The Back Side of Stone Mountain (#1) James R. Adair
Fractured granite, boulders, jagged rocks, gnarled pines here and there, dry grass. Man came, he saw, he coveted, he ravaged, cutting away tons of rock, leaving a barren gash. But things aren’t quite as barren as they look, for through the rocks seeps water, dissolving the stone, nourishing the plants, quenching the thirst of the ravished land. Before too long, as time on earth is measured, the signs of man’s presence will be destroyed, and the mountain will once again be clean.
The City Mo H Saidi
It’s as old as the alphabet it buries the marks of numerous wars the city within the massive stone walls.
It stood against brutal warriors. It bears the enormous temple. Its ancient cisterns fill the hollows of time, the birth of Gods.
In its dark crypts and vaults the shafts of light expose man’s quest for truth, the tales of massacres and exiles.
Weather Lou Taylor
Weather—body’s barometer Air pressure altering blood molecules
Wind blowing through Snow, sleet Heat and cold
Changing conditions Summer and winter
Tilt of the earth Distance from the sun Phases of the moon
The universe under our skin
Fulfilled Joan Seifert
To glean each field and then move on To other harvesting, that was her plan.
She saw beside the road some tall corn, grown Outside the squaring of a farm, on the perimeter. And yes, this could be hers, she thought For no one yet had claimed this accidental planting.
She made her way without the urgency of pride. She had a certain hope, and did of course need corn And even small, neglected peaches, now and then From an abandoned orchard down the road.
And somehow, she had a little thriving, Enough to find a gladness, time to time. For there was freedom in a lack of purpose.
Was it Thorueau who said to simplify? She said Don’t knock too hard On fastened doors, but gently rap Just loud enough to ask Small shelter from the winds that sting.
To savor bits of life, that was her plan, To glean, then bless a field for its free giving,
No one worried. She only seemed a mendicant. She’d had a decent share of life this way. Fulfilled.
Guernica (Picasso’s Painting) James Brandenburg
Neither weapons nor bombings nor soldiers nor planes just a bull charging a horse inflicting a mortal wound; the horse clings to life.
A mother clutches her dead child in her arms, flees the attacker: three women weep.
Oh, Son of Spain, your voice springs from your beloved traditions onto your black, white, and grey canvas; the bloody clash between the mighty bull and the powerless horse resonates with violent realities of Guernica’s bomb-ravaged ruins and touches impotence in our own inner strife.
Breaking the Drought Carol Coffee Reposa
We wait for rain The way a sailor On a long and dismal cruise Might yearn For the sight of land Or the touch of his lover.
The sun, a daily juggernaut, Grinds streets and skies to grit, Turns earth to stone. Grass dries to tawny skeletons And trees drop branches Like cast-off clothes.
Finally, when every leaf is charred And no green can be seen for miles, Rain comes. Bullfrogs morph Into downsized elephants, trumpeting In every puddle. Sage and bougainvillea Bloom like hallucinations in red and indigo.
I stand in my yard, a temporary statue, While the storm rolls down me, wave on wave In a long embrace And I feel wet grass beneath my feet, An old friend Come home at last.
Undeclared Josie Mixon
Do not Misinterpret my words There are no hidden images, messages or clues Do not identify the possibilities Of what it is or what it might be Words are left unsaid During public conversation Focus on reality Assume these words are yours So mean what you say When you hear my words Logistics will direct you Ignore dyslexic thought My thoughts are not yours Only my words Yes, you’re right That’s what I meant Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and fall and rise again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am a great poet.— Virginia Woolf (The Waves)
It Was Only a Dream: Nightmare at Noon Valerie Martin Bailey
How many nights I drifted into surreal dimensions—dark places beyond reason—where I run or scream or, conversely, am unable to run or scream...and always I am separated from those I love.
When I wakened, chilled by fear, you held me, warmed me by the flame of your love and whispered, “It was only a dream.”
My real nightmare came at noon, on a bright New Year’s Day. The rest of the world celebrated a beginning, but my world ended. You were taken from me—reality more terrifying than the sinister fantasies of my nightmares.
How many nights do I now drift into a familiar haven, where I feel the illusion of your touch, hear you whisper my name, waken sensing your presence, only to find cold sheets and emptiness where a moment before I lay in your arms... and I must tell myself, “It was only a dream.”
Parenthetical Evening Robert Bonazzi
I thought of a slice of onion I’d seen during dinner And of the abyss that separates us from the other abysses. —Nicanor Parr
Being lost in language we gather ourselves (in absences)
Kitten dives into self- composed instinct (evening insight)
By slightly rearranging a studio I revise a working text (then arrogant adjectives change everything)
Exhausted by writing the past every future causes anxiety this moment a night-blooming flower (improvised freedom)
Abysmal onion unfolding eternally (parenthetically) in delicate slices of fading light
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