Radio Universe by Josephine Shaw

What if we could see radio waves, a radio sky?
Lighthouse pulsars, a web of egg white floss
from that first explosive micro moment?

These days we believe in rivers, in their sources
and in how they melt into sea. In ageing trees,
and we cry when they fall. Or in a tumble of birdsong,

or the key in a door and in warmth beyond.
Or in Jesus on Sunday. But this is really
to believe a fairy tale, seeing our beginning,

seeing our fourteen billionth year, seeing 

no Moon, no Sun, seeing supernova remnants.
Seeing it over and over and no dark left.

And what if I saw you out there, as radio?
Show me your brilliant pulse, your rhythm.
Is that you inside a splash of stars?

Or are you fainter, a blinking grain of sand,
dancing away from me, away to a new Galaxy,
fusing into the clouds of white noise?


Josephine Shaw, London, UK 

Creek by Taylor Graham

What's more joyful

than running water? After rain,

our little creek leaps 

and giggles, blows bubbles, chatters

over rocks whose moss opens

all its green mouths to sing

the river song. 

And the old willow leans over the bank 

to see his own reflection 

wrinkled and riffled

with moving, ageless water.

What's more joyous?

A backyard puppy 

who's never seen a natural flow - 

only stainless bowls and faucet, hose, 

and pipes.

Here's free water 

on its great adventure toward the sea. 

What's more joyous

than a puppy tentatively wading out 

then drenching herself 

in that journey, 

splashing as each droplet leaps 

the stairstep falls; finally 

dashing back out

to shake

creekwater all over us

sparkling, joyous in April sun.

Taylor Graham, California, USA

Mirrors by Darrell Petska

The stream through the trees

weaved and pooled about

my boyish reflection: you there,

what shall you become?

A half-lifetime passing

I return to find in place of

arching shade and water's flow

a plant distilling ethanol.

I'm alright with that, I guess.

What are mirrors for, although

once my face in the stream

wore a speckled brown trout.
.
.

Darrell Petska, Wisconsin, USA

Recycled by David Chorlton

Bottles are all equal here, whether they contained

the Haut Brion from eighty-nine

or something cheap to swallow quickly

for the buzz. A written declaration of love

means no more than a shopping list,

and science fiction is a match for the complete

works of Shakespeare. Once the caviar is gone

the can is no better than the one opened up

to feed a stray cat. There it all goes

with the pop of a cork, a sigh, a purr

a kingdom for a horse, before it returns

newly labeled with a twist

in the plot that brings the dead back to life.
 '

David Chorlton, Arizona, USA