Suddenly Like Light

Time changed without his notice, suddenly more like light

tracing the tops of pines, spectrum of greens finer and more haunting

than tones of an Indian raga, mysteries in a needle's breath--

eyes ached against borders of being human, to know

this shade of a young fascicle at dawn compared to its late afternoon

hue, when the odor of baked pitch and resin presses up

to the canopy, or this night color, tantalizing, back-lit by autumnal half moon--

too delicate for his own receptors--green which forced his kneecaps to earthen debris,

drew out a prayer, lips fervent and wet, to just once see with eyes of an owl or hawk,

to divine from this ebony green how old the needle was, how much life

it contained, how long until a breeze would usher it from the branch

and fold it into the earth.  He began to think that if he watched closely,

the whole future might spread out before him in a ray of light. 

He couldn't remember when the thought first occurred

to him; it seemed now that he'd always believed it.

© Michael Mahoney, 2014

Long-leaf Pine
Photo by Tony Russell

Dream of the Seed-Bird

In my dream our young bodies prowled a warm night, 

a garden-park, vacant besides us.

As we ranged, breathing mist,

we saw a free parakeet with flowing ribbons clipped in his crown feathers. Bright comet descending, he stopped by the fountain, admired his new colors in reflection. 

I crept close. He was slow to react, so I caught him.

I removed his crippling decorations, then saw that his wing feathers were delicate sprays of millet, shedding seeds onto my palm. Surprise loosened my grip, and he flew.

I have failed as his righteous savior. He is too fragile, too delicious to live; he'll be giddily stripped at dawn by a dozen seed-crushing beaks. But that is Nature's way, and I am its student, so I must follow to see.  

We slunk after, feeling our midnight way across well-kept lawns by instinct and by science - 

we are hunters and scholars. Soon we saw him land on a roadside sign; he was not alone. 

Two more parakeets, a budgie, and a red Amazon parrot perched together, greeted and groomed, with beaks and claws gently setting each others' plumage right, tucking in the seed-bird's millet, so his wings showed just sleek feathers. 

They chattered on. Without translation I understood this convention of uncaged birds, sharing stories, commiserating, celebrating free life. I need not save them; I need not observe their bitter endings. 

So I learned. So we learned.

We turned to each other to celebrate free life. We set each other right with fingers and mouths, landed together for a while, then bounded apart into the dawn. 

   © Laura Seale, 2014

Malabar Parakeet
Photo by Suriyahumars
from Wikimedia Commons

Insomnia Ghazal

"What was your name again? When did your chair get so close?"

The voice of all tired women in bars with no close. 

His eyes found the checkered tile of the bathroom ceiling.

It's hot enough tonight, he muses, to forego clothes.

God, why did you deign to teach me the tongues of angels

When my weight of sin wouldn't let them dare to go close?

Counting Games: Sabbath is Seven. Victory. Seven.

Freedom. Seven. (She clenches her eyes, sleep is so close).

He traded baseball cards for a new glove, forgetting

The shears. The tangles of briar beyond the fence grow close. 

There is no sleeping here. No sheep to corral tonight. 

What hope is there without counting? The night knows no close. 

"When will you learn?" mother laments, brushing my wild hair. 

Like I'd care for style in treetops where the wind blows close. 

Again: Sin. Three. Hell. Four. Shame. Five. Submit. Six. Slumber.

Seven. Restful. Seven. Sarah. Two away-- so close. 

© Sarah Fletcher, 2014

"Complications of Insomnia"
Mikael Haggstrom from "Medical gallery of Mikael Haggstrom
Wikimedia Commons

Standing Proud

There are times when you drive 

a square peg into a round hole,

as a trunnel fastens

post to beam, but today it’s round into round,

and when I’m done, the pine panel

will hold fast to the frame

for a lifetime or more.

I touch the protruding head 

with a calloused thumb,

finding it stands just a little proud.

With a scrap of sandpaper

I smooth it and touch again,

all the time thinking of Dad’s words

as we sawed and hammered 

at something long-forgotten:

“It’s the proud nail that gets driven down.”

Another lesson from that country poet

that even now shapes what goes upon this page:

words that as I trim and sand these lines

remind me that brilliant phrases are given us, 

that what I leave behind is more debt than gift.

© David Black, 2014

Mid-19th C. post & beam barn with pegged joints
Whidbey Island, Washington
Photo by Anne E. Kidd for the National Park Servise