Tuesday, November 5, 2019

Sunglint Butterflies


The moment exists
and slips my grasp today
as it does on many

As present bliss is lost
in time that will not be detained
even if I resist the flow

An unseen force is moving
through me...and I question
if the current knows the stream, or
if consciousness can recognize
living as it seems

Is simple awareness reality
and living just a dream?

Or is the truth of Being
somewhere inbetween?

Human born, we are born to see
that balance is a mystery,
a cosmic dance...

Siva, getting down, getting on,
getting free!

Destined for more
than a meal and a mate,
we must daily choose our fate
and fell the power of the stream...
for we are carried, after all!

Yet, it's up to us to paddle
and not to drift, for ultimate
enlightenment

Sunglint butterflies scintillate their flight
upon the windrift soul of water
flowing over stone...

I'm on the bridge, above the stream...
again, the Sun is bursting
light and water over me!

© Gerry Sackett, 2019

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons





Friday, October 25, 2019

The Senile Ghosts


The whiff of Pall Mall
floats across the room,
drifts in front of my eyes,
drawing a steep river bank and us 
skinny-dipping in shallow water.
The fragrant sketch revives
a hopeful evening.

Senile ghosts haven’t wised up
and crashed my Halloween party.
They thought they could change the world
but broke their wings in drunken binge
while skinny-dipping in shallow water.

The ghosts believe they run the world
because the moon agreed to swim along
in the river of missed opportunities
and misread observations,
hiding the ripples of wrinkles
below the silver rays.

The tops of maples and oaks
gleam orange and gold; 
the berserk ghosts dash down
the steep riverbank
like headless chickens.
With increasing alarm,
I open the doors and windows,
praying for a draft to carry away
the whiff of Pall Mall.

© Helen Kanevsky, 2019

Image courtesy of The Spectator


Monday, October 14, 2019

Dazzling Dinoflagellates


We gather when the moon is hidden
in earth shadow, stand in a group to hear facts,
take advice, don life jackets that cover our lungs,
our hearts.  We drive toward a cove at the
salt sea edge where the plankton proliferate,
persist in a small shallow bay with its twisted neck
to the sea, its reef a wall that holds them in.  These
bright, tiny organisms, single cell, simple we call them,
beckon us to witness their wonder. Under wisps
of night light we load into kayaks, follow one
dim beacon. Only paddle sounds dipping, dripping,
pulling on water.  Last light tucks under the earth,
dark descends fully, fills the space that holds us. 
The enchantment begins.  Under every boat
a lining of light, each paddle's dip is a brush
painting sparkle.  Even the fish surface
in small blue spotlights, descend exposed.
These uncountable beings dance ghostly
glimmering with every splash we make.
I sink my arm in the cool cove, skin glows
blue.  Lift lighted water in both cupped hands,
let it fall back twinkling into the bay, dots of glitter
on my fingers, my palm -- I am holding starlight.



© Marti Snell, 2016
(Snell, Martha E. “Dazzling Dinoflagellates.” Streetlight Magazine, Fall, 2016. Issue No.19, Web 16 October. http://streetlightmag.com/2016/12/09/dazzling-dinoflagellates-by-martha-snell/)


Bioluminescent Algae at Vieques Bay, Puerto Rico
courtesy of jenonajetplane.com

Thursday, October 3, 2019

Moon Landing +50


It rained most of that week
So we couldn’t see it anyway
with the naked eye
And the grainy TV imagery
and the muffled voices
From a quarter million miles away

This orbed story seeming so alien
to my lifeguard lifestyle
and the big concert
Coming up in a couple weeks
over in New York State
Or that moony girl
who kept draping herself
         on my white guard stand,

Recalling that when Apollo was announced
We believed what the President said
before Vietnam
And Watergate and stagflation
Opened a continental latrine trench
Between the government
and the people,

Nearly failing to mention that this was only
another Frontier story
another land grab
Of empty spaces occupied by nothing
or mere heathens thus
Ripe for that special Christian rapacity
         forgiven in advance
for bringing the Word
to the wilderness,

Awakening too late to the bitterly plain
         truth that that savage
wisdom is what we needed
All along to keep this singular
blue pearl
From becoming a charcoal-dusted
cratered place
Where a white man’s bootprint
lasts a million years.


          © Bill Prindle, 2019


Apollo 11 bootprint, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons


Friday, September 20, 2019

ON THE FREE FAKE TROLLEY OF CHARLOTTESVILLE


I am ashamed
That I am mostly disgusted
By two fortyish lovers
I scrutinized on the city's free fake trolley.
She scoured out his nose and ears
Over and over, devotedly,
Wiping the goo on her shorts.
Did she judge the goo to be his gift
Or at least her exemplary achievement?
She is as focused as a  deluxe surgeon.
Her not-ugly face never gets bored.
His head relaxes on her steadfast lap.
In his near-ugliness he is smiling.
The process lasts throughout the ride.
He also does not get bored.
She is the mother cat whose job
Is to preciously clean her kitten without stop;
Or is this vision
A sort of Pieta'?
Are they utterly in love,
In love above most other lovers?
Are they so free they can do such stuff in public;
Or are they bizarrely unashamed?
I devoted myself to staring:
Can my disgust be discussed?
Or do I admire such ugh-ness?
The clothing of the unwary  pair
Verged on being rags.

Will they be inexplicable icons
In my brain?

           © Stephen Margulies, 2019


CAT Trolley, courtesy of nbc29.com


Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Natural Love

Great bursts of chemical oozings
slide through ventricles
and disperse,
unhinge my sternum
and part my lungs
so my heart can push
at the thin skin of my chest.
My cranium becomes elastic, inflates,
its crown swelling - 
a transparent formation of overhead eyestalks -
giving me dizzying heightened sight.
My brain swims in its extra space.
My eyeballs bob back
and bounce off my
frozen-taut tongue.
I hear each deafening slide of cloth,
each rock-grinding foot shuffle
and each cyclonic breath-breeze.
I can hear your hair growing.
I can smell your hair growing.

The veins of my limbs
sprout bristles like crystals,
that sting then leave a numb ache.
Arms weakly waver and sway,
palms glowing warm
emitting waves of wet essence,
while cool fingers wake into
novel functions as antennae,
extending to sense airborne clues,
seeking any molecule of you.

My feet have grown suction cups.
I'm vacuumed to the spot.
It is all so lovely. 
And how I long for more.

           © Laura Seale,  2019


Jellyfish, photo by CarbonNYC
from Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, September 3, 2019

Note Taken About My Body (After a trip to Sam's Club)

My left side leads my right side
and it has always been this way,
from, I suspect, mother’s womb
until, I expect, I find the grave.

My left foot anchors my right foot
each time I begin to walk steps.
Then I feel it solid on the ground
before I forward shift from the left.

As left hand hooks it, right hand plays
note found first before pluck or strum.
From this arrives one more tune
likely that again I sing and hum.

But so you say my left ear
hears a bit better than my right.
Well no surprise do I feel
always left carried the work and fight.

And from the womb to grave I go.
Being me requires this will be so.

© Dennis Wright,  2012

"Walking Man" by Alberto Giacometti