Two Poems by Rick Hartwell

Like Human Adolescents

 

Two hummingbirds, dramatic iridescence,

playing at sexual tag in the backyard, yet

way too late for the pull of spring incubation.

 

They may each have lost a mate to predation’s

insecurity; I’ve never noticed hummingbird

infidelity, then again perhaps they are just horny.

 

Sneaky

 

Shadows creep up on you surreptitiously and as

dawn rises to noon they trip and fall to their knees

performing silent obeisance at meridian, thinning out

towards an eastern infinity as day fades to dusk and then

into splendid sunsets: purples, reds; retinal sensuousness

dispelled by knowledge of particulate matter and vapor.

 

There are shades to shadows too, not just from sun, but

of moon and stars and fog; of dispersed, elusive fractals,

water beads skittering, grey fog phantoms trying to hide

in peripheral vision, trying to capture you unaware.

 

Moon shadows sway like the tides; adding, ebbing,

flowing through night and imagination until fleeing.

Star shadows exist, but can be seen only by night

fairies and fireflies when switched off, both keen

seers of the heavens when Selene hides her face and

stellar sylphs rule the night until her bloom’s restored.

 

 

 

Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school (remember the hormonally-challenged?) English teacher living in Moreno Valley, California. He believes in the succinct, that the small becomes large; and, like the Transcendentalists and William Blake, that the instant contains eternity. Given his “druthers,” if he’s not writing, Rick would rather be still tailing plywood in a mill in Oregon. He can be reached at rdhartwell@gmail.com.

Three Poems by John Roth

A Geisha Reminisces Over an Illicit Love Affair

On leap years,
we used to romp through oriental gardens.
Such slipshod footing, lovers tumble headfirst
from airy gables.

We were blind,
our eyes congealing from the star-smeared visor
that once held a promise for the future, one 
of tortured romance. 

But instead,
our passion soon deteriorated―
An ancient scroll with burnt tea stains, frayed tassels
eaten by silk moths. 

Only now,
do shadows weave between the green bamboo thicket,
where hibiscus flowers loll their citrine studded tongues
like a yawning corpse.

Drowsy gnats.
Shapeless mantles of light suffuse a pond’s dark edge.   
Puffs of white mist float like Chinese lanterns,
a moonlit paper nest

for swallows.
Mirror-scaled koi flick their whiskers at the sky
as water sloshes over a lipped-rim bowl of clay,  
nourishing silt.

Red crowned cranes
stalk the muddy banks in search of a lost mate.
Long necks stretch, trill cries erupt into the night
unanswered.

Wind-cradled
cherry blossoms litter the small pagoda
where our hearts bled into rose tinted vials.
Mingling souls

but keeping bodies apart.




Dehydration

It starts with a dry spell,
a nagging cough,
and soon becomes
a burning hole
in one’s throat.
The desert gargles
sand in its mouth,
picks the blisters off
its scorch-split tongue.
If only it had tears
to spare, some hidden
reserve of water kept
deep within itself.     
Some way to taste
of its own sorrow.    




Quench

The sun hangs low
like a gold medallion
looped through a blue
prize ribbon. 

There is nothing
to be won but red dust
and desert flies, rubbing
their greedy legs together
like dull violin strings.

A stone-painted lizard
sleeps flat on a pillowed
rock bed that’s been drunk
bone-dry by mouthfuls
of burning sand. 

The land cries out,
then comes
a noiseless surge
of black-bottle storm-clouds,
descending from the splintered
planks of sky like anchors flung
overboard. 

Then comes
white lightning, shackled
to earth’s hot ground plate. 

Then comes
the calming hush of rain.

John Roth is a poet from Ohio whose work has mostly recently appeared, or is still forthcoming, in The Orange Room Review, Boston Poetry Magazine, Bone Parade, Aberration Labyrinth, and Dead Snakes, among a few others.  He hopes you have a nice day.  

A Poem by Paul Tristram

Craddlegap The Cormorant

Upon dark
jagged
seaweed crowned
rock.
He stretches
his coal black wings
in sudden symmetry
perfectly
East & West.
Frown
sloping to serious bill
eyes thoughtful
in the estuary’s
misty morning
cold grey imagery.
He takes off
like a grumpy old man
of the sea
dressed in rags
of black velvet.
Away from the Little Egrets
to find his sport
in the freedom
of the choppy
Atlantic sea.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
 

A Poem by Mike Cluff

Octet

Wearing the water down into dew or dissolvement
the rut between Aqua Luz and Pokerville
is now filling up without sound
with shoe polish and lettuce
the battle has released
from the gulley
where slaughter
emanates

Mike Cluff is a writer living in the inland section of Southern California.  He is now finishing two books of poetry:  "The Initial Napoleon" and "Bulleted Meat" -- both of which are scheduled for publication in late 2013/early 2014.  He believes that individuality is the touchstone of his life and pursues that ideal with passion and dedication to help the world improve with each passing instance.  He also hopes to take up abstract painting in the next several months.

A Poem by Ryan Kauffman

Sunset in Morningview, KY

 

1.

 

Night

crawls - like

a toddler slowly scoots

toward curiosity - over the hills 

that have become a shelter for the declining sun.

 

Light

fractures and

re-fractures into a million

shades of purple, pink, orange and red,

distorted by the wonderful atmospheric prism.

 

2.

 

Fires

burn hot in

the surrounding valleys,

sending the natural sap-tinted

smell of renewal floating through my nostrils.

 

Gardens,

newly plowed,

give off the scent of

fertile soil, as if the earth has

been ground down so finely that it too can fly.

 

3.

 

Chives,

fresh from the dirt,

taste like sweet onions,

causing my mouth to water and rejoice

in the bountiful flavors that nature has provided.

 

Tomatoes,

not yet ripened,

tease the taste-buds with

the promise of the juice induced

happiness that will come in just a few more days.

 

4.

 

Dew

falls like silent rain

over a bed of grass and

leaves that have parachuted from

the tip-tops of giant Oaks and ancient Sycamores.

 

Breezes,

gentle and comforting,

quietly gust and cause little

bumps on my arms and neck in delight

at the temporary relief from the valley’s humidity.

 

5.

 

Coyotes’

harmonious howls

echo through the valley like

the violins reverberating in Beethoven’s mind.

Crickets chime in with their chirps of up-tempo percussion.

 

Bluebirds,

and red ones alike,

tweet their evening song

as if wishing the world fruitful dreams and

giving a final melodic offering to the emerging full moon.

 

 

 

Ryan Kauffman is a first-year MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University. His previous work has appeared in Mused: The Bella Online Literary Journal, The Western Online, The Fringe Magazine, Writing Raw, and Haiku Journal. He currently lives in Marquette, Michigan.

Two Poems by Normon J. Olson

a view of Nova Scotia from Prince Edward Island

 

I saw Nova Scotia

prostrate on the sea,

like a fallen angel with her

head pillowed on the blue tinted horizon…

 

sunlight danced across the

electromagnetic

ripples and painted deep blue

with flecks of gray and silver

 

the fish have gone, turned by

greed and

the bellies of gourmands into

shit… the shit is also gone…  fishing

boats rot in the bushes

or sit in hopeful desolation with

a fly specked sign that reads

“for sale / best offer”

 

 

 

flying from LAX to DTW

 

flying first class on an employee

pass,

sipping a cold drink as the

flaming GE vortex and vast

Boeing wings bring our

aluminum tube up, over

the white line of El Segundo

surf, through the overcast

and

into sunlight, like the bang of a ladle

on a two quart saucepan…

 

over a wrinkle of mountains

 

soon circles of irrigation fields fill the

flat country

 

then the green of Minnesota… 

Lake Michigan looks like a flat zinc plate

and

the face in the window mocks a fat

old gap toothed man

who does not really belong in

first class,

or anywhere

else for that matter…

 

Detroit is another story…

 

 

 

Normon J. Olson is a 65 year old poet and artist and since publishing his first poem in 1984, has published hundreds of poems and drawings in literary print and ejournals all over the world...  a current publication is the cover drawing on Poetry Repairs at www.poetryrepairs.com