They welcome me home.
I drive through the open gate
in moonlit darkness.
A storm has passed.
In the northwest
I hear them howling.
Another pack answers
from the southeast.
All is calm, still.
Everything else is quiet, until
a neighbor’s dog barks
as if trying to remember something. Continue reading “Ken Hada: Coyotes”
“The ultimate goal… is not to understand the dream,however, but to understand the dreamer.” —Calvin S. Hall
I am a sycamore tree
levitating over a deep hole
where I was once planted.
With roots intact, fanned like wild hair,
I stare down
at the gaping wound.
No thing or thought can fill its yawning.
No longing is large enough
to fit inside or cork it.
The bark on my aged wide trunk
is smooth and slippery.
Light slides up and down my chest
with its quick fingers grasping
for purchase around my neck.
My fleshy branches are hundreds of arms
reaching in all directions, searching
for something to hold
or give my life to. Continue reading “Loretta Diane Walker: Interpretations”
“Think long and hard about it. You won’t get a second chance with this one.” —Mother
I want to return to a sticky September afternoon,
back before my umbilical cord was snipped
and tied. Even further still, back before I was a seed
in the garden of my mother’s life.
There are a few things I want to negotiate
with the Creator, “do overs” for squandered opportunities. Continue reading “Loretta Diane Walker: Before My Birth”
eating my 4-minute eggs, my 2 veggie sausages, my whole-wheat toast,
out my front window, a passing school bus’ rumblings
launch a jumble of wings.
Our annual spring rite in full swing.
When cedar waxwings swarm on my holly bush
to gorge on its red berries.
Like Hitchcock’s The Birds,
an ear-full of them, their beaks
spotted with scarlet drops, swoop down.
My eggs cold, my plate abandoned.
I stand at the window, eyes flitting from branch to branch,
at this orgy, this blood-red frenzy. Continue reading “Ken Wheatcroft Pardue: This Morning”
The barn collapsed overnight.
I heard this sound
like a loud, soughing wind,
as ten years of sharp lean
became one rust-red flattened
and scattered stack of wood. Continue reading “John Grey: WHEN THE BARN FELL”
Long before your conception,
a mix of protection with lust
prevented your existence.
chanted “my body, my choice,”
sought my “self”
before I sought the thought of you.
In this contra-conception,
mixed with bohemian illusions,
men wooed me brain and body,
and I muted thoughts of children. Continue reading “Christina Moriconi: Contra-conception: On the 20th anniversary of a child I chose not to have”
“It’s too late to correct it,” said the Red Queen: “when you’ve once said a thing, that fixes it, and you must take the consequences.”
–Through the Looking-Glass
Neither he nor she says a thing. She’s sitting, posed. And he’s telling
The seconds that make light and silver nitrate into something not painting,
Not sight. Into a kind of world. Into a kind of double of this world, only
Where color becomes lost, where her pale lavender day-dress will become gray, Continue reading “James McCormick: Lewis Carroll’s Last Photograph of Alice”
Loper, I yawn from above
in patterns of uncoiling heat.
Over stupa or quarry, Ilium
or delirium, my image proceeds
through every blind drawn tight
to keep me out. Heraclitus,
conjurer of change, laid low
by fever, dressed himself
in cow-dung and knelt Continue reading “Anurak Saelaow: What the Sun Said”
The old man with
Ashen colored hair, like
Foam atop ocean waves,
Weary face, and tanned hands,
Wrinkled by work and sun,
Sits on a misshapen ocean tossed
Tree limb observing long past
Memories, and envisioning
Ghosts of the vanishing past
Echoing atop the oceans waves
Crashing onto the shore. Continue reading “Jim Piatt: Like the Never-Ending Tide”
We left rosettes in fire clay
before we were naked,
exhaling each other.
One flesh nation coupling,
our blood of blood
and gristle of gristle,
shanks fat with marrow,
lungs full of chattering dark. Continue reading “Richard Manly Heiman: In Carne Una”
Fierce blasts unleash
from the west to batter
yellowing ash leaves
Predatory gusts snatch
at reluctant clingers
wrenching them loose
to skitter and whirl
to clutter sidewalks
and streets with ochre
Flaxen elm leaves sprint
eastward in a foot race
to no apparent finish line Continue reading “Glen Sorestad: Winds of October”