A Poem by Diane Webster

Rosebush Wings

Beneath rosebush
red, yellow petals
litter ground
like butterfly wings
in kaleidoscope
jumble
awaiting wind
to reincarnate
stained-glass
confetti whirlwind.



Diane Webster's goal is to capture a moment of nature with words so others can see what she has seen. Her work has appeared in "Muddy River Poetry Review," "The Rusty Nail," "River Poets Journal" and other literary magazines.

A Poem by Paul Tristram

The Black Cat Looked Skyward

 
The Black Cat looked skyward
in a thoughtful fashion,
let his gaze drop back
to the silver full moon
surfing gently off
the midnight rickety roof slates
and shadowing the turrets of chimneys
that spread out before him
in greying acres
over Old Smokey London Town.
Scratched twice, theatrically,
leapt off sharply, that way
towards the River and Embankment
in the fragile hope
of catching another glimpse
of her, again.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches 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.
 

Two Poems by Kim Peter Kovac

Swelter Skelter

 

like mother nature's oven
the sweltering humidity
roasts the mind into stupor

 

Equinox

 

at the cusp of sunrise
on the autumn equinox -
welcome, harvest moon!

 

 

 

Kim Peter Kovac lives in Alexandria, VA, and works nationally/internationally in theater for young audiences with an emphasis on new play development and networking.  His work is forthcoming or can be found in HowlRound, The Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Crack the Spine, Eunoia Review, Crunchable, Glint Literary Journal, The Metric, Mad March Hare, the Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Modern Day Fairytales, Haiku Journal, High Coupe, Three Line Poems, and Write Local Play Global.  www.kimpeterkovac.tumblr.com

A Poem by Michael Lee Johnson

California Summer
 

Coastal warm breeze

off  Santa Monica, California

the sun turns salt

shaker upside down

and it rains white smog, humid mist.

No thunder, no lightening,

nothing else to do

except sashay

forward into liquid

and swim

into eternal days

like this.

 

 

Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in twenty-five countries, he edits seven poetry sites.  Poetry books:  The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom (136 page book), several chapbooks, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.  He has over 65 poetry videos on YouTube.  Links to author website, book sales, and YouTube poetry videos:

Authors website http://poetryman.mysite.com/ 

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/promomanusa   

http://bookstore.iuniverse.com/Products/SKU-000058168/The-Lost-American.aspx

http://www.amazon.com/The-Lost-American-Exile-Freedom/dp/0595460917

https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos

Three Poems by Byron Beynon

CAPE TRIBULATION

We witnessed the rare and tropical rainforest
  as it nears the waterline,
    the movement of an endangered creature
that stirs from hiding to drink.
  Creeks inhabited by crocodiles,
    the cable ferry
        slips cautiously over the face of the Daintree.
The poison peach tree
    startled into focus
      by the ghosts of fires.
Sands that gather driftwood,
  the discovered cape
    sirened by the unseen
      dangers of the reef.
The ruined wind, with the leaves
  creates a distant sound.


BLACKBIRD

Alert to the world he knows,
a voyager of shrubs and intimate trees
the unwavering rhythm of his map
he returns to contemplate
the pure and serene.
Without hopes and fears
he edges towards that otherness
where shadows stir,
familiar with the art of sunsets
his eyes observe life's gallery,
one of nature's philosophers
impatient for the light to break.


MAES Y CAPEL

They cut down the trees
at Maes Y Capel,
built roads, houses, put
pipes and cables
where roots once ran.
The birds no longer
return to their vacant heights,
evicted without appeal.
In the wooded night
when the air's breathing
softens the atmosphere
trapping sighs,
shadows lengthen
reaching up
at the sky
where they fly
without impediment
telling you that someday
they will be coming home.

Byron Beynon lives in Swansea, Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including Jellyfish Whispers, London Magazine, Poetry Ireland Review, Chicago Poetry Review and Poetry Wales.  A Pushcart Prize nominee.  His latest collection "The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions) has been submitted for the T.S. Eliot Prize.

Two Poems by Rick Hartwell

Like Human Adolescents

 

Two hummingbirds, dramatic iridescence,

playing at sexual tag in the backyard, yet

way too late for the pull of spring incubation.

 

They may each have lost a mate to predation’s

insecurity; I’ve never noticed hummingbird

infidelity, then again perhaps they are just horny.

 

Sneaky

 

Shadows creep up on you surreptitiously and as

dawn rises to noon they trip and fall to their knees

performing silent obeisance at meridian, thinning out

towards an eastern infinity as day fades to dusk and then

into splendid sunsets: purples, reds; retinal sensuousness

dispelled by knowledge of particulate matter and vapor.

 

There are shades to shadows too, not just from sun, but

of moon and stars and fog; of dispersed, elusive fractals,

water beads skittering, grey fog phantoms trying to hide

in peripheral vision, trying to capture you unaware.

 

Moon shadows sway like the tides; adding, ebbing,

flowing through night and imagination until fleeing.

Star shadows exist, but can be seen only by night

fairies and fireflies when switched off, both keen

seers of the heavens when Selene hides her face and

stellar sylphs rule the night until her bloom’s restored.

 

 

 

Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember the hormonally-challenged?) English teacher living in Moreno Valley, 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 be still tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon. He can be reached at rdhartwell@gmail.com.

Three Poems by John Roth

A Geisha Reminisces Over an Illicit Love Affair

On leap years,
we used to romp through oriental gardens.
Such slipshod footing, lovers tumble headfirst
from airy gables.

We were blind,
our eyes congealing from the star-smeared visor
that once held a promise for the future, one 
of tortured romance. 

But instead,
our passion soon deteriorated―
An ancient scroll with burnt tea stains, frayed tassels
eaten by silk moths. 

Only now,
do shadows weave between the green bamboo thicket,
where hibiscus flowers loll their citrine studded tongues
like a yawning corpse.

Drowsy gnats.
Shapeless mantles of light suffuse a pond’s dark edge.   
Puffs of white mist float like Chinese lanterns,
a moonlit paper nest

for swallows.
Mirror-scaled koi flick their whiskers at the sky
as water sloshes over a lipped-rim bowl of clay,  
nourishing silt.

Red crowned cranes
stalk the muddy banks in search of a lost mate.
Long necks stretch, trill cries erupt into the night
unanswered.

Wind-cradled
cherry blossoms litter the small pagoda
where our hearts bled into rose tinted vials.
Mingling souls

but keeping bodies apart.




Dehydration

It starts with a dry spell,
a nagging cough,
and soon becomes
a burning hole
in one’s throat.
The desert gargles
sand in its mouth,
picks the blisters off
its scorch-split tongue.
If only it had tears
to spare, some hidden
reserve of water kept
deep within itself.     
Some way to taste
of its own sorrow.    




Quench

The sun hangs low
like a gold medallion
looped through a blue
prize ribbon. 

There is nothing
to be won but red dust
and desert flies, rubbing
their greedy legs together
like dull violin strings.

A stone-painted lizard
sleeps flat on a pillowed
rock bed that’s been drunk
bone-dry by mouthfuls
of burning sand. 

The land cries out,
then comes
a noiseless surge
of black-bottle storm-clouds,
descending from the splintered
planks of sky like anchors flung
overboard. 

Then comes
white lightning, shackled
to earth’s hot ground plate. 

Then comes
the calming hush of rain.

John Roth is a poet from Ohio whose work has mostly recently appeared, or is still forthcoming, in The Orange Room Review, Boston Poetry Magazine, Bone Parade, Aberration Labyrinth, and Dead Snakes, among a few others.  He hopes you have a nice day.