Sunday, November 23, 2014
A golden hush
Crimson and bronze days
And the earth willing
I am not
To relinquish summer
To smoke-silvered November
The crying song of geese
Curling clouds in the skies
And in the margins of my dreams
Autumn lingers long
November with its penitential air
It's faded shutters of sun
carrying a candle
flickering through the fog
The Golden rope of September
tugs at summer's sleeve
Time to pull her over the hill
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 as part of the Barometric Pressures Authors' Series (Kind of a Hurricane Press).
Friday, November 21, 2014
Standing still to watch
various vibrant birds
tremble within the pines,
flirting their lives away,
fluttering branch to branch,
contesting each bough,
then breaking away, hesitant,
only pausing to feed on
bugs within the bark,
fueling up for mating.
Topping this frenzied activity,
growth tassels track the arcing
progress of the sun towards winter
as a low grazing hawk explodes the tree.
Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember the hormonally-challenged?) English teacher living in Southern California. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity. Given his druthers, if he's not writing, Rick would rather still be tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
As Frail as a Snowflake
Winter sunset frozen to a deep blue
Above the high mountain meadows
Whose iced field trails
Are like yarn and needles
And have a most elegant fizz
And upon them reindeer
Skedaddle as their hooves tap out
Lullabies that sound
As if they are being played
On an Irish harp so butter tender
That only a fairy could pluck it that way
All upon this most perfect of December days.
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.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
Ballerina of the Sky
A Blood Moon
smiles in the skyline of a predawn morning
with rampant fervor building to a crescendo
of age changing ramifications.
The signs of the times spark with vibrations of
as metamorphosis of the spheres spins in full effect.
Tides shifting . . . pivoting . . . pulsating
with a sideways advance,
crisscrossing in a dizzying twirl
from a high spot in the heavens
downward into my wide open heart;
beating in harmonized accord
with the nexus core
and the infinite abyss
one inch at a time
closer to you . . .
closer to me . . .
closer to eternal answers . . .
closer to the truth
of reality's ultimate grasp of reason.
The existential energy source
of perfect Veritas
sparks across the Elysium heights
where I seek solace
in the blue/black canopied sky
which is lit up with pillowed comfort
as the symphonic stars sing out
in an awesome conductive opera
of God's sweet lullaby,
mimicking the initial word
of creation as it was first manifested into form.
A miraculous spontaneous generation
of divinity orchestrated inspiration,
intuitively embedded in the blueprint
of our collective DNA signature,
is woven like a synchronistic web and
sent Earthward to fill our souls with wonder as the
satellite signals play out in a rotating orbital dance.
The ballerina of enlivened rock dust
rolls across the gravitational ether
in astrological intoxication,
smiling out across the vaccuumed void
with a Cheshire grin of deeper knowingness.
As within, also without;
as above, so below.
Awed in mesmerized transient grace,
we watch patiently throughout the cycles
as these ageless planetary seeds
take root in dark matter,
mature, sprout wings and grow.
Scott Thomas Outlar hails from the heart of Atlantis where he kneels atop intricately designed rugs woven from prediluvian cloth, praying to the Holy Spirit Vibration for courage, grace, humility and discernment during this epic time of history at the edge of a new epoch. When not caught up in such passionate fervor, he spends his time writing such things as poetry, essays and rants. His work can be seen at Dissident Voice, Common Line Journal, Oracular Tree, Daily Anarchist, and Ascent Aspirations.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
a spider has woven
its spiral web high
above the stairs
and fall with
the movement of air
as I go up or down
the long curves
of white have blurred
to grey with dust
it shares my house
pays no rent
but adds beauty
to the stairwell
Held in Forever
the year turns in my hands
from snowdrop to bluebell
through daffodil and rose
spinning pansies into chrysanthemums
and copper and gold maple leaves
I want to hold the year
so that each petal remains
distinct as the moment
of the wind's caress
each stamen waiting for a bee
in that second when sunlight cuts
shadow and a finger touches my skin
with the colour of the season
imprisoned in a cup of petals
Joanna M. Weston is married, has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, Those Blue Shoes, published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, A Summer Father, published by Frontenac House of Calgary. Her eBooks found at her blog: http://www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com/
Thursday, November 13, 2014
The queen has eaten herself
alive. Her drones wait
for instructions that do not come,
smell the absence.
Rearing chambers are constructed,
royal jelly fed. Brutal battle for the throne
begins between the first two to emerge, each
willing to die rather than do the thankless
work of the colony.
After the Rain
The birds call through last rumbles
of thunder, worn-drunk, wet,
undaunted. Early dark is as welcome
as hydrated relief of corn stalks, weighted
and unified in sudden saturation.
White noise of steady mist does not know
one man's crop from another man's field,
blends seamlessly into woods that are
transformed into tropical for an evening
as the next front approaches.
The Road to Autumn Road
has been raked raw.
Patterns emerge in the dust of the dying
leaves that for a month held
intermittent beauty, cloaks of colors
deterring thoughts of coming
cold. Stored chlorophyll is bartered
for water until the forest stands
naked and nondescript.
April Salzano teaches college writing in Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two sons. She is currently working on a memoir on raising a child with autism and several collections of poetry. Her work has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in journals such as Convergence, Ascent Aspirations, The Camel Saloon, Centrifugal Eye, Deadsnakes, Visceral Uterus, Salome, Poetry Quarterly, Writing Tomorrow and Rattle. Her first chapbook, The Girl of My Dreams, is forthcoming in spring, 2015, from Dancing Girl Press. The author serves as co-editor at Kind of a Hurricane Press (www.kindofahurricanepress.com)
Monday, November 10, 2014
I Remember Tree
branches sky a bird's nest bird feathers falling moss lichen dry stone what my father said I listened he told hawk sky the pellet the owl dropped that one caterpillar twisting on a thread silk thread the little pines stunted by wind the great rock grown blueberries I showed you the place where the mountain opened to sky above the lake forever forever bear track moss swamp feet wet and the walking all the brook barefoot down to the village and I remember I do not forget climbing crawling on hands and knees on ice all that lived in that world below ice and cold air what mittens touch and ice you how beautiful ice looked in the days of love did we do that did we make ourselves climb the same path day by day at dawn how many days that gift you gave me before love deep in the forest forest the same path everyday you gone but the picture walking away from me down the hill snow to the broken down house the house abandoned the broken windows roof darkness almost but colors colors of carnival glass around the bowl of the meadow sky you going and legs sinking into snow my big boots dog under the house cat waiting on the hill the small birds fences wire and the meadow sinking into trees the small creek that only flows in spring the rock bed the quiet the quiet tent with mosquito net there by the brook that big open night and the dark trees waiting my mother what she did not know running the night wet grass in a white nightgown birds birds cricket what makes the night sound hawks
Pediatrician Kelley White worked in inner city Philadelphia and now works in rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in journals including Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA. Her most recent books are Toxic Environment (Boston Poet Press) and Two Birds in Flame (Beech River Books). She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant.