A Poem by David Lymanstall

The Hawk

A frozen muddy path
In an early winter woods,
Covered with the lace of scarce snow
Lead me to the hawk

Or maybe he was lead to me,
As the branch was empty
When I heard the whisper of air
Pushed out of place

By gray feathers
Guiding a large avian body
To a branch only feet away
From me and the muddy, well-traveled trail.

I waited trance-like, silently thinking
Any movement would alarm him,
Set off the flapping giant wings
That would carry him to a more secluded place, far from me.

But he didn't move from his low slung branch,
Nor did I move from the frozen muddy path,
We both stood firm, wondering who
Would take flight first.

I don't know what thoughts he had as he gazed at me
And as I stared back at the solitary bird,
A bird that doesn't move with a boisterous flock,
He probably wondered the same of me on that secluded trail.

I had the notion that the hawk enjoys the sound of his own wings
In the cold winter air, just as I enjoy the sound
Of my solitary steps on a frozen muddy path.
The hawk had found a soul mate in the winter woods.

David Lymanstall is a teacher, artist and musician.  He has taught in classrooms ranging from Montessori Middle School to the college classroom.  He enjoys learning himself and likes to ignite that love of learning in others of any age.  In his spare time he teaches illustrated journal workshops, plays the fiddle in an Irish session group and enjoys writing science and nature related poetry that hopefully inspires others to look at the world around them a little closer.

A Poem by Ilhem Issaoui

Pondering

Sea waves dashing on the shore restless
Like a moribund clinging tenaciously to a gleam of life
Hence was me in few words
Known to everyone as loyal, as unwearied, as the face of beaming glee
But no one knows of the thoughts and memories
Still haunting each and every corner of the cadaverous heart
Aching, wailing, tearing
O come, come hither
And transfer to me some of your spring
The shabby door of my heart still ajar
Fear not its stridulation

Ilhem Issaoui is a 23 year old Tunisian translator and poetry and short story writer.  Some of her poems and short stories have appeared both online and in print in magazines including Three Line Poetry, Salis Online Magazine, Mind Magazine, Mad Swirl Magazine, Jaffatelaglam, Danse Macabre, and others.  She is also the author of a collection of poems entitled, Fragments of a Wounded Soul.

A Poem by Guy Traiber

The Strongest Wind

leaves separate from branches
softly, even in the strongest wind
there is a moment of innocence

the leaf bows
the branch nods

and there is a pause
to give blessing before the hug
in which they grew ends

if only we too could
burn out
like that

Guy Traiber was born and raised in the sweltering middle-east and found love in the cold mountains of Europe.  After a decade of travelling extensively throughout India, South-East Asia he is now pitched again on the soil of his youth.  He studies Sociology & Political Science and Chinese Medicine and finds that they all relate.  He would very much appreciate it if you tell him something.  o13m@yahoo.com

Two Poems by Susan Sweetland Garay

The Continuity of Things

Let us talk about the stars and sky:

do not ask for answers from the trees and ferns
but instead try to be them,
to learn their ways

do not judge them for their slow growth.

Their growth is steady
and they know how to forgive
which is a magical quality all its own

and they are patient like no other.

We should be as the forest
blessed and growing
and constant.

Our power lies in each new moment
time will not disappoint us.

Collect the light,
gather it into the bowl of your bones
keep it safe until you are at the ocean
and then spread open your hips
and birth it out again

watch bits of light
drift into the sky
and out again
undulating with the waves.

I want to learn the language of the bees,

to create something from the cosmos
from the light we have swallowed
which is resting on our tongues.


Ancient Corners

In a river in the fourth of July,
submerged to my waist in icy water,
this weary and neglected body
does not feel imperfect.

I sink down into my hips
stretch
feel my skin
feel the water moving around me
cold and rushing.

It finds ancient walls
and corners

with moss growing
and flowers coming through the cracks
reaching for the sun.

We drove past a charred hillside to get here,
so recently burned I could still smell the smoke.
But the black ground did not seem so sad or lifeless,
instead I could almost see it breathing deeply as it rested.

I used to know the way
but now have forgotten

and I wonder what else I have forgotten
from when I was a tree
with my roots
winding
down
into the
lovely,
nourishing
earth.

When other trees and ferns and mushrooms
whispered to me

and I understood their language
and the movements of their leaves.

Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Susan Sweetland Garay received a Bachelor's degree in English Literature from Brigham Young University, spent some years in the Ohio Appalachians and currently lives in the Willamette Valley with her husband and daughter where she works in the vineyard industry.  She enjoys finding beauty and meaning in the everyday.  She has had poetry and photography published in a variety of journals, online and in print.  She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2014 and her first full length poetry collection, Approximate Tuesday, was published in 2013.  Her second book, Strange Beauty, was published by Aldrich Press in 2015.  She is a founding editor of The Blue Hour Literary Magazine and Press.  More of her work and doings can be found at susansweetlandgaray.wordpress.com.