Three Poems by Diane Webster

Ripples Below

The trout sees the rock drop
and marvels at the underside
of the plop ripple concentric rings
exactly like when it jumps
for the blue water overhead
but not far enough so it falls
again and again like pieces
of the above world settling below.



Fog Swallows

Lying on the dock
the coil of rope
is as thick as fog
merging with ocean
where one trip
would be a splash
swallowed by the vastness.



Rock Wizards

Like wizards shore rocks command
lake waters to wash over them
in wakes of splash to soothe
their summer swelter in sun
same as they conduct colors
to ignite clouds in sunset
splendor so reflections ripple
into slumber breeze tickling
like goose bumps over skin.

Diane Webster enjoys the challenge of picturing images into words to fit her poems.  If she can envision her poem, she can write what she sees and her readers can visualize her ideas.  That's the excitement of writing.  Her work has appeared in The Hurricane Review, Eunoia Review, Illya's Honey, and other literary magazines.

Three Poems by Ken L. Jones

Astonished Even

The sky is asleep the moon is a frail whisper
And its icy sepia creamy shadows
Whose Achilles' heel is a tangle of crows
Is a half formed piano ballad
That echoes down to the complex Chinese indigo stallions below
And what is happening tonight is my redemption
Thought provoking and exquisite in all of its dimensions
September was a sad and lonely, lonely muse that slowed the moments down
But now the brush strokes of dancey December are ripe for gingerbread men
And things as indefinable as a fairy tale



Blue Symphony

The night sky has aged well above these mountains
That are as soft as Blackbeard and are laurelled
Most appropriately by clouds that are seed pods
And there are mended hearts in its January chills
As my thoughts gain traction on this perfectly curated afternoon
That is weathered to a nice patina until I return to streets
Whose great poetry will be forever beautiful and crumbling



How Strange is This Sun Kissed Winter

The almost unrecognizable anthills are noticed
By the sparrows upon the telephone poles
And their eyes shift across these pregnant continents
But I am about to take that exact journey to where the fractured clouds
Provide much more than just the promise of rain




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.  

A Poem by Gail C. DiMaggio

The Desert on Sunday

You have climbed on ahead of me while I stop
          to tally what's here and alive--

screwbean mesquite, its spiral fruit.
          Prickly pear, one spongy hand

popped out of the palm of another.
          A labyrinth spider,

deep in the pouch-shape of her web.  Strands
          beard the web mouth, speckle it with food,

with tiny corpses.  And you have climbed on.
          Ahead of me.  Deep

in her thousand egg sac, Spider Old Woman
          is weaving an entrance

and a path.  Stars, and a night to hold them.
          I am an empty cup in the kiln of the desert.

Gail C. DiMaggio watched her husband pursue his music in a world where no artist ever gives up a day gig.  She refuses to become discouraged.  Besides, she's obsessed.  Her work's appeared recently in Blue Lyra Review, Adanna, Antiphon, Allegro and elsewhere.

Three Poems by Don Mager

June Journal:  Thursday, June 20, 2013

Like balls hanging in tight rows on each
twig and bough to trim a tree, small hard
peaches glow in lime and rouge and sun
bright orange.  The squat tree's maladroit limbs
long to stretch high and embrace the high
east light.  Their small crinkly leaves long to
sing high notes in the key of green but
plentitude and lavishness share a
different scheme.  Fruit conspires to pull the
tree earthwards.  Brokeback branches stretch and
bleed their sap's shiny amber blood.  Large
black ants nibble at the gum-hard scabs
and sun's daily deep massage weighs down
each fruit with succulence and juice.



June Journal:  Friday, June 21, 2013

The kitchen window, hands washing last
night's wine glasses in warm suds while
coffee steams, wants to recall the vow
to the indelibility of
sunset.  The vow holds vacancy as
wide as grief, for its out-flowing light
flowed out.  Morning shadows entice the
window's new found infidelity.  They own
half the shaggy grass.  Crisp and sparkly
with dew, the other half is kiwi
green.  Free of promises, chickadees
twitch and skip from shade to light and back.
Both halves of lawn join voice and command:
Drink your cup, we want our fresh mow now.



December Journal:  Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Beneath the shelf of clouds, darkness wakes
its appetite.  The pre-dawn air is
lemon sherbet crisp.  The tongue wraps it
up within its breath.  It savors the
long draft ride down the wind pipe to fill
the lungs with sassy tang.  The sun hangs
back in the wings waiting to bring on
the main course.  It tosses small puffs of
raspberry pink chilled shrimps up against
the underside of clouds as a tease
again the palate.  The palate stands
solitary in the presence of
its naked consciousness.  Taste and breath,
tongue and lung are fused as one organ.




Don Mager's chapbooks and volumes of poetry are:  To Track the Wounded One, Glosses, That Which is Owed to Death, Borderings, Good Turns and The Elegance of the Ungraspable, Birth Daybook Drive Time and Russian Riffs.  He is retired with degrees from Drake University (BA), Syracuse University (MA) and Wayne State University (PhD).  He was the Mott University Professor of English at Johnson C. Smith University from 1998-2004 where he served as Dean of the College of Arts and Letters (2005-2011).   As well as a number of scholarly articles, he has published over 200 poems and translations from German, Czech, and Russian.  He lives in Charlotte, NC.

Three Poems by Michael Keshigian

Lunar Light

It enjoys the placid lake
devoid of activity
at the black hour of midnight,
illuminating the surface
like a lightening bolt
parting a starless sky,
the startled eyes
of aquatic dwellers
staring upward from the silt
as if seeing the path to heaven
for the first time.



Lake Dance

Peaceful undulation
gently raps
the brownish-green
barnacle pier

as the crystal blue pulse
of the extensive lake
abounds with life
below its pristine surface

fettered only by
a rustling breeze
that instigates ripples
to momentarily dance

out of step
against the placid mirror
which reflects
its tranquil message,

enrapturing my mind
to join
in a serene
pas de deux

gracefully waltzing upon
the wavering crests
till the whispering breath
ceases.



Vernal Clues

In the cool fragrance
of an early summer breath,
minute buds
and tender seeds awaken,
splashing trees
and barren landscape
to a verdure froth,
the fertile air of renewal
invades the blue dome
on chariots
which dash toward the gold medallion
beyond the green arrows
of giant white pines.
The lingering snow melts,
awash with winter memories,
a river of arctic mornings,
frost bitten windshields,
and dangling icicles,
which like a transparent pen
of invisible ink,
scribbles disappearing messages
upon the emerging sidewalk.




Michael Keshigian's tenth poetry collection, Beyond, was released in May 2015 by Black Poppy.  Other published books and chapbooks:  Dark Edges, Eagle's Perch, Wildflowers, Jazz Face, Warm Summer Memories, Silent Poems, Seeking Solace, Dwindling Knight, Translucent View.  Published in numerous national and international journals, he is a 6-time Pushcart Prize and 2-time Best of the Net nominee.  His poetry cycle, Lunar Images, set for Clarinet, Piano, Narrator, was premiered at Del Mar College in Texas.  Subsequent performances occurred in Boston (Berklee College) and Moleto, Italy.  Winter Moon, a poem set for Soprano and Piano, premiered in Boston.  (michaelkeshigian.com). 

A Poem by J.R. Campbell

The Most Beautiful Word

"Cuspidor," James Joyce averred,
Is English's most beautiful word.
Eschewing the romantic, "Mary,"
"Crystalline," "pristine," and "aerie,"
"Amaranthine," "alpenglow"
"Whippoorwill" and "mistletoe,"
The maestro used his ear and wit
And said it's a can where people spit.

Three Poems by Harry Underdown

By the Wind Deformed

A cypress clings stubbornly
to life atop the ocean-side
bluff, pressed close to the
sands and rock, deformed
by the wind, pointing out
the direction in which its
daily oppressor has fled,
not the direction from
which it always arrives,
apparently more intent on
accusation than on prevention.



A Gordian Knot

Unable to simply slip
the hook from a blue gill's
mouth because it has
disappeared down the fish's
throat, unwilling to lose his
quarter-dollar's worth of
tackle by cutting the line,
a father hacks clumsily at
the blinking head with a
dull knife to "put the poor
thing out of its misery,"
uses the blade to open its
throat, tears out the hook,
and, as he kicks the body,
still twitching, into the
lake, explains to his son,
"Now it will deteriorate
and go back to nature" as
if congratulating himself
on a job well done.  Let's
hope people express
similar sentiments when
the time comes to dispose
of his remains.



Conference

Two crows confer
on a spruce snag,
sizing up their
opportunities down
below and sharing
a wink.  They've
seen something
shining in the
undergrowth:  an
aluminum candy
wrapper or a
wedding ring.

The anatomically superfluous Harry Underdown is a man of many tongues who has his finger in many pies.  He keeps his ears to the grindstone and his noses to the ground.  All of which makes him a natural at "X-treme Twister," but is hell on his posture.