haiku by Gerald England

bus not due -
making a pot of tea
last an hour



Gerald England, UK

Water by Ameerah Arjanee

I do not know your name,
only know that you are a
small drop of water bearing
an iota of life, and that we are
the same, our shoulders
momentarily blending into
each other as we flow

That knowledge is enough
to move a river.



Ameerah Arjanee, Mauritius

Creating Waterways by Vivian Faith Prescott

After a long drink of cold water-spring
Raven opens his beak and drops water,
water touches mountainsides, swirls
and splashes then torrents and rushes.
The river is forming, brown and bitter water
as he creates the Stikine—Shtax’héen.
Water from his beak forms the Nass, the Skeena,
the Chilkat, the Alsek, and the Taku.
He delights in order—do not flood the world.
He delights in chaos—swirl madly.


Vivian Faith Prescott, Alaska, USA

Marina by David Subacchi

Last time broken boats
stuck in silt, leaning drunkenly,
crying out for
tar and paint, rusty
stains, stench
from the fishing,
blood streaked oil on
crumbling concrete


This time gleaming yachts pulling
gently at well arranged moorings,
the tinkle of ropes against masts,
shining brass on polished wood.
Newly built apartments gazing
down at lobster pots stacked
neatly in rows next to hoists
lined up like gibbets
along the harbour wall.





David Subacchi, Wales

Blue Heron by Karen Nowviskie

Every year, he returns, the old man,
Solitary, silent.
Just when you've forgotten he exists,
He's in the corner of your eye,
Houdini in grey cape,
Somber, regal, and forbidding.
He appears and we hold our breath,
Whisper to the children,
"Come and see."
A day or two he lingers by the water,
Head down, arms behind his back,
Lost in thought or memory
Of glory in the sun.
Sometimes, his long neck leads
As if he's moving toward the finale
And wherever it is he goes
When he lifts his cape and disappears.




Karen Nowviskie, West Virginia, USA

Annual Count by David Chorlton

In the softly drumming air
between the empty branches
spread against a white winter sun
and the evergreens’ rough bark,
jays shadow woodpeckers
who follow the goldfinches
when the siskins have left nothing
but busy calligraphy
on the dark, loose soil. We are counting
every kinglet, every dove,
to bring the books
in order for the date
which hold the record
of who flies to the edge of a range
and who returns
year after year
to certain corners in the shifting
universe we chart
by the opening, closing,
fanning wide, and folding
back against the body
of wings
with the click and whisper
of feather and bone.


David Chorlton, USA

Blue by Michael Keshigian

There is the ample door
..............to heaven
we anticipate to pass through
.............after a lifetime of good
and there is the blue heron
.............that bathes and stalks
a secluded pond
............for sanctuary.





Michael Keshigian

The Erratic Boulder by Maureen Kingston

uprooted
by force

rode the icy
wave

of the
Laurentide

to a valley

eons from
its home.

A gray
outcrop

cast alone

a geologic
poet

among
the desert’s

smiling
sandstone.


Maureen Kingston, NE, USA

Cold, Wet, and Temporary by Carly Gove

Snowflakes.
So beautiful, so delicate.
Temporary.
They'll all melt, someday.
Nothing can stop it.
But they're pretty in the meantime.
Let's just enjoy them now, okay?
Don't argue.
Just forget about the future.
We'll love them now.
And forget they're doomed.
Our cold,wet, and temporary friends.


Carly Gove, NJ, USA

Three Horses in the Cold by Lori Lipsky

There stood three geldings strong
Side by side
Near the fence—
We paused our hike
In admiration
And they returned our gaze

From the horizontal bars
Of metal pipe fence
Hung neat rows of
Miniature icicles—
A delicate
Crystal valance


Lori Lipsky, Wisconsin, USA