Monday, February 1, 2016

Cecropia





First she fanned her wings slowly,
a Tai Chi of self-assessment - 
having never flown before,
she meditatively observed 
her own wingspan and range of motion, 
cycled her energy away from her juicy core 
into the papery extremities of flight. 

Next she shivered -
small quick movements, but smooth,
like purring, idling, 
an all over warm-up and 
checking of instruments
before take off.

A few coordinated 
full-power flaps of wings -
her grand, decorated wings - 
and her feet let go, and
she rose into the green canopy.

Now I sit in an armchair to read.
My arms are vibrating with restlessness.


© Laura Seale, 2016

Cecropia moth
Photo by Linda Tanner
Gap Mills, WV
from Wikimedia Commons

Monday, January 4, 2016

Put Down the Gun



Put down the gun and we can talk.
This world is too small for our hate.
There are many paths we walk.       
Put down the gun.

There is time it is not too late.
We can live with the paths we walk.
There is one thing we can get straight,
There can be no hate in our talk.

This world is too small for our hate.
There is much to say in our talk.
Put down the gun.


© Dennis Wright, 2016


Re-enactment of the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral
Photo by James G. Howes
from Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Hiking to the Holy Place

Every fern unfurling
Each tiny aster bursting
all the way up 
to the ridge
Says I give it all again
just like last year
says here, take, eat
Feast on this life.

We don’t care if you ride 
the Harleys roaring 
in that wolfpack way 
to the next bar
We don’t care if you drive
tricked out tractors 
hauling trailers 
of what we cannot
wait for one more day
We don’t care if you drink
too much bet 
too much
on the wrong horse
groan all night in your bed.

We don’t care from where
your many greeds arise.
We just keep on giving.

Sitting by the stone altar
I made, the right
crystals in all the right 
quarters wanting only
to protect this valley
I hail all my relations
and do not care
if I am finding
the right words
I am finding
these words.

© Bill Prindle, 2015

Fern unfurling
Photo by Tony Russell

Monday, December 21, 2015

Things That Break

I am the owner of plenty of broken things. 
My shoe sole has a tear,
My right eyetooth is chipped,
The window in our sunroom has that crack 
Diverging in two distinct lines.

The computer’s broke down, 
The printer won’t work,
And all those broken habits:
Working out, eating right, going to bed at 12,
Using words to say sorry and love you.

Mr. S., the father of my friend, 
The one who told the corny jokes
And took us bowling and to Olive Garden 
When we were eight and twelve and fifteen, 
He’s breaking down 
In the mind and motor skills.
My friend, she takes care of him. 
She can’t fix the broken, 
But she sits with him on long blue days 
And holds his hand that shakes, 
The one that filled her bike’s tire with air. 

She loves when the words come through wrong.
She looks and doesn’t see him quite the same, 
But keeps loving. 

In the mess of things that stop, won’t work right,
He is the broken thing that matters. 


© Emily Brown, 2015

Home in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina
Photo from Wikimedia Commons

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Precedent

Helming the room 
Masked in black lace;
Ashen brick and specks of candlelight.

Quieting at her gavel.
At snapping fingers 
She stands slender, raven, and bare armed.

And I long

Like black seeds stuck in gums, 
Like wax dripped slowly on paper.

I rouse

Inky, slate rising,
So sanguine lipped and proud,
The staunch judge orders
And I serve.


© Malcolm Bare, 2015

Masked Woman
Photo from Pinterest
Masquerade by Belina Starscream

Monday, November 30, 2015

Holy Blues

Holy Blues

    “My roots are in the blues,
      the holy blues.”  - Alvin Ailey

Mama -- got the blues,
The holy blues;
The singin’, dancin’, drummin’
Holy blues.
My skin is dark and shinin’.
My heart is big and brave.
And tho’ my life is one long hell
I’ll take down to my grave,
I’ll dance and swing
The whole night through
‘Til birds begin to sing;
And when I die,
Just let me lie
While the saints blow holy blues.

              © Peg Latham, 2010

B. B. King, Live in Hamburg, November, 1971
Photo by Heinrich Klaffs
from Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Misperception

I smile as I look at you from a distance
still standing on the fence post – motionless.
I gave you such life –
named you Hawk and
endowed you with beauty and
even spoke to you of it.
I watched you not moving thorough
downpours and wind.
I brought you into my meditation and
allowed you to endow me with
groundedness, unwavering motionlessness
and persistence.
I took your archetype as a power animal
who would lend me powerful wings
and keen vision.

My friend still laughs about
my telling her not to disturb you
on her walk and make you fly -
so then perhaps our other friend 
coming later in the day
would still be able to see you –
after all, you had been there for hours! 

She got close enough to see
that you were just a wooden Owl
nailed to a fence post!

What else am I not looking at
closely enough to cause me
to harbor misperceptions?!?

© Diane Harner

Carved owl at Prestbury railroad station, Cheshire, UK
Photo by Danny Molyneux
from Wikimedia Commons