Wintermind by Arthur Durkee

Now winter. Fallen leaves still on the walk. We stand talking in the road, kicking leafpiles to see them fly, then wander down to the river. This cruel wind. No hat on, the drizzle soaks my head, hair in my eyes, drops going down the back of my collar. Spinning red maples fall over in brash display, scuff and shatter. The sky glooms and lowers. Somewhere I lost my way.

rain turns to wet snow
ducks thrash turgid black waters—
my eyes washed by tears

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When the singer died, I was in the desert. Canyons filled with light, fresh snow, sublime tender evergreens. The silence deepened by memories, now that you've gone. Then, an echo of jays. Looking up, turkey vultures circled over dry arroyos, red earth broken by snow patches. Looking down, even the chollo seemed hunched over. Will we ever play again together? Perhaps in the western lands, beyond the sea.

guitar of dead leaves
scattering gusts of music—
mute song of passing


Arthur Durkee, USA

Wednesday by Chris Martin

Silver birch picks at cloud hems
Pulls them down over hibernating nests
The bones of a snowstorm rattle over the end of the room
My mouth is ready
To swallow the impending whiteness

Birches
Birches and dark firs
Distant faces bark-nicked loom
Reaching into the lacefall
Melt

Silver
Birch outside my mother's kitchen window
Hides the wind in its trunk
Leans and flings a net to catch the snow
Music

My fingers touch the glass and
I take on the world's shape like a magician
Freeze-dried, forever

My mother taps me on the shoulder
Her glasses are steamed up

We turn to make Thursday's
Pea soup.


Chris Martin, Pembrokeshire, Wales

Untitled by Arthur Durkee

If you hold yourself still, the fox
will always come to you. She moves
silent through dusk, across sudden lawn,
a natural gap between bush and cliff.
She is wary, ears up, nose alert. She skips
lightly, pauses to flick her tail, then
disappears, streak of red and black.
There’s a waterfall, bitter, cold, she sips
when night pauses; a deep water seep
from between rocks that remember dinosaurs
and birth-cries of lost volcanoes, gone
before this beach, this river were here.
An owl calls, very close overhead, between
meadow and shore, moving towards beach;
fox freezes, her tail and belly low-slung to soil,
red blur blending into dusk-toned fireweed,
and waits for owl to pass. If you can shape
yourself into stone, slow-breathing juniper,
your palm cupped to hold rain, and be silent
for endless days, the fox will come to you, sip
cold water, lap your lifeline. Don’t look at her
direct, be a peripheral vision of your own self,
flicker of red and black in lung, heart, artery;
and she will come, tentative, hesitant, but
curious. Become moss, become invisible,
become as ancient as the dreams of cliffs.
If you hold yourself still, the fox will come.


Arthur Durkee, USA

The Fox of Yellowstone by Janie Hoffman

I am impressed by this red fox
chewing on a chocolate bar wrapper
in the parking lot of Yellowstone.
He's long like a corgi but not so wide,
cute and compact, and two minivans
full of backpacks and children
also watch as the sun pulls down
the October day and we do not even think
about how we should scold the careless
tourist who left the candy wrapper because
we are more grateful than the fox
who has given up raising his eyes
to look at us. Calm, he chews
and licks and does not even squint
when we turn our headlights
and motors on and yellow rays
and untuned engines spill
into the night. We leave
him to his prize and privacy
as we need to chase down
our own food and hotels.
He never looks up and fades
away in our rear view mirrors,
dignified red banner licking
chocolate off foil.




Janie Hoffman

Three-legged Dog With Omelette by Paul Squires

"What's for breakfast, Blue" (for a threelegged
dog tribute poem double self
portrait with hinge.. .
you can't make an omelette without
you see some of us were born to trouble
son when seeing flocks of sheep idly
graze on each others thoughts
in fantasy fields of gentle lies
agreed by some mere mutuality
can't help but bark and it's your
job, Blue, to get 'em moving in the other
direction, they're headin' for the gate, boy,
even it means the only friend left to
talk to is you, Blue,
he says,
melting butter and chopping garlic.



Paul Squires, Australia

At Andy’s Deli by Shane Allison

‘Bout lost my mind when I didn’t see the usual.
Where the pies at? I asked the cute, East Indian man
Standing behind the counter.
We sold out, he said.
I didn’t know Hostess Apple Pies were so popular
Among the masses of Greenwich Village.
He knows how much I like my real fruit filling,
The preservatives and artificial flavors.
My world ain’t nothin’ but a flaky crust,
A cream-filled Twinkie.

Gotta get somethin’.
My sweet tooth is killin’ me.
What’s it going to be:
Snowballs?
Ho Ho’s?
Zingers?
Crumb Coffee Cakes?
None of this I like.
Wait, this look good:
Coconut Crunch Donut Delites.
Six in a row.
I’ll take these, I told the clerk.
Place two quarters in his hand.
Pull open the wrapper,
Took the first one out for a taste test,
And right then I knew, this was the last snack cake
That was going to take the place of my everyday routine.




Shane Allison, Florida, USA

the streets are lined by David McLean

the streets are lined with where they were
once – all those who simply stopped
like being was dust in nobody's pocket
and living sinful

the streets are lined with memories
and the fact that i do not remember them
and none are in any everyday heaven
where angels piece their days together

out of love and tiny flakes of snow
the recollection that collects in the nose
as the blood dries still in my lively veins
and crystals that line my face

are licked from the devil's threadbare
carpet, chewing the glass for my eyes
i do not remember them, never knew them
memories and life, just tired time

tonight


David McLean, Sweden

American Romantics 11/5/2008 by Amir Elzeni

As the dreamer's eyes open
the world changes
and barriers become
steps

life changing moments hovering
close in our minds
memories relentlessly
knocking

we grow up carrying close
what we never tell
yet it's right here
on us

can't blame our minds wild
taking off on a wink
sprinkling cinnamon
chances

holding out for some magic
lit deep within us
despite our needs
alone

taking the hard road home
rising above the pain
beating the odds
humbly

whispering in our own hearts
fireworks at midnight
pointing at the moon
knowing.




Amir Elzeni, USA

Moving to the City by Robert S King

Coming here,
broken farmers must believe
that the clouds plant their seeds in concrete
and skyscrapers grow:
tall stalks of corn,
long rows of one-way traffic,
horn honks replacing the songs of birds,
seeds spilling from their pockets fast as money.

Some return to a poor mule,
looking across a stubborn back
where the skyline is a monument:
the stalled traffic of tombstones.


Robert S King, Florida, USA

Self Healing by Amir Elzeni

Morning burst
into my heart,
my eyes
find light,

unlike birth
you wake up
carrying yesterday,

the soul
gets lonely,

and I,
write
poems.


Amir Elzeni, USA