A Silent Poem by Michael Keshigian

In the beginning it must have been
that the Neanderthal
emerged from his cave
early one day
into a cold and ruthless world

and noticed for the first time
sun’s reflection glistening
upon lake tranquility
between twin peaks
of a snow covered summit.

And speechless
as he might have been
for images never seen
he fell to his knees
staring mutely

unable to excise
the swell in his soul
and realized
each morning thereafter
would speak differently.


Michael Keshigian

Pathfinder by Alan Britt

Like Pathfinder
I retreat
across smooth roots,
streetlights,
and the moon’s severed hand
reaching for the wrinkled waist
of a pear tree.

Like Pathfinder
I slip sideways between mercurial shadows
on my way to the outskirts
of the known universe
just behind the speckled thigh
of a golden pear.

I enter each brown spot on the pear
looking for salvation
born inside each russet scale
sloughed from the body
of our most precious religion
we call time.

Once inside, I’m greeted
by black violins
and ten thousand suns digesting
a watery consciousness
inside snail shells.

Like Pathfinder
I retreat
across smooth roots,
streetlights,
and the moon’s severed hand
creasing the wrinkled hips
of a pear tree.


Alan Britt, MD, USA

In Late March by Alicia Hoffman

Bulbs peek green
tongues from the soil, snow
becomes a philosophical
question: How long can
one stay the same before melting?
All the while, cold holds. Always,
though, it is the gravity
that gets us in the end, the heaviness
of the mind, that cerebral tug.
In the morning, a wrinkle,
the scrutiny of night. And then
there are the words,
the memory tease
of Thompson, Pennsylvania,
the blue jeaned girl leaning
over, stroking chickens upside down
between the eyes, putting them to sleep.
I never knew her. That’s what I think
now, remembering her lying
in the dark, the coo of the birds
gone with the down
of the sun, unable to find the switch
on the wall in the familiar room,
flailing her long arms out of that
warm blanket, cold fingers finding nothing
but what she thought was not there,
the cord to a lamp, pulling the porcelain
weight through the air, the crashing glass and
the remaining shards. We are all like this,
she thought, like the tulips this time of month,
clawing through the damp, pawing the air, always
with the struggle, the searching for light.


Alicia Hoffman, NY, USA

Foxes by Christopher Woods

Running with them
For a time I once divided
Into weeks
Is like a river that never dries
But goes and goes, coasting
Over shells and sand beds,
The souls of mountains
Breaking up, migrating.

Being among them
Nights in frostbound fields
Beneath a ghost moon haze,
I need to believe
They too are counting stars
And all the time between them.


Christopher Woods, Texas, USA

Fever by Corey Mesler

On the couch
I lay
and watched

the suncats
chase a

string of yarn
from
my unknit sleep


Corey Mesler, Tennessee, USA

Attunement by Chris Crittenden

on a silent pond
a bufflehead
sparks to flight,
sowing gleams
in its wake.
ribs blend
without flaw,
until it is clear
that physics
is a perfect harp.
anything that moves
strums it to play.




Chris Crittenden, Maine, USA

watching by Joanna Lee

herons stalk the edge of
civilization; the river
sings a marbled song
of fire and forgotten glory while
the sun casts about the rapids; geese
fish from the shallows, men
from the bridge. stones bake;
clouds come and go
like the old women searching
the banks for change and lost
youth while a train slows
with its mourner's whistle and i
lean on the edge of
wildness, watching.


Joanna Lee, VA, USA

Crazy Crow by Joseph Harker

what would possess him
to make a stage of the driveway
for his encrypted hopskip in
three-eight time–


some urgent fire is
smoldering under those
ruffled India ink shoulders


for perhaps he mourns
the loss of a secret magic
with words that are almost
forgotten language–


the depths of his eye
in turn reflect the beholder’s
like two mirrors face-to-face




Joseph Harker

Professor Winter by Mary McKeel

I feel like I’m on stage, ready to read a scene.
There’s no one to give me my cues,
or to take cues from me.

Reason says, the loyalty I gave you
is just a crumpled piece of paper.
I keep smoothing it out.

I love how the crocus comes back first
every year. No gardener needed.
Is persistence weakness, or strength?

I wanted to do something old – fashioned,
like give you a lock of my hair,
or keep a lock of yours.

I can’t keep from coming back every year
without betraying myself.


Mary McKeel, North Carolina, USA

My Mother’s Cancer by Kay Middleton

cold
winter days
strung together
like cheap beads
snap and spill
onto the earth
chattering hailstones
on window glass melting,
leaving circle scars
of unforgotten pain
tomorrow is gray asphalt
divided by white-lined
platitudes stretching straight
and flat between barren arms
of oak and birch on, undiluted,
to an unknown garden
devoid of fragrance,
yellow daffodils.


Kay Middleton, Virginia, USA