A Poem by Duane Locke

TERRESTRIAL ILUMINATION, NO 269

What if one took a trip to North Carolina to see
In the Smoky Mountains a tree.
What would this one see. A common sense slave mentality
Educated efficiently by our expensive education system
In buying and selling would see lumber. How many boards
For building a casino or a bank could be sawed from that large trunk.
Perhaps, the lumber could be used to build a house on a lot
Where cabbage palms, both those with fronds and the old
Without along with all forms of life were bulldozed away.
The wife, through education and media advertising had transformed herself
From a human being into a shopping machine would look
At the changing autumn colors of this Smoky Mountain tree
And see a design for new dresses that she would buy
And hang in the closet but never wear. The signifier “tree” has many
signifieds.


Duane Locke lives in Tampa, Florida near anhinga,
gallinules, raccoons, alligators, etc.
He has published 6,680 poems, includes 29 books of poems. His latest
book publication, April 2012,
Is DUANE LOCKE, THE FIRST DECADE, 1968-1978, BITTER OLEANDER PRESS.
This book is a republication
Of his first eleven books, contains 333 pages. Order from
http://www.bitteroleander.com/releases.html,
Or Amazon.

A Poem by Sara Vinas

Shades of Summer

Sunlight slipped
Through
Oak trees
Weaving beam and branch
To paint gray
Picnic table planks
With shadow leaves
While the breeze
Tickled my neck
Whispering
Secrets
Only I could hear


Sara Vinas is a worshiper of the sun, sea and serendipity.  She is also an artist and the inspirations for art in paint and pen come from her delight in nature, especially of the salt water variety.  Her poetry has been published in "Whimsy," "Errant Parent," "Brevity Poetry Review," and the anthology "Prompted."  Her art and poetry can be found at saravinas.blogspot.com.

Three Poems by Anthony Ward

Perambulation

 

I love to take woodland walks

Amongst avenues of afternoons

When the virescent canopy

That was once a natural nave of trees

Lies asunder

A carpet of brisk leaves

Mulching cadaverous colours

All their the art drawn out

Their chromatic currency spent

Blanched the breeze

Rifling the sense

Leaving blankets of emotion

Both ensanguine and antique

When cool autumnal nights cause the

Tannin to turn leaves in assemblage to atrophy

And shadows gambol from elongated horizons

Within the glare of gardens

Ablaze with autumn berries

Beguiled of beauty

Blinding and blending

Connotations of combustible colour

Respiring ripe

And fruitful like the apples

Both succinct and succulent

Causing branches to droop

As we harvest thoughts

Thankful in our thinking.

 

 

October

 

When the year turns vintage

The atmosphere matures

The sun warm in the cool breeze

Swaying the bronzed chestnuts

Tanned after summer’s searing

Shedding their plumage

Leaves rustling along russet roads

Creating dusky umbered paths

Where tawny owls abide

Amongst cindered remnants

Upon grey cold pavements

Comforting melancholic embers

From caustic passions

Now past and inciting

From this season most inviting.

 

 

Spring

 

Snowdrops abundant

Around bare stumps

Drooping like icicles,

Thawing rivers of blossom

Flowing through forest floors

After the silence of night

Resounds with an exhalation

Of trees sighing with relief

After bearing their breath

Amidst the chthonian chill.

 

From the bludgeoning snow

Comes the burgeoning spring

Restoring life to what once lived,

The pipit having defied the cuckoo

Singing along with the skylark

To herald the new season.

 

The albumen nestling upon the yolk fleeced gorse

Gorging on verges of fields flocked with daffodils

Rising in verdurous clumps

Their perianth surrounding coronas

Like rays of sunlight rising from the hills

While pugnacious hares lay their eggs in meadows

And frogs spawn in the marsh.

 

While march meanders from the pewits pinch

Into the opening month

When the heavens shower the earth

Enticing the flourishing advance

Towards the assault of summer.

 

 

Anthony tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of literary magazines including Enhance, Drunk Monkeys, Speech Therapy, Turbulence, Ginger Piglet, Torrid Literature Journal and The Rusty Nail, amongst others.

A Poem by Catfish McDaris

Listening For The Finches

 

While walking the railroad tracks almost

smothered in wild orange sunflowers,

I found a gristly ear, I thought of van Gogh

 

I planted it among my lady’s asparagus,

blackberries, & red currants, waiting

all summer & autumn for something

to reach for the sky with magic

 

Nothing happened, I saw an ugly dog

digging around until a finch dive bombed it,

one evening as the sun whispered goodnight

I looked out & I saw Vincent dancing

 

A flock of golden finches floating around

his face, singing & nibbling grain from his

out stretched hands of genius.

 

 

Catfish McDaris has been active in the small press world for 20 years. After 3 years as G.I. Joe, he hopped freights & hitchhiked across the U.S. & Mexico. He built adobe houses, tamed wild horses, made cattle troughs, worked in a zinc smelter, & painted flag poles. He lived in a cave & wintered in a Chevy in Denver. He ended at the post office in Milwaukee, a catfish farm is next, He hopes.

A Poem by Diane Webster

 

PLACE LAST SEEN

The walking stick measures each step
down the sidewalk counting squares,
lines, cracks crickets wiggle
into as stick and man approach
head down contemplating the tally
or watching for cement buckle
ready to trip unseeing eyes
but not him, not his walking stick
radaring the path ahead
like a pre-blind man learning
the feel of a seeing-eye stick
perhaps with eyes closed
to facilitate experience
counting days
until the real thing hits
like a light switch off
before jumping into bed
having faith the bed still
rests in the same place last seen.


Diane Webster lives and works in Colorado where she enjoys drives in the mountains and looking for wildlife to photograph. Also she tries to remain open to poetry ideas in everyday life and wants to write about what she sees. Her work has appeared in "River Poets Journal," "Old Red Kimono," "The Rainbow Rose" and other literary magazines.

Three Poems by Dane Karnick

Land of Nod

 

Rosario strait

crumples my view

of quietude

anchored on

Orcas island

that has speckles

of granite and

brush strokes of fir

along its canvass

though negligible

to the business

of toes writing

zeros in waves

where the tide yields

to beach sand

with a curtsy

to the sun

granting lavender

for a kayaker

to paddle the rest

of water's lisp

and pull ashore

the close of day

while I wait

for Cygnus

the swan

to guide night

overhead as

ebony

undresses

color from sky

so inertia

can slip in bed

with everyone.

 

 

Vital Signs

 

A madrone leaf

in the shelter

of granite

is nursed

by a puddle

for the days left

behind the streak

of brown

unhitching

existence from

chlorophyll

as plant cells

dismantle

their membrane

in a farewell

to alliance.

 

 

Out of Place

 

A beached fir

lays on its side

exhibiting

at one end

lost treasure

full of stones

that spill out

their wealth

of smoothness

gliding under

my fingers

in contact with

tabula rasa

as I skim

the ocean

of amnesia.

 

 

Dane Karnick grew up by the Colorado “Rockies” and lives in Seattle. His poetry has recently appeared in Subliminal Interiors, Orion headless, The Rainbow Rose and Montucky Review. Visit him at www.danekarnick.com.

A Poem by J.J. Campbell

the first crack of thunder

the first drops of

rain since god

knows when

off in the distance

old wind chimes

try to make a

sound

a few seconds

of utopia in the

middle of nowhere

the kittens run for

cover at the first

crack of thunder

i laugh

it's not often we

get to see innocence

out here anymore

 

 

J.J. Campbell lives and writes on a farm in Brookville, Ohio. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Camel Saloon, Carcinogenic Poetry, ART:Mag, ZYX and Zygote in My Coffee. His first full length collection of poetry is due out in 2012 from Interior Noise Press. You can find J.J. most days on his blog, http://evildelights.blogspot.com.

A Poem by Amit Parmessur

I Am Childish

 

There is a sky like an ocean in my mind. In

the mind of my mind I add clouds made

of scarlet roses to it. I call it Picassoing.

 

Somewhere, either in the clouds or the sea,

there is a mermaid. Imprisoned.

I use a moon to catch glimpses of her.

 

My feet marinating in Shaver Lake

I hear birds singing and release

the mermaid from my mind and we chat.

 

Weeds often billow when she smiles.

And flowers become green with jealousy.

Nature is Picasso too, you see!

 

Intermission.

 

I see a stony and mossy ship inside the lake.

Crewless. Clueless. I am unmanned.

Night falls, heavily.

The moon becomes a witch and flies away

with a broom. The weeds become scythes.

 

I am trapped in webs of filthy tarantulas.

The flowers fall from the imaginary sky

and schlap me, splashing fake blood

everywhere.

 

It all ends with a dry lake,

few beheaded lambs by my side and

two moons resembling delicious watermelons.

 

 

 

Amit Parmessur lives with his black cat and two cute dogs nowadays. Since 2010, his poems have appeared in around 120 literary magazines, like Ann Arbor Review, Salt, Hobo Camp Review and Red Fez. His book on blog Lord Shiva and other poems has also been published by The Camel Saloon. Born in 1983, he lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius.

A Poem by Yani Perez

 

                                                                  Drop II

 

                                                                  river’s ripples

                                                                  stole her silence

                                                                  a rock

                                                                  she throws

                                                                  a rock

                                                                  she holds

                                                                  if a raindrop falls a top a rock

                                                                  a hole it makes

                                                                  in hole

                                                                  secret

 

 

 

Yani Perez is an Ecuadorian born; Brooklyn raised writer. She is currently an English instructor at Kingsborough Community College and Long Island University. Her work can be found in Brooklyn Paramount, By the Overpass, and Having A Whiskey Coke With You

A Poem by Louis Marvin

Fish

There is a picture in our kitchen of a humpback whale in Maui,

 

but a whale is a mammal, for this bit though, we don't give a dammal

There is a whale in our kitchen,

        and my dad and I saw a mother and a calf in the waters of Oahu,

                  and my wife and I saw some on our honeymoon in Kauai

 

Even now next to that whale calendar picture, sits our Chinese fighting fish, who is the 4th member of our family

 

Yesterday our daughter called excitedly on the phone to proclaim that we had some new red and blue striped fish, and some new goldfish had joined our family

 

Memory of a little boy:

        we had as many as 5 fish tanks going at once in our house,

                  and I remember going from tank to tank,

                           tranquil as I peered into them

         I can never bypass the fish at the pet stores

 

We have snorkeled at Hanauma Bay, where my niece had to be rescued by her dad because her bag of food was bitten by a big fish and it spilled, and lots of big fish had a

 

free-for-all, which she was in the middle of

 

In the middle of fish, in the middle of the ocean, I am surrounded by fish memories and fish memories, a school of fish memories:

 

San Souci Beach and snorkeling,

                  my daughter snorkeling

                           and the familiar fish and reef

                                     And the big eel that slipped

                                              into the War Memorial crack

 

The fish we have seen along the beach next to the aquarium, eels and humuhumu (my daughter can say it) and puffers all at high and low tides

 

The hours spent at the aquarium, each time learning something new, that wonderful Waikiki Aquarium, worked by the University of Hawaii

My wife has said that she would eat fish every day, and although my consumption has gone way up, I'm not an everyday man, but a hell of a lot man though:

 

Todai-to die and go to fish heaven

 

Sushi at Genki, sashimi at Yanagi, and a real mix at Shirokiya

 

Hand rolls and a bowl of fish eggs, shark steak sandwiches and butterfish, butterfish, butterfish

 

Fish for breakfast plate Zippy's and the markets, markets, Ranch Market 99 and Chinatown's fresh fish

 

We see fish, we swim with fish, we read about fish, we feed our fish, we eat fish. Living here in the middle of the pacific, with two girls that love fish, surrounded by a fishing nation, with a history of fish, let me net it in one word:

 

                                                 FISH.

 

 

louis marvin

on this pacific island with chinese girls

born burbank, lived phoenix, loe the island

teacher, coach, ex-soldier, writer/artist, tennis champion

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Poem by Neal Whitman

Frost at Midnight

the only sound

cracking boughs

tuning in

my old Crosley

country music

fades in and out

sta sta sta tic tic

Neal Whitman lives with his wife, Elaine, in Pacific Grove, California, and in nearby Carmel both are docents at Tor House built by poet Robinson Jeffers in 1919. He likes to recite poetry in public, combining his words with Elaine's Native American flute. Neal is the 2012 White Buffalo Native American Poet Laureate and winner of the 2011 California Honor Scroll Senior Poet.

A Poem by Erick Mertz

HANDS/RASPBERRIES

 

time lends its

lessons

to bare Hands,

although

none of the many

so crucial as

 

blind reach,

knowing

by touch

today’s Raspberries,

from those

ready tomorrow

 

 

 

Erick Mertz's poetry has been widely published. In recent months he has had works featured in The Haiku Journal, Edgepiece Literary Journal, Midwest Coast Review and most recently, The Rusty Nail. In 2004 he was awarded a Kay Snow award by the Willamette Writers for his poem,“Three Knots” which was featured in S/Words.

A Poem by William Davies Jr.

My Fault
　
I mistook
A lightening bug
For a star,

Its twinkling

Light from afar,
How could
I know
It escaped

The jar?

 

The writer has been happily married for 38 years and lives in a valley of birdsong and wildflowers.

He has published in Jellyfish Whispers, The Cortland Review, The Wilderness House Review,

The Blue Lyra Review and others.

He eats PBJ sandwiches everyday for lunch!

Three Poems by Nathan J.D.L. Rowark

Feathered and unfettered

Ducks that flow upon the stream and ducking often, fishing keen;

I find you give me peace of mind, for as a duck I could unwind.

I would swim and ponder life’s surrender, watch people bask in nature’s splendour,

As they would come with treats of many, and in return I need not give any.

Flapping baths that spray the crowd, preening beneath wing, guilty head bowed.

The duckling’s life is the one for me, and I would live it now harmoniously.

Sore the sky

In hopes of flight, view duckling’s sight.

Its peers above bear down their love,

And promise true that they will too,

Soar the sky as seen by eye.

Solar rebirth

Star child’s fingers that reach from outer space;

Bore from a vernal equinox, that Easters fans can trace.

Levies of a balanced act, the price, a winters chill;

To see it pass, for day and night to both enjoy their fill.

Solar god, a mighty form that’s part of Celtic ties;

Performing for the rabbit’s sight, a warming of the skies.

Sunrise is a prospect, that makes kingdom overjoyed;

The hibernating furies can now leave their winter void.

A pregnant Lady sits on lawn, surveying with her Lord,

Evolvement, taking place by rays, found glinting from his sword.

The eggs are painted pagan styles, to hatch a new design;

Imbued now, with a magic wish to see a summer’s sign.

Nathan J.D.L Rowark is 34 years old and lives within the ancient fort of London for his sins.

He enjoys the macabre and bizarre and hopes to become much more recognised in this field through poetry & short story writing.

A Poem by Ali Znaidi

A Bee Swarm without a Queen

 

The bee swarm was broken.

Empty of the queen.

Innocent queen was captivated.

I heard her captivity narrative

in the form of a heartbreaking buzz.

Rubbed between two merciless

fingers.

Honey is dead.

The cupcake is bitter.

 

 

Ali Znaidi lives in Redeyef, Tunisia. He graduated with a BA in Anglo-American Studies in 2002. He teaches English at Tunisian public secondary schools. He writes poetry and has an interest in literature, languages, and literary translations. His work has appeared in The Bamboo Forest, The Camel Saloon, phantom kangaroo, BoySlut, fortunates.org, Otoliths, Dead Snakes, Speech Therapy Poetry Zine, streetcake magazine, The Rusty Nail, Yes,Poetry, The South Townsville micro poetry journal, Shot Glass Journal, the fib review, Ink Sweat and Tears, and Mad Swirl, and is upcoming in other ezines. He also writes flash fiction for the Six Sentence Social Network—http://sixsentences.ning.com/profile/AliZnaidi.

A Poem by Russell Streur

THE 99 NAMES OF GOD IN FEATHER AND BONE

Dead rain

The fall of birds

Wasted Pollen's Vanga

Wasted Cyprus Dipper

Wasted Slender Moa

Wasted Magdalena

Wasted Lesser Rhea

Wasted Junin Grebe

Wasted Painted Vulture

Wasted Yemen Thrush

Wasted Zapata Rail

Wasted Gola Malimbe

Wasted Marbled Teal

Wasted Frigate of Ascension

Bird of Paradise

Bird of Providence

Whistling

Wandering

Chattering

Piping

Mocking

Shining

Warbling

Whooping

Browed

Breasted

Backed

Bellied

Bearded

Knobbed

Bulbul

Dowitcher

Crake

Stilt

Tyrant

Nightjar

Barbet

Sylph

Bristled

Banded

Billed

Firetail

Golden Swallow

Tit

Wasted Purple Dollarbird

Wasted Red Kite

Wasted White Stork

Wasted Blue Dove

Wasted Black Petrel

Wasted Olive Ibis

Wasted Ivory Gull

Wasted Tailor

Wasted Stitch

Wasted Miner

Wasted Skimmer

Wasted Miller

Wasted Gleaner

Wasted Weaver

Striped

Spotted

Snowy

Crested

Solitary

Spoonbill

Barbthroat

Puffleg

Crowned

Wattled

Naped

Masked

Crescentchest

Longclaw

Wasted Crow

Wasted Jay

Wasted Lark

Wasted Tern

Wasted Quetzal

Wasted Francolin

Wasted Tachuri

Wasted Florican

Wasted Jacamer

Wasted Owl

Wasted Heron

Wasted Stork

Wasted Finch

Wasted Martin

Widow

Lyre

Barwing

Shearwater

Cisticola

Cotinga

Hermit

Wanderer

Mountain Babbler

Kingfisher

Reedhaunter

Honeyguide

Oystercatcher

Treerunner

Seedeater.

Russell Streur is a born again dissident residing in Johns Creek, Georgia. His poetry has been published in Europe, the United States and on certain islands. He is the the barkeep of The Camel Saloon http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/ and the author of The Muse of Many Names, The Table of Discontents, and The Petition to Free Zhu Yufu.