Three Poems by Marianne Szlyk

Variation on Chapman Road

        After photograph by Northscapes Photography, Presque Isle, ME

Cirrus fissures the November sky,
mirroring the ice cracks found
in the almost-frozen pond.

The photographer blows on his hands
and tugs on his gloves
as the last orange light dissolves.

He counts the days
until first snowfall, first flakes
like stars falling from above.

But stars are harder, colder.
They are a code
for him to puzzle through.

Snow is not a puzzle.
It covers the ground.
Like the sun, it dazzles his eyes.

Behind him the moon is rising.
Behind him clouds glaze
over the stars.

Tomorrow the snow will fall.



Antelope Island, Great Salt Lake, 1994

Gnats rise from the beach; the water
is too far for her to touch.

She stands on damp sand,
looking out to barren mountains, skulls

that will become islands
when the water is within reach,

when it splashes tourists' shoes,
stings their fingers, corrodes the rocks.

Now water withholds itself,
folding into the mountains' shadow.

She sees no boats, no cars.
Only gnats rise from the beach.

No salt tide brings seaweed.
No smooth stones or glass surface.

She turns around to fly home
to July's heatwave, to beach roses

that reaches out, pursuing
her past the rim of rocks.

At home
only humans withdraw.



Following the Moon

During our last bus ride
of the evening, heading east
towards home, the moon rises
alone in the puffy sky.

The moon is a pearl
button on an angora sweater,
an actress in front of
the heavy curtain on stage,
the spotlight trained on her,
a white cat peeking out
from the dark.

We've heard rumors of stars,
but they are elsewhere, further
north, further west.  The moon
is here with us tonight.

It follows us home.  It sees us
inside.  It keeps watch
until dawn.

Marianne Szlyk is a professor of English and Reading at Montgomery College.  She also edits The Song Is . . . a blog-zine for poetry and prose inspired by music (especially jazz).  Her first chapbook, Listen to Electric Cambodia, Looking up at Trees of Heaven, is available online at Kind of a Hurricane Press.  Her second chapbook, I Dream of Empathy, is available on Amazon.  Her poems have appeared in Jellyfish Whispers, of/with, bird's thumb, Cactifur, Mad Swirl, Solidago, Red Bird Chapbook's Weekly Read, and Resurrection of a Sunflower, an anthology of work responding to Vincent Van Gogh's art.  Her third book may be coming out soon.

Three Poems by Patricia L. Goodman

Painted Pond

She's on her way home, but I
stop her by crossing her path.

I crouch to look closer, discover
her secret--the back end of her shell

covered in mud.  She has been
laying eggs.  That's all there is

to motherhood in turtles:  no
sleepless nights, early mornings;

no doctors, no endless driving.
Incubated by sun, the eggs will develop;

quarter-sized hatchlings will scramble
to the pond--no diaper rash,

no skinned knees.  When this female
grows old, she will die alone;

no hospital, no visitors, no I love you's.
Evolution crawls on.  My son sent

flowers for my new home, granddaughters
flooded me with hugs after my concert.

My daughter invited me to Thanksgiving
dinner.  And I too, can swim in the pond.



Back to the Woods

A crack.  A splash.  Upstream
a wet squirrel
crawls from the creek; mid-flight, an airliner
hits turbulence, leaves stomachs
on the ceiling; constant buzzing signals
the yellow-jacket nest inside a bedroom wall--

last week, the phone call--
                There is a mass in your left kidney . . . 

The world
                        stops             more
    tests       hours
                                         in MRI's          date
with surgeon     dare with robots                  sleep
                invaded with dreams--     rats
                            eat
my singer's
                          vocal chords     can't get them
        off         a boulder rolls uphill
pins me     can't breathe           a thousand
                                      centipedes
         invade
my stomach       crawl out
                                          my incisions.

Blood pressure soars.  Big girl bonnet
knotted under my chin, rod
up my back, I dodge the dagger
at my throat.

A squirrel chatters from the scarlet oak
across the road, loses his grip, belly-flops
to the street, leaps up, scurries unhurt back
to the woods.



A 23rd for the Bees

The bees are my pollinators:  I shall not
go hungry.

They maketh me to sit down with abundance:
they leadeth me to threive.

They restoreth my faith in Nature:
they leadeth me to the Southern Magnolia--
scent nearest to paradise.

Yea, though I am threatened with starvation
if they vanish, I fear not:  for they are with me;
their strength and tenacity comfort me.

They prepareth a table before me in spite
of their enemies:  they annointeth me
with honey; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow them
all the days of their lives: and they will dwell
in the blessings of heaven forever.

Patricia L. Goodman is a widowed mother and grandmother and a graduate of Wells College with a degree in Biology and membership in Phi Beta Kappa.  She spent her career raising, training and showing horses with her orthodontist husband, on their farm in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania.  She now lives in northern Delaware, where she enjoys writing, singing, birding, gardening and spending time with her family.  Many of her poems have been published in both print and online journals and anthologies and she was the 2013 and 2014 winner of Deleware Press Association's Communications Contest in poetry.  Her first full-length book of poetry, Closer to the Ground, was a finalist in the Dogfish Head Poetry Contest, and was published in August 2014 by Main Street Rag Publishing Company.  In 2015, she received her first Pushcart nomination.  Her second book, Walking with Scissors, is currently being considered for publication.  Much of her inspiration comes from the natural world she loves.

A Poem by Josh Mayesh

Tranquility

Tonight,
a welcome visitor,
crackling like fire outside the window,
chasing fire,
riding on the back of wind
and filling old tins,
sweeps away the stings of yesterday.
Still
its motion
sets the past aflame--

Extinguishing the night
drowning bird calls and cricket chirps,
lovers laugh,
barking dogs and caterwauling cats;
All silent
listening in the gloom
to thunder kiss the room,
drinking in the
rhythm of the rain.

Josh Mayesh's poems and short stories have appeared in various literary journals and websites.  An assortment of his work can be found in his Amazon Kindle ebook collection Shards of Dusty Yesterdays.

Haiku by Sana Tamreen Mohammed

Colours of new dawn
In sweet chirpings of one bird
Scent of spring in air

Sana Tamreen Mohammed is the co-author of Kleptomaniac's Book of Unoriginal Poems (BRP, Australia).

A Poem by Pat St. Pierre

A Turkey Hangout

Large black wings flap
as an enormous bird flies to the ground
and begins to forge on damp grass.
Other birds slowly arrive walking
across the street into a suburban yard.
Suddenly, the huge bird flaps his wings.
They open up like a colorful shawl
around his neck and body.
As he turns in place, I realize that it's a turkey
who has come to visit.
This grand bird is strutting and fanning
around the backyard--puffing for all to see.
Soon a female enters the scene.
She parades across the moist grass
with eight little chicks following her.
Perhaps these babies belong to the
majestic tom turkey as the family
gathers together for an outing.

Pat St. Pierre is a poet and writer of fiction and nonfiction for both adults and children.  Her third poetry book "Full Circle" was published by Kelsay Books.  Her writings have appeared in numerous places, i.e., Outlaw Poetry, Poetry Pacific, Minute Magazine, Whisperings, Three Line Poetry, etc.  She is also a freelance photographer whose photos have graced the covers and been included both in print and online.  Her blog is www.pstpierre.wordpress.com

A Poem by Elaina Frulla

Blemish on a Blue Jay's Face; or, the Judgmental Corvid

               I.
Charming black spot,
singular and centered
like one dried drip
on a blank
feather canvas.

It's a third eye
charming from below
the glassy black marble
you call a real eye.

Radiating dot,
permeating dot
pulses through my eyes
when I lean in.

               II.
Judgmental blue Corvid
monitors me
through glassy black marbles.
Head cocked,
crest raised,
he releases a scold
that burns
and leaves
me
sweating
despite the nature dust
drifting.
It accumulates on my shoulders
and in my hair,
but dissolves
where I've been charred.

"I see you," he says,
"sitting around again."

Elaina Frulla teaches literature and composition at Siena College in upstate New York.  An avid bird enthusiast, Elaina values the way in which bird watching has influenced her artistic endeavors.

A Poem by Yuan Changming

My Crow

Perching long in my heart
Is a white crow that no one has
Ever seen, but everyone may
Long to be

Always read
To fly out, as if hoping to bring back
A glistening seed, a colorful feather
To festoon its nest

Yuan Changming edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan and hosts Happy Yangsheng in Vancouver; credits include ten Pushcart nominations, Best of the Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline and 1,419 others worldwide.