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
Tuesday 6 May 2014
Sunday 13 April 2014
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
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
Sunday 6 April 2014
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
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
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
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
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
Sunday 23 February 2014
Sunday 19 January 2014
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
Sunday 12 January 2014
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,
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.
it held at bay the terrors of the night.
Penny Smith, Havant, UK
Sunday 5 January 2014
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
Michael Keshigian, USA
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