Swifts by Andy Barritt

skating
     warm aether
         the swifts return
no longer fouled
     by trailing nets
         of rain, black scythes
harvest the blue
     meniscus that teeters
         like a dinner plate
between crossed eyes
     right on the nose
         stuff, these feats
of gyroscopic skill
     so hard to see
         as other than joy
when they shrill wild
     thrilling in roll and shoal
         seething in knots
suddenly falling
     in sequence
         like a dropped chain
as a hobby’s silhouette
     sharks over, too quick
         to rake the shallows
from which they spiral
     into smaller gyres
         rising
and rising
     to rest
         in falling.


Andy Barritt, East Midlands, UK

Elemancy by Chris Crittenden

obliterated by a vigor
of rain, the stubborn dust
of cities upon cities,
of gone animals and creatures,
whirled astonished
in a sibilant dance,
ripples of hallelujah
borne on its percussion.
and we could celebrate,
free of mummified fears,
from tentacles of desert
that swirled on the wind
down into our rasped throats,
believing once more
that the gods were not stagnant,
that the glisten of new rivers
carried an essential trust,
immune to auspices of privilege,
and the meanness of gates.
it seemed the land itself
had become a shiny bird
with unstoppable feathers,
branched into many and
exuberant wings, every
molecule alert, befriended,
in a great unison of flying.


Chris Crittenden, Maine, USA

Someplace for Queens by Cynthia Sidrane

If you sit long enough

On the granite boulder

At the edge of town,

Gazing into desert spaces

Between compass cactus

And owl's clover,

Baileya and brittle bush,

You might notice a few bees pausing

Over yellow creosote blossoms.

Perhaps you'll see them flit away

All at once, or each in its own time,

Etching a path only they can follow

On the low blue sky to a hive

Hidden in a lone mesquite

Where their queen sits on her throne

Combed with amber honey.

Cynthia Sidrane, Arizona, USA

 

In a Sculptor's Garden by David Chorlton

I walked into a bee swarm

whose buzzing made

a globe of sound

that moved through trees

and settled

in a mass against the sloping edge

where roof meets sky.
 .

Among figures cast in time,

reclining, standing in

a dancer’s pose, or leaning

down to touch the ground,

I listened
 .

to birdsong, wind, and whispering

grass while cottonwoods

greened by the creek
 .

and the thousand bodies

joined a thousand more

as a cluster formed

and hung

at sunlight’s end.

David Chorlton, Phoenix, Arizona

Along the Creek by Duncan Fraser

Sun shining down from a pale blue autumn sky,
white wisps of cloud move slowly in the breeze,
grass dry and bleached by drought and summer heat.

The tree-lined creek is nearly dry,
green puddles punctuate its muddy bed,
no rain in sight, they’ll soon be gone.

Small birds are hard to find,
a rufous whistler, three grey fans, a wren,
brown thornbill busy in the leaves.

Then through the trees above the paddock,
a harrier with upswept wings sails low
and then is gone, too soon to name.

A common brown the only butterfly to see,
no dragonflies or damsels catch the eye,
their season’s drawing to a close.

Wait, movement on a trunk across the creek,
a common shutwing perches for a time,
the dragonfly of autumn has emerged.

The big zoom lens is meant for birds,
but hold it steady, focus, shoot,
the shutwing flies, its image though remains.




Duncan Fraser, Australia

Early Dawn by Mary Belardi Erickson

wing-clouds rush-in,
descend to ivy-covered bricks.
These wren choirs out-bright sunrise,
are a courtyard's Hosanna. 
 
Here I awake--again and again--   
to recount word-rows
in transcending measure.

I mimic slow waltz in smooth
motion, then ordinary quick-step--
my street song--
heel-and-toe to work.


Mary Belardi Erickson, Minnesota, USA

Snail Slime by Lois Read

Philosophers, knightly armour shining
ride off in search
of the Holy Grail
brimming with answers
to profound questions.

Poets modestly tiptoe
noticing things
a sparkle of dew, a butterfly wing's
shadow, cast as it flies
in the late afternoon.

Philosopher-Poets wonder
if the answers perhaps
lie in the path, in the woods, in the night
in the trail of a snail
escaping the light.


Lois Read, Connecticut, USA

Goose Feathers by Gary Every

The telephone rings late at night

and the beautiful woman I wish to be in love with

greets me with hello

making my heart go pitter patter.

Her words are punctuated by percussive raindrops

going pitter patter on the rooftop.

as she tells me excitedly she can hear a flock of geese

flying overhead.

The storm clouds are too thick

to allow the flock of migrating birds to be seen

but she holds the phone out the window

so I can hear them honking.

What is a flock of geese doing

in the middle of the desert?

What if the clouds part and reveal nothing,

but the honking continues

is there such a thing as geese ghosts?

The beautiful girl says good night

and wishes me pleasant dreams

as the rain slowly stops

and a gentle snow begins to fall

plummeting far too soft for either a pitter or a patter,

snow descending and covering the earth

in a magical blanket  

with giant flakes as big as goose feathers.

Gary Every, Arizona, USA

haiku by Kenneth B Thompson

Morning silence

jet trails

fence the sky

 

 

Kenneth B Thompson, New Jersey, USA

The View from Behind by Sr Anne Higgins

Tapestries look

like battlefields

from the back.

Threads like soldiers

in hand to hand combat -

who is most resilient?

Arms locked,elbows out,

clenched fists of knot

scattered

like small skirmishes

across the expanse.

Who is most flexible?

Stitches quarrel

in overbearing voice,

rush to trenches,

maintain positions.

Colors invade

each others' territory,

singing violent

victories

of light.

All clamor, all struggle,

it faces the wall of faith

while the weaver

and the watcher

work from the front.

Sr Anne Higgins, Maryland, USA

Reflected Light by Penny Smith

Remember how this winter day gave light
to country fields where frost and snowflakes lay?
It held at bay the terrors of the night.

When phantoms lurk and prowl our inner sight
and blackest thoughts intrude and bar our way,
remember how this winter day gave light.

Its hoarfrost beauty kept the landscape bright,
intending evening darkness to delay...
It held at bay the terrors of the night.

To those who'd choose to flee to calm their fright
there's scant advice to give, except to say
"Remember how this winter day gave light."

Then their unease must give way to delight;
although the sun had seemed to hide away,              
it held at bay the terrors of the night.

And should your future self meet such a plight,

in each reflective moment, do, I pray,

remember how this winter day gave light;
it held at bay the terrors of the night.

Penny Smith, Havant, UK

 

Daily Diary by Michael Keshigian

All day,  

every day,

through the night

while you sleep,

dust floats upon airy parchment

to silently describe the moment

and soon

another page is complete.

Early, when it’s quiet,

the faint sound

you think you hear

is a streak of sunlight

that sings

the chilly dawn breeze

into a story. 

Even snowfall covers

a page of barren countryside

with white ink,

transforming blank to verse,

rain erases most mistakes.

On a bright day

you may catch hand shadows

swirling fair weather fonts

into words

in front of the sun,

creating a gust

that inspires leaves and twigs

to choreograph the landscape.

When the inkwell runs dry,

the rattling pen resounds

a thunderous clap

and the dark hand pulls

upon the spigot moon.


Michael Keshigian, USA
.

 .

Michael Keshigian,  USA