A Poem by David Lymanstall

The Hawk

A frozen muddy path
In an early winter woods,
Covered with the lace of scarce snow
Lead me to the hawk

Or maybe he was lead to me,
As the branch was empty
When I heard the whisper of air
Pushed out of place

By gray feathers
Guiding a large avian body
To a branch only feet away
From me and the muddy, well-traveled trail.

I waited trance-like, silently thinking
Any movement would alarm him,
Set off the flapping giant wings
That would carry him to a more secluded place, far from me.

But he didn't move from his low slung branch,
Nor did I move from the frozen muddy path,
We both stood firm, wondering who
Would take flight first.

I don't know what thoughts he had as he gazed at me
And as I stared back at the solitary bird,
A bird that doesn't move with a boisterous flock,
He probably wondered the same of me on that secluded trail.

I had the notion that the hawk enjoys the sound of his own wings
In the cold winter air, just as I enjoy the sound
Of my solitary steps on a frozen muddy path.
The hawk had found a soul mate in the winter woods.

David Lymanstall is a teacher, artist and musician.  He has taught in classrooms ranging from Montessori Middle School to the college classroom.  He enjoys learning himself and likes to ignite that love of learning in others of any age.  In his spare time he teaches illustrated journal workshops, plays the fiddle in an Irish session group and enjoys writing science and nature related poetry that hopefully inspires others to look at the world around them a little closer.

A Poem by Ilhem Issaoui

Pondering

Sea waves dashing on the shore restless
Like a moribund clinging tenaciously to a gleam of life
Hence was me in few words
Known to everyone as loyal, as unwearied, as the face of beaming glee
But no one knows of the thoughts and memories
Still haunting each and every corner of the cadaverous heart
Aching, wailing, tearing
O come, come hither
And transfer to me some of your spring
The shabby door of my heart still ajar
Fear not its stridulation

Ilhem Issaoui is a 23 year old Tunisian translator and poetry and short story writer.  Some of her poems and short stories have appeared both online and in print in magazines including Three Line Poetry, Salis Online Magazine, Mind Magazine, Mad Swirl Magazine, Jaffatelaglam, Danse Macabre, and others.  She is also the author of a collection of poems entitled, Fragments of a Wounded Soul.

A Poem by Guy Traiber

The Strongest Wind

leaves separate from branches
softly, even in the strongest wind
there is a moment of innocence

the leaf bows
the branch nods

and there is a pause
to give blessing before the hug
in which they grew ends

if only we too could
burn out
like that

Guy Traiber was born and raised in the sweltering middle-east and found love in the cold mountains of Europe.  After a decade of travelling extensively throughout India, South-East Asia he is now pitched again on the soil of his youth.  He studies Sociology & Political Science and Chinese Medicine and finds that they all relate.  He would very much appreciate it if you tell him something.  o13m@yahoo.com

Two Poems by Susan Sweetland Garay

The Continuity of Things

Let us talk about the stars and sky:

do not ask for answers from the trees and ferns
but instead try to be them,
to learn their ways

do not judge them for their slow growth.

Their growth is steady
and they know how to forgive
which is a magical quality all its own

and they are patient like no other.

We should be as the forest
blessed and growing
and constant.

Our power lies in each new moment
time will not disappoint us.

Collect the light,
gather it into the bowl of your bones
keep it safe until you are at the ocean
and then spread open your hips
and birth it out again

watch bits of light
drift into the sky
and out again
undulating with the waves.

I want to learn the language of the bees,

to create something from the cosmos
from the light we have swallowed
which is resting on our tongues.


Ancient Corners

In a river in the fourth of July,
submerged to my waist in icy water,
this weary and neglected body
does not feel imperfect.

I sink down into my hips
stretch
feel my skin
feel the water moving around me
cold and rushing.

It finds ancient walls
and corners

with moss growing
and flowers coming through the cracks
reaching for the sun.

We drove past a charred hillside to get here,
so recently burned I could still smell the smoke.
But the black ground did not seem so sad or lifeless,
instead I could almost see it breathing deeply as it rested.

I used to know the way
but now have forgotten

and I wonder what else I have forgotten
from when I was a tree
with my roots
winding
down
into the
lovely,
nourishing
earth.

When other trees and ferns and mushrooms
whispered to me

and I understood their language
and the movements of their leaves.

Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Susan Sweetland Garay received a Bachelor's degree in English Literature from Brigham Young University, spent some years in the Ohio Appalachians and currently lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and daughter where she works in the vineyard industry.  She enjoys finding beauty and meaning in the everyday.  She has had poetry and photography published in a variety of journals, online and in print.  She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2014 and her first full length poetry collection, Approximate Tuesday, was published in 2013.  Her second book, Strange Beauty, was published by Aldrich Press in 2015.  She is a founding editor of The Blue Hour Literary Magazine and Press.  More of her work and doings can be found at susansweetlandgaray.wordpress.com.

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.