Sunday 28 April 2013

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 

Sunday 21 April 2013

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

Sunday 14 April 2013

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

Sunday 7 April 2013

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