Sunday, 30 March 2014

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

Sunday, 23 March 2014

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

Sunday, 16 March 2014

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

Sunday, 9 March 2014

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

Sunday, 2 March 2014

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