Tuesday, April 14, 2015


In my mirror,
house of sacred myths,
lives a warrior
whose wounds are mouths
reciting stories...

           rare mornings of peace
           when the breeze made marionettes
           of wind chimes
           as oaks stood guard,

           and evenings 
           when a shadow of fear
           or grief escaped
           from her nightmare
           and wrestled her
           until dawn chased it away.

Her final story
the wind will erase.
I will write
in black dust
from charred bone
how she climbed
the holy mountain alone,
its halo of mist
hiding her familiar home
in the Valley of Broken Wings.

© Jean Sampson, 2015

Misty mountains ~ Cochamo, Chile
Photo by McKay Savage
from Wikimedia Commons

Wednesday, April 8, 2015


Mom says she knows the shape of my skull.
She didn’t notice the dent in its back 
When I was a baby; it must be new. 

She memorized me,
Me, come from her.
Her threads bursting
At the coming of me,
Making room. 

She used to stare at the freckle on the back of my arm 
When she didn’t want to go. 
Tethered by love to my irregularity,
She knows how my heartbeat sings. 

The Father memorized His Son
In the beginning.
In the beginning was the Word, 
And the Word came and lived on soil
And died on a hill called The Skull and lives. 

I want His coming to burst from me,
My heart tethered to His Came and His Coming,
Let it ring from the bursting of me, 
Me closer to His heartbeat, 
Memorizer of His ineffability,

Herald of His
Child of His

© Emily Brown, 2015

Altarpiece by Thomas Gatzemeier
Onolzheim, 2002
from Wikimedia Commons

Monday, March 30, 2015

Please Go Away

I don’t like you…

stain in the rug
 squeak in the chair
 spider in the cupboard
 lump in the bed

 This isn’t your home…

 ache in my heart
 noise in my song
 anger in my day
 hole in my soul

 I’ll count to ten….

 Then please go away.

    © Bill Vollrath, 2015

Child counting to ten
Drawing from Wikimedia Commons

Sunday, March 22, 2015


You used to believe in me. 

There were moments 
When nothing mattered 
Except for the goodness you saw 
And in my potential 

You thought 
That your vision 
(the good things in me) 
Would hum under the weight 
Of heavy sands 
Of coarse papers 

You stripped away 
Parts of me. 
Cleaned off the broken fragments 
Of leaded, toxic paint 
Old and shredded greens 

An essence I hadn’t been forced to face 
Since I was made by the hand 
Of my creator 

It was too much 
For either of us to see 

So you put me away 
In the dark side of storage 
And forgot about me. 

Here and there 
Glimmers of what might 
Have been 
Would tumble through your waking dreams 
(…solid brass screws over a humming and honed pecan stain) 

But those too 
Were gone. 
And on 
You moved to the next thing. 

There were no more excuses 
No more places to hide 
Or reasons why 
It couldn’t be 

Dusted me off 
Placed in a sea 
Of light 
And mightily 
Worked again to smooth out the rough lumps 
The inconsistencies 
You once saw as “character” 

You made me hum 
Like the object you had envisioned 
When you first picked me up 
And bought me for less than I was asked for 

But it wasn’t enough 
And your work 
While visible 
Has left me as nothing more 
Than an object 
Sitting beneath the table 
Of imaginary maps 

Waiting to be used 
And to have my value seen 
Like you did before 

© Fergus W. Clare, 2014

    All Rights Reserved

Tutankhamun's Chair, Ancient Egypt, 13th C. BC
Photo by Jon Bodsworth
Wikimedia Commons from the Egypt Archive website
Cairo Museum

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

Monday Snow

Monday snow drawn from high to low in waves 
Looking to find a place to moor and grow 
In banks and drifts in the early moments of the day.

I see it land now softly with a lightly blown spray
In the crooked of branches of Dogwood elbow
Monday snow drawn from high to low in waves. 

Then cradled as a baby held against all sway
Innocence in a path it does not know
In banks and drifts in the early of the day. 

Like some ancient pilgrim seeking the way
Finding the sky holy holding earth its bones
Monday snow drawn from high to low in waves. 

What was then for what is now know I may 
A snow laced dream resting here alone
In banks and drifts in the early of the day.  

Snow rests in sun and changes by its rays 
As a wayward one who moors then he goes.
Monday snow drawn from high to low in waves
In banks and drifts in the early of the day.  

© Dennis Wright, 2015

Trail at Ivy Creek
Photo by Tony Russell

Monday, March 2, 2015

Naot Farm in Negev Israel

I like to take out that golden March 
morning and hold it warm in both 
hands -- I have my daughters to myself,
they have no father, they have all of me. 
We drive through the desert,
arrive with the stars, find our cabin,
our beds, and drop into deep sleep.
Peace is jangled at daybreak by 
three hundred goats, a chorus of 
baritones warming up with the sun. 
Lines of does cry out to give up their 
milk for thick yoghurt, white butter and 
cheese.  A boy lifts four newborns up from the 
herd; the three who are bleating, kid coats still 
wet, he lowers into a nursery of heat lights. 
The one who is still and stiff with death 
he gently puts into a bag, ties with a string,
and lays high on a rock, safe and silent. 
We roam past pens of goats, their cacophony 
louder than the milk machines’ purr or the 
bark of the dogs or the footsteps of workers who 
tend to the flock. Sun well up, the three of us 
sit together to sip goat milk and coffee, 
feast on chèvre and warm bread.   

© Martha E. Snell, 2014

Three-day-old kid
Photo by 4028mdk09
from Wikimedia Commons

Monday, January 26, 2015


I am not alone here.
Fragments of unwritten poems
drift before me,
ghosts begging for language
to give them form.

Some try on tattered clichés,
parade by me like orphans
in worn out hand-me-downs,
hoping for pity.

This task seems
harder than clothing smoke,
tethering clouds to trees
or giving the evening breeze a face.

I should refuse,
tell them to haunt someone else,
these waifs who taunt me
like hungry cats.
Too late. I am caught in their familiar trap.

They believe I can conjure breath from stone,
can weave gold thread from milkweed fluff,
see the moon in my left eye,
the sun in my right,
hold fire in my bare hands
if the stars allow.
They compel me to dress them
in words spun from imagination and luck.

Finally, I have to let go,
trust that I have given enough.
They are, after all, wild spirits
who, century after century,
find poets who will weave words
into any form they desire.

© Jean Sampson

Milkweed fluff
Photo by Tony Russell