Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Two Poems by Syd Peck


Saturn -- God's Favorite
 
This  floating sovereign rules her black see *
Like an Inquisition bishop  -  perfect : accepting   
No argument,  no competition,
Watching me watching her in adoration,
Her cold unblinking gaze
Reigning the black and silent sky.
 
 
Saturn, Goddess of bountiful harvests, of you alone
Unreachable, O favorite of the Lord, in brilliant isolation,
Of ice-cold  beauty pristine,
Is it said * that God doesn’t play dice,
But His spinning gyroscope globe  -
God’s spinning top  -  His best of toys.
 
 
O bisque queen, gem with halo rings,
Like a dove with wings wide-spread,
Hover like the Holy Spirit, float on the inky blackness,
Send me a message to fill my void.
Long in the ether your far-light lingers
Before it is allowed to reach my eye;
O Majesty remote cold and glorious,
Send me the vision of heavenly beauty bountiful.
 
Notes
*   A   "see"  is the territory ruled by a bishop
*   The saying  “God does not play dice”  is accredited to Albert Einstein,
when explaining the workings of the universe

 
Thaw at Crowsnest Pass 
 
Huge mountains massed and  cliffs  sheer.  It’s  March
And endless  blue  sky  cold is held back by the Chinook,
Snowy prairies rolling into their  thousand-mile empire  - 
The landscape  is gigantic, majestic, orchestrated to overwhelm.
 
But I stand and watch the lake-ice thaw,
Surprised by the tiny delicate music  -
Descant  ice -  jingling,  jangling,  tinkling
In delicate accompaniment  to the giant symphony.                                      
Ice chunks tangled in slow waves with the wind
Tiny  tintinnabulation before total ablation.
There is silence  and  harmony  around the sound,
The small melody of the ice breaking  into spring’s  chorus
 
Note: 
 Crowsnest Pass is the southernmost way through the Rocky Mountains in Canada
 
 
 
 
Syd Peck is a schoolteacher at high  school level for twenty years...in Ireland, UK, Canada, Russia. Keen musician.

Sunday, March 1, 2015

Three Poems by A.J. Huffman


The Anole

snuggled closer to the security lamp,
wrapping itself around generated false
heat.  The night was damp, hazy,
and the tiny creature’s color had paled to match
bulb’s sallow glow.  A distant door slammed,
sent it scattering.  I watched the borrowed translucence
of exquisite ghostly version of itself fade
back into something more appropriately pedestrian,
a muddled brown, to scamper across the mud.



Total Eclipse of the Sun

Shadows moved in, lay claim
to gleam of lake. The perfect white
of trees, clouded gray to calm
the skyline.  Crystals
are sent skipping like glittering stones
out among another
bottomless night.



A Frog Croaked

needlessly on my shoe, a victim
of fear-induced self-murder.  Three
days earlier, it frantically leapt
into the garage, attempting to escape
the puppy sent scampering behind
my legs.  I was not quick
enough to block the mistaken path.
Disoriented, it hid behind levels
of totes, mountainous blue building
blocks of false security.  I knew it would
not survive the suffocating heat,
windowless Floridian summer.  Confined
and confused it did not show
itself for me to help.  I found it
belly up at 5 a.m., inches from the closed
door.  Upended, I assume, by the last-
minute mad attempt for
freedom.  Failed, valiantly.
I buried the tiny body next to a hibiscus
bloom, an appropriate resting spot.
I thought.



A.J. Huffman has published eleven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses.  Her new poetry collection, Another Blood Jet, is not available from Eldritch Press.  She has two more poetry collections forthcoming:  A Few Bullets Short of Home, from mgv2>publishing and Degeneration, from Pink. Girl. Ink.  She is a Multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, and has published over 2100 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.  www.kindofahurricanepress.com



Saturday, February 28, 2015

The Results of the 2014 Editor's Choice Award are in!!!


And the Winner is . . .

Scavenger Hunt by Donna Barkman


2nd place goes to . . .

Visitation Tuesday by Denise Weuve


3rd place goes to . . .

Mathematics by Christopher Hivner


This year we had three Honorable Mentions.  They are . . .

The Traffic in Old Ladies by Mary Newell
this small rain by Alexis Rhone Fancher
Signs of the Apolcalypse by Terri Simon


To read the winning poems and to see the complete list of finalists go to Kind of a Hurricane's Editor's Choice Contest Site:  http://editorschoiceaward.blogspot.com/ 

Friday, February 27, 2015

Three Poems by Paul Tristram


A Grey Heron

To see him Majestically Crown the Tennent Canal
with ruffled, ragged white and grey plumage.
Neath Abby Ruins half silhouetting his backdrop,
the grumpy old Grandfather
of these inland Valley waterways.
Grave silent and statue still yet observing all always,
the lamenting bulrushes, his stalking ground
as he pines and worries himself slender,
slowly through the reed beds,
looking for something years ago lost,
reminiscing mournfully and fighting off
the inevitable approaching Winter.
But deep in thought always and wise I feel,
wise enough to keep his wisdom safe and sound
and let the hooting owl's take all the credit.
Until an explosion of children's voices scamper up ahead
and he lurches off in silently booming, powerful, rhythmical wing beats
like a glorious water colour momentarily dripping into life.



The Hedgerow Hedgehog

The Hedgerow Hedgehog uncurled awake slowly
stretched, yawned and smiled up at the Waxing Moon.
Then partook of its regular bum-shuffling jaunt
around it's half street and allotment territory
to do a spot of midnight slimy h'orderve hunting
whilst also gardening and pest controlling on route.
It stopped to wink friendly at the homeless Grey Cat
living quite comfortably under that shed on the corner
and to watch a Pipistrelle Bat expertly sky-fishing
various sizes of moths from the glow of a streetlamp.
Then with a full belly and a happy contented heart
it snuffled back home to its warm nest of mossy leaves.



A Clapping Woodpigeon

A Clapping Woodpigeon exploded
from the Horse Chestnut leaves
above me as I corner-turned
the golf course Hedgerow
on this 6 a.m. Summer Morning.
Once Grazing Rabbits shock upright
keenly from the dewy grass up ahead.
An Amber Fox stops to glance,
in a lazy sort of way, two fields over,
sensing no danger only spectating
for a long misty second or two.
I happily stop to listen and watch
a Green Woodpecker sporting red-cap
three quarters the way up an Oak Tree
rat-tat-tatting away with work smith bill.
Whilst Yellow Hammers burst alive
their van Gogh colourful courting
dance at Hedgerows glistening top.
I stand and sigh for a few moments
then whistle lowly to the Two Dogs
and head home for coffee and breakfast.



Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.  You can read his poems and stories here:  http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/




Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Three Poems by Doug Polk


Silver

cottonwood leafs shimmer silver in the sun,
the moment beyond value.
worth more than money markets could image,
incalculable on a spread sheet,
unlocking a treasure trove of memories under a childhood sun.


A Thunderstorm

lightning fills the eastern skies,
hail and flooding rain,
instead of fire and brimstone,
punishing sinners and saints alike.


The Bridge

the bridge spans the river,
trestles of iron from another century,
when the country new,
and hopes still lived,
the dreams now as rusty as the iron,
brittle with age.



Doug Polk is a poet living in the wilds of central Nebraska with his wife and two boys, two dogs and four cats.




Monday, February 23, 2015

Two Poems by John Grey


A NOVEMBER RELIEF PACKAGE
 
It's early November,
the reds are gone from the trees,
only the yellows and browns remain.
 
A walk through the shedding forest
is half-drug, half-dream.
 
I'm enamored of
the breath of breeze on skin,
refuse to remember
the difficult time
I leave behind in the cottage.
 
I stroll to a stop,
watch a squirrel gathering and burning acorns,
in panic that winter may come too soon.
And a deer nibbling grasses
that poke through the roots of an oak.
 
I am so taken by my surrounds
that I have less of my own self
to deal with.
I thank you forest.
A disagreement turns to fluttering leaves,
silence between crackling steps.
   
 
 
 
LOONS ON THE LAKE
 
The lake ripples toward the dusk.
The sunbaked stillness,
the feeding repetitions,
are done with for the day.
No more takeoff for no reason.
No more headstrong landing whoosh.
White patches succumb to black.
Yodel quiets to fluttered murmur.
From crumbling surface to fading shore,
red eyes guide birds home.
For in the long creep of shadow,
the world changes hands.
Moon appeals for softer focus.
Stars spill across the lake,
like a broken string of pearls
 
 
 
 
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Oyez Review, Rockhurst Review and Spindrift with work upcoming in New Plains Review, Big Muddy Review, Willow Review and Louisiana Literature.

 

Sunday, February 15, 2015

Two Poems by Kelley White


At the Gazebo, the Town Band
 
plays a Souza march.
I pluck leaves and twigs
out of blueberry buckets,
nibble hard green berries,
remembering the lake.
 
 
 
Fall Lambs
 
I pulled over to look at fall leaves and to talk to you,
the most serious of conversations, and then my words
were choked off, swallowed, as a bright red flag
unfurled from the rump of a ewe, became a purple gush,
saw her quick licking of the heavy lump and its
staggering rise to pink-eared whiteness, a miracle,
and even more--I had not expected, the other dropped,
and the mother, perhaps too tired to turn to more work,
or too in love with one newborn, the twin lay still,
ignored, until a child came from the shepherd’s house, lifted
the first lamb in her arms, carried it away, and the mother bent
to that second bundle and began her heavy kiss
 
 
 
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.