farm Review, Nature Writing, and many others. He enjoys plum blossoms, eating plums from the branch, and listening to them plop on the soil.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
you beckoned to me beyond the first set of waves
raven hair trailing your back
I felt my heart crash open in the roiling deep
surprised by the liquid alarm in your grey eyes
I could see the sea
its bottomless possibilities
she and sad, like the goddess Atargatis,
you disappeared into the billowing brine
I followed you wave after wave until the twilight held you
Kit Zak and her husband retired to Rehoboth Beach, DE after a lifetime of teaching and raising a family. She is pulled between writing poetry and working on environmental issues; consequently, many of her poems deal with mankind's destruction of the environment. She has been selected three times to work with the poet laureate of her state, and has poems published or forthcoming in an NPR Anthology, California Quarterly, The Broadkill Review, Newviewnews, The Blue Collar Review, A Time of Singing, and Avocet Quarterly.
Monday, September 15, 2014
oceans hanging in the sky
caught in a vice
on a sunday afternoon
philip glass offering no relief
while the mind wanders through decades
settling on the worst times
nothing but pain filling my vulnerable eyes
remembering all those that i have loved
remembering all those that i have lost:
and all that got lost with them.
Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry and fiction of his has been printed in a variety of publications including Modern Drunkard, Poetic Pinup Revue, Nerve Cowboy, Tree Killer Ink, Lummox, Regardless of Authority, 3:AM, Van Gogh's Ear and Lit Up Magazine.
Friday, September 12, 2014
Driving through Utah
Cracks and wrinkles in blue skin
sliver across the desert sky
like streaks of clouds.
The left and right horizons
are fractured jaw lines and coffee stained teeth.
The desert seems flat
but beyond the asphalt
lumps of sand spotted with tufts of grass
rise and fall: the moles and pores
of Utah's skin. Then a butte
and ridges, a wall
like shards of dark glass slicing into a brown back
bent forward at the waist from hard labor.
The acrid air abrades even human skin.
Funnels of wind
rise and dissipate
in the distance: rust red,
burnt orange sand and gravel. The turn
to Moab and the National Park
promises fossilized dunes, like layers of stretch marks
and cellulite across the belly,
and geologic fractures,
beauty framing the blue,
leaking sky and tears of sunlight
between round windows and arches
of granite and sandstone,
formations like ogres, like trolls,
like abstract sculptures and sand paintings
defying the world's evil spirits,
to balance the spirits
of breathing creatures.
Tourists' car radios, cameras,
caravans of RV's and plastic water bottles
leak the world into this space,
a hot wind billowing out of the horizon,
a haze that distorts the landscape
into photos and family vacations.
We are all guilty of anthropomorphism.
The arches continue to stretch and lean
despite the humans hiking and posing around them.
Snakes, lizards and scorpions, ravens
rabbits, yucca, pinion pines, prickly pear cactus,
live despite us. The sands burn and cool, shift
and erode, despite us.
The asphalt road circles back to the entrance of the park.
The desert and mountains
stretch and streak and wind and drop and rise
Patricia Hanahoe-Dosch has been published in The Atticus Review, War, Art and Literature, Confrontation, The Red River Review, San Pedro River Review, Marco Polo Arts Magazine, Red Ochre Lit, Nervous Breakdown, Quantum Poetry Magazine, The Paterson Literary Review, Abalone Moon, Apt, Switched-On Gutenberg, Paterson: The Poets' City (an anthology edited by Marie Mazziotti Gillan), and MALALA: Poems for Malala Yousafzai (a Good Works anthology by FutureCycle Press to raise money for teh Malala Fund), among others. Articles of hers have appeared in Travel Belles, On a Junket, and Wholistic Living News. Her story, "Sighting Bia," was selected as a finalist for A Room of Her Own Foundation's 2012 Orlando Prize for Flash Fiction. My story, "Serendip," was published in In Posse Review.