Three Poems by A.J. Huffman

Two Perfect Prints

The sand echoed with the stamp of takeoff.  Success
driven deep into the grains.  I paused to capture
the moment (as if such freedom could ever be
contained).  Taking in the light, the subtle tones
of the breeze and the resonating chitter of wings
both flighted and still

fighting, I found myself

frozen.  In that mysterious moment
I was another world
of motion and momentum.  Building
bridges with my eyes to cloud-filled dream worlds
raining silver lined gowns.  And I wrapped
myself in its folds.  Stepping
forward, finally, with the eye-opening will to ripple
[inside] my own wake.

Snail Sits

on a rusting grill.

He is not searching

for remnants of food,

forgone.  Rather, he is reflecting

on the day’s travels, a lifetime

in inches, as the moon showers

his shell in cool white

light.

Not All Wings Are Wax

Eagle.

Balding royal

attains mythic stature.

Icarus’ mimic, soaring

for sun.

A.J. Huffman has published twelve full-length poetry collections, thirteen solo poetry chapbooks and one joint poetry chapbook through various small presses.  Her most recent releases, Degeneration (Pink Girl Ink), A Bizarre Burning of Bees (Transcendent Zero Press), and Familiar Illusions (Flutter Press) are now available from their respective publishers.  She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee, a two-time Best of Net nominee, and has published over 2500 poems in various national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, The Bookends Review, Bone Orchard, Corvus Review, EgoPHobia, and Kritya.  She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.  www.kindofahurricanepress.com.

Three Poems by Dah

Myth

The sea does not call
Myth
Another
Low tide is food
Air caresses
Pliable

A ripple knows nothing
dissolves
The thinnest puddle of clouds
reflections

Tracing sand with a finger
I wish upon a secret
Truth
Always
Nothing else



Empty Seat

Along the deserted coast
very little lingers:  shells, tortured rocks
sand dollars of no value
Light shrinks inside the breakers
where waves come to shore
to loiter in the sand
to hold the flickering light

A web of wind tangles the mist
into clouds,
rustles the feathers of sleeping gulls

I am silent, the sea thunders.
My solitude, filled with memories
of things that cannot be repaired.
A crowded emptiness
comes out of hibernation,
a storm brews in darkness.

Late afternoon wears gray scars,
the sky is soiled with thin smog
I am silent, listening for the wind
There is nothing but the snap of waves
against the comatose cliffs

I take an empty seat in the sand.
Nothing changes.  Even here
sitting along the beginning of life
nothing changes

The routine between waves and wind
is their habit, their hope
yet both need different directions

still, it is hard to feel alive
while the world suffocates.
It is hard not to notice
when earth clutches my feet
and the air is speechless.



Forgotten Cattails

I enter the solstice
to hear snow falling
where winter leads the way
to a short-light-distance

Along a childhood memory
snow labored painfully
sweeping the landscape
with heavy shoulders
of white surrender

It seemed a great distance
from Grandmother's house
to the barn
where the icy sky
bellowed a deep freeze
over shivering fields
of forgotten cattails




Dah's most recent book is The Translator from Transcendent Zero Press.  His first three books are from Stillpoint Books.  Dah's poetry has been published by editors from the U.S., the U.K., Ireland, Canada, China, Philippines, and India.  His poems recently appeared in Lost Coast Review, Recusant, The Cape Rock, River & South Review, Acumen Journal, Sandy River Review, Stone Voices Magazine, The Linnet's Wings, and Diverse Voices Quarterly.  Dah has been nominated for the Pushcart by the editor of Transcendent Zero Press.  He lives in Berkeley, California where he is working on the manuscripts for his fifth and sixth books.  Visit:  www.dahlusion.wordpress.com

Three Poems by John Grey

Birds at the Feeder

Birds gather at the feeder
during the short days of February,
mostly brown, some gray,
and occasionally the striking blue
of the chatty jay and the
cardinal's blood red.
They peck at sunflower seeds
or the mix in a tray.
Woodpeckers cling to suet cages,
drilling the good white fat,
black and white but
for the red dot on the forehead,
like an Indian bindi.
Doves poke and plod
at ground level,
among the husks,
the unintentional spill,
their slate heads bobbing
like old men agreeing
with what they do not understand.
Sometimes, a stranger alights,
a grosbeak, a towhee,
even an escaped cage bird,
passing through
but, like all the others,
leaving something of themselves
with our eager faces at the window.
It's winter, far from summer's bounty,
and we can't help being in their lives more.
But they pay us no attention.
Survival is too busy to give thanks.



The Eel Run

Flesh passes beneath me
in a slither of eels
or a skeleton does for skin
in the cockeyed creep of a crab.

Water flows as peace
but beneath the surface
my hands are at war
with the wildlife.

They slip through my fingers.
They bury themselves out of reach.
Then the stream calms.
My hand comes to nothing.

A tanager alights on a branch
where I cannot reach it.
A rabbit skitters away
at speeds beyond me.

Time to go home,
hug wife and children.
A good haul when
it's my own kind running.



Eye on the Shore

As above, so below.
on the surface of a lake.
matter makes good on its reflection.
The sun is twinned.
Mountains drift out as far as they are high.
My two faces keep to themselves
as I lean over from the bank,
take in a pebble, a darting fish,
a hundred frog leaps.

Looking up.
I arrange the prospect outward.
On an overhanging bough.
four turtles bask in order by size.
In far shore mud,
an egret marks the tracking of time.
In the marsh grass,
dragonflies snaffle mosquitoes.

The eye too is a lake itself small and placid.
The eye, with light at the helm,
floats serenely in its socket.
It does not go out into the world.
The scenery comes to it,
makes a finer sphere, interior.
In its watery humors,
anything can be represented.
But only the eye
chooses what is contemplated.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident.  Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Gargoyle, Coal City Review and the Coe Review.

Two Poems by Lily Tierney

Watching

Watching a squirrel climb a tree,
reaching the top branch.
All the while he was watching
me as I stood on the ground.



Lily

I could smell the flower as I entered
the room.  The fragrance danced around
and became a song.

It traveled through the air and into the night.
The moon and stars conducted a symphony.

A Poem by Lily Tierney

Leaf

When the last leaf fell from the tree,
I could finally admire its branches.

Three Poems by Linda M. Crate

October Rain

whenever it's a gray
october day
i remember your eyes,
and
i think of you and your torment
of the agony i never knew
was always too lost
in my own world
to save you,
but you were proud of me;
i'll never forget your
advice, uncle,
of finding my dream and fighting for
it relentlessly;
and i'm doing just that--
i think of you in the october rain
of your somber sadness
how it didn't stop you from being kind
to me,
and i'm sorry i didn't know you were
depressed and i'm sorry that you lost your
battle with depression--
one day i thought maybe you could teach
me how to paint
i always admired your artistry
you were a beautiful soul
i wish you could have know that,
and i know it's been fifteen years; uncle,
but sometimes i'm still that fourteen
year old girl
crying herself to sleep because you're
gone.



The Raven & The Hurricane

you are a hurricane
not caring
where the eye hits
you smashed
me into the wings of oblivion
had to create myself
again
whilst your memory tormented
and agonized my soul
it was all so
needless,
but you insisted on having me because you
only ever saw me as a possession;
but people aren't things you
can own and women like
me cannot be tamed
i am wild--
never shall i forget your trespass against
my heart or soul
i am a raven
when my wings don't burn at the mere
mention of your name
i will fly back to the heart of your storm,
and i will claw out your eye;
men like you don't deserve to be called men
you do not deserve the
force of the ocean.



A Better World

my heart catches in my throat
i feel most in love
when i'm standing in the wood
lone and tall
as the trees that protect me
in their loving
embrace,
and the crows caw and the squirrels scurry;
curious little chipmunks look up at me
before disappearing as quickly
as they appeared--
i could live in the forest forever
drink in the wild water
breathe in the sweetest, purest air
forget humanity
locked in their prisons of isolation and doubt
of apathy and anxiety and depression;
just jump into the rivers and creeks and listen to the
waters until i had no worries at all
find myself waking upon
rocks and sitting on the ledge of large tree roots
demanding to be by the creek's edge--
i don't have any need of humanity
and their cruelty
just let me sit by the river's edge and dream
and create and make a better world.

Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvania native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville.  Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print.  Recently her two chapbooks, A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press, June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon, January 2014) were published.  Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015.  Her novel Dragons & Magic was published in October 2015.

Three Poems by Bob Carlton

Circle/Upon Circle . . . 

Circle
upon circle

down
to the river's edge:

food chain among slime,
the taste of algae
and the dart
of the heron's beak.



The Grass Creeps . . .

The grass creeps
through cracks,
escapes the
paved limits
we try to enforce--

bees and breezes
weave through leaves
in unintended ways

in defiance of
a too rigid set
of lines.



Hydrocycle Freeze-Frame

A soft dripping signals thaw--
by mid-morning winter silence
dissolves in flowing water.

The snow is glazed,
sweating away
its bright body.

The sun shines through a chill
the constant melt
no longer feels.

Wrapped in frigid air
earth warms, softening
to embrace cool trickles
in dark mysteries
where future flurries soak
roots of leafless trees.



Bob Carlton lives and works in Leander, TX.  www.bobcarlton3.weebly.com