Lawn Order – A Poem by Stan Morrison
larvae and worms rework decay
giving impartial entropy to matter
weeds outstrip intentional growth
life requires death to carry on
fallen leaves blanket dormant plants
through winter’s freeze to rebirth
nature poems
Mid-November – A Poem by Stan Morrison
The vines are so spent
nearly devoid of fruit,
a few bunches hang on
only to be plucked later,
late harvest is sweeter
more prized for enduring,
the skies grey chill
tule fog rushes in,
cold silence then storms
that promise new birth.
Frog and Daffodils – A Poem by Rebecca Cowgill
spring sunset
a yawn from a frog
catches the silence
spring sunshine
daffodils tangle
in a spider’s web
Burning Wood | Asbina
What about burning wood? It’s warm, there’s no harm.
Aged by intense heat of sunlight, you know that’s right
It shrinks small and turns as thin as itself, the stick, though some are thick.
There is something about those golden flames
Fidgeting and flickering just like in the game.
Ever so eager to dance around the kettle
As it rattles a song of a battle.
Don’t despise them just because it’s summer
Sooner or later it’ll be winter.
Make sure you fit in those sweaters
Oh! look over the horizon, it’s coming now there’s no waiting for later.
As fire tirelessly chews and smokes away the wood
Its scent found a permanent place in my senses, to me it’s like a food.
Why the Golden Plover Stands – A Poem by Trish Saunders
I came to study the language of trees,
an ancient tongue assumed extinct,
like the Laysan honeycreeper or
shave-ice shacks on
Like-Like Highway, where Aloha Gas now sits.
I came to study koas and palms.
I found an old brick wall with a
golden plover standing motionless
beside it, though he flies
1,600 miles from Alaska without rest.
Like the plover, I came expecting more.
Transposition – A Poem by Stephen Proper Gredler
subtle moves of hand
create similar ideas of sight
once a photograph
paper animates
transposing patterns of light
the eye moves
colors transcend
light breathed by water
into fruition
a final shimmer
of magic and invocation
as tulip develops
More at http://www.stephenpropergredler.com.
No Free Passes – A Poem by Scott Thomas Outlar
There is nothing new under the sun,
especially on a morning when the clouds
turn the world a shade of gray,
blotting out all sense of warmth
as the skin becomes blistered and fragile
against the sharpness of Winter’s bite.
One more step closer
to the yawning grave
that waits with perfect patience.
Everyone will die in the end.
The reaper has no worries
while going about such a simple job.
Batting a thousand with pinpoint precision.
He just hit another one out of the park.
There is no way to pitch around this guy.
More at http://17numa.wordpress.com/.
The Mad Wiseacres – A Poem by P.K. Deb
In the kingdom of wiseacres
wisdom is made captive property
and all are automatic to be bewitched
and involved in blind chasing and counter-chasing.
So my sister’s wit chases me,
my brother’s wit bites me
and my friend’s wit barks at me
since my wit makes them foolish.
Some may be wistful wooer to one another
Yet they make themselves withered
and thus withstand in the composition of an epic.
The woeful importunity may be wordy
but noisy to the ears of the wiseacres
and hence unheard mercilessly.
Nevertheless, the earth rotates and revolves
and the world gives indulgence to wiseacres
and witnesses all to be deaf, dumb and blind
in the rescue of captive wisdom
from the clutches of the mad wiseacres.
Imagine a Grief | Ann Bauer
Imagine a grief like this:
long lean empty arms,
a runner’s legs marking unfinished miles.
Sunday days, stretches of desert.
Drawn out sentences.
Streams of consciousness
open to nothingness but
dusty roads prickled with green
finger-like conical trees, living, but dead-looking,
sharp and pointed.
No touching, no softness, no healing.
Amazingly unnaturally natural.
Haunting signs of grief.
A cactus,
Black-threaded stitches puncture my happiness,
the ridges on the desert’s prize:
the saguaro of grief.