Michelle Smith

Morning Decks & Decorum

Fresh cut blades

of green grass stacked

on yards like neighborhood

houses. Awakens my olfactory

senses. Feeling

squishiness of the piled

high hill dancing in spring

coolness between my toes.

Dew mistiness chills the morning

cold. Cursing my forgotten

jacket haunting

out the door. Spring

breeze blowing in

my curly coil sepia

hair, absorbing ECO gel,

spongy as my vintage fingers

adorn it. Hold. Fresh

cut grass reminds me

of 52 Pick Up tossing

like cards and confetti

tussling down on

my head,

my hair,

my neck. Resting

on my shoulders

landing and celebrating

my life, not green

with envy, the old

is gone. Now anew

there's always a way;

hope springs eternal. Dew

mistiness chill

the morning, rousing

my soul, bold!

gia civerolo

after haiku

The battlefield was

quiet.  The citizens cheered.

The torn grass cried.

kaleidoscope leaves

Sky silent blue

The day you stopped

Talking to me

A black crow 

Let me know

Neither of us

Shed a tear for

Words we forgot

To speak

The weight of

You and the winter 

Snow melted into 

Spring of possibilities

Summer heat bleeds

Fall leaves turning

Kaleidoscope colors

Still

I don’t miss you

mother nature heals me

Lying on my back

sun camouflaged 

crying green leaves 

through the trees

bright blonde beams

trickling, twinkling down on me

sparkling day stars

on a suffocatingly hot day

bashful breeze 

refreshing me

like a lover’s kiss

God does not need a name

to shine on me

R A Ruadh

Grasslands

They have their seasons

and reasons for being

They shelter and feed

measuring time by colour and height

Reseeding and sending out roots

in order to be fruitful and multiply

Protecting against drought

secreting water

As deep under the earth

they also rise tall above her

Cows and bison graze

stomp aerate and fertilise

Birds carry seeds with the winds

and other creatures tunnel and tend below

They have their seasons

and reasons for being

Winter dreams to life

Under the snow the grasses sleep

their roots at rest

protecting the frozen earth

deep and rich

biding their time in the quiet darkness

listening to the springs and aquifers

beneath them

High above the Wolf moon

prowls across the sky

devouring stars and exhaling them

to glitter on the snow below

At Imbolc the hidden tides will turn

and far below the ice and wind

roots will awaken and stretch

feeding the secret leaves

of grasses yet to rise

into the lengthening spring to come

Elixir of equinoxes

From fall turning to spring’s return

my maple paints the seasons

amber

Leaves glow in the dark

holding a lamp of long

summer days

The morning fog is burnished copper

slowly melting from

sky to earth

A rustling carpet of shifting gems

drifts in the sunlit breeze

spreading gold nuggets

Winter storms turn up topaz and ruby

embers torn from branches

kissing snow drifts

Deep garnet buds

are lighthouses for spring tides

of rising sap

With billows of maple flavoured steam

the sugaring shack slowly reveals

sweet secrets

From pale gold to deeper honey

rich smoked mahogany transformed

from crystal liquid

Holding the life of my maple tree

suspended in every drop of

amber

(previously published in collection "Elixir of Equinoxes" in 4 in 1 collection, Four Feathers Press 2023)

R Romea Luminarias

OAK LEAF 

The grace of an Oak leaf resides

In her being so ungraphable -

    Because intentional? -

   Rather random, fractal

Veins akin to a Kallima’s wing.

 

She is one of a kind, besides,

   Being shaped in ways unlaughable;

   She is phenomenal:

   Such beauty, to think that all

She does is catch the sun and rain.

 

As seasons turn, she falls on the side

   Of a deserted anthill or a swale.

   Yet I, a dreamer, will

   Carefully keep her, preserving Fall

Between pages of my book – unpained

 

    Where your letter is -- unanswered --

Now turned brittle, bright like Amber.

 

TOAST!

If sunlight had never kissed the face of Earth there 

Would have been no word “breathe” or “mirth.”

No Spring to rouse the old Cherry blossoms,

No breeze-blown pappi of Dandelions.

 

Red Roses would not have been born at all,

No salve from honey for Snake-bites fatal.

What a plight for us without photosynthesis!

No hay, no Cats chasing Mice, no cheese. 

 

No salads to crunch, no female giving milk,

No chocolate, no ice cream, no dream of Elks.

No Cucumber pickles, no Coffee, no Kimchi;

No armies waging war against the Nazi.

 

Parks - quite dismal, no Tai Chi in view

Like dusk-shadow dances, no Edison crew.

No campers trek through California Redwoods, 

No gardener’s fork or spoon or jade sod.

 

No Penguins playing on vast Arctic slopes,

No fire truck siren, no two-year-old “Nopes!”

No poems, no tales, in this sunless scape. 

No fireflies for white phosphorus to trade.

 

How blessed we are by the sun’s golden thread!

Birds sing through the seasons, our hearts warmly fed.

Raise your glasses of red wine (or green Tea),

Toast to our Glorious Sun and Emerald Canopy!

S.A. Gerber

Dying Decent

 

Throwing away time

as if it were sour soup.

Meager checks come,

enough to drown

midnight demons.

No dime for a dance,

no woman looks my way.

They already have low

standards, can’t settle

for less.

Outside, a melancholy

breeze whirlwinds some

dead leaves and papers  

at my feet.

On them is some age

old, disparaging news.

The rich get richer,

the poor, poorer, and

the nights darker.

Down what’s left in

one swallow, and wonder

how I can buy back

my soul.

I want to die decent.

Leaves

Aging leaves

wither and die,

on sapless,

lifeless branches.

They fall crisp

and crackling,

upon the ground

below, awaiting

parades of

trodding feet.

Once turning

to dazzling colors

in autumn’s cool

air, they now

reflect through the

window of winter…

a time of loss.

Like all things fragile…

their beauty is transitory.

 

 

(First Published in “Inventory”- (Poems 1999-2012) by S.A. Gerber c 2013)

In the Park 

 

Deep ponds

Water lilies

Hop-frogs.

 

Blue sky

Green grass

Sleeping dogs.

 

Children running

Kites flying

Leaves falling.

 

Fish biting

Folk’s napping

Quite inviting.

 

Sun descending

Soon dark

Stars out.

 

Pack up

Soon alone

In the park.

 

Tom Riordan

The Leaf that Waited in the Net

What breaks through

from the day’s events

and speaks to you

is too complex to forecast

or then afterward evaluate

with any certainty.

This morning for example

I went outside to the pool

to skim the leaves

and found one, shiny red,

already waiting in the net.

SORTILEGE

Fall leaves self-organize

among cabals and covens,

each to drop en masse

on their specific signal

or environmental cue,

a gnostic-nod succession,

though some few refuse

to settle destiny within

the rodeo of mysteries

and leap into unknown—

dry flutterings of Spring.

Paraclete

Unto us lowliest sometimes sweep, descend

And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

    - Hart Crane, “The Bridge”

Poor falling leaves above the pool,

no chance to catch a breath before

another big decision must be made

between a novelty of drift or sink—

if choosing float, must opt between 

adaxial plane up, or else abaxial—

then one by one, in time, succumb

to the ongoing wooing of the floor.

The vast bulk, falling on the grass,

has varied angles to arrange itself,

or be arranged upon the holy waft

they worship as Fate-Song, divine.

PJ Swift

Two Leafy Trees

They were two large leafy trees growing next to each other in the mixed tree forest. A few  of their large branches reached over each other, sometimes creating the illusion that they were part of one giant tree.  The true illusion was more substantial, however.  The large tree limbs that branched out to each other, were not actually tree branches at all, but rather, enormous human-like hands, hidden within the trees.  At times the trees would use their human-like hands to reach out or to touch one another.  Sometimes they would shake hands or even hold hands.  In more intimate moments, perhaps when the breeze caused their leaves to flutter, granting them a little privacy and shelter within the serene yet heavily vegetated forest, they would use their human-like hands to caress one another to the light rhythms of their swaying crowns.  What they would never do with their giant hands however, would be to slap or to hit or to poke or to punch each other.  Such violent acts never even occurred to either of them, because they were trees. 

Jeffry Jensen

BLOWING WITH THE LEAVES

Nothing crunches better than dry leaves.

Children, kittens, puppies gather

for hill rolls in the patchy grass.

There was a jingle that filled the pungent air.

Maybe it is time for a radio station

to plug into one of the closer planets.

Demos from Dylan were stacking up on the Moon.

A misplaced iron was left in the growing local fires.

Closing down filled my smoky head for the night.

I stopped tracking my dusty mythology at dawn.

Blood pressure has left town for the Alps.

There are red beans in my Vietnamese drink.

Amazon has refused to send me anything until the wind changes.

A quizzical knee bump had my cats jumping for joy.

A dulcet voice from San Pedro made the patchy grass stand up.

I like to sleep with my band instruments facing toward the South Pole.

I will be needed in Northridge on the next day

for impromptu otherworldly purposes involving leaf classification.

Jeanne Marie Spicuzza

Both

Boldly and openly,

like petals and pistils 

that stretch to meet sunlight, 

I am reaching today. 

I fold first, like a concave valley,

and close my eyes tightly. 

My roots thirst, then fill with water.

A calm comes from beyond. 

My own trichomes volley

between romance and friendship

and conclude both equally,

like a song resonates in skin.

A decision exists 

to seek you or bestow your going.

I cannot perceive either

in the epidermis and ether.

I don’t want to press you.

You are a gift not to be kept

like flowers in a memory book.

You are living bloom.

If you should run,

I might chase you, or cry,

or smile, knowing that 

your leaves poured out,

sprouting vociferous wings.

If you go I must allow this wish.

Love does not smother,

but offers freedom, one to other.

I have missed you

in my heart and in my flesh.

Sometimes I can scarcely stand

against that trembling stem.

We are deftly separated 

by space and time.

I search through eternity,

this particular synthesis, to find you.

And I so hope this one moment, 

an unwieldy rotation, becomes ours, 

waiting, because its truth dictates.

Growth doesn’t know or see outcomes.

I only recognize, when seeded deeply,

even the sepals bend gently over.

I have longed, with eager dreams,

to hold you, and I, up among the sky. 

Mike Turner

Autumn’s Leaves

Autumn’s leaves are turned to parchment

The grass is dead and brown

And I awoke this morning

Without your warmth beside me

Autumn’s leaves are turned to parchment

Bare limbs reach to grey skies

And I sit at noon

Missing the glow of your countenance

Autumn’s leaves are turned to parchment

Wood smoke wafts across the hills

And at evening I first thought

You would not return

Autumn’s leaves are turned to parchment

The first flakes of snow are falling

And in nighttime I lay my head upon my pillow

And mourned your passing

Autumn’s leaves are turned to parchment

The grass is dead and brown

And at daybreak I awaken

Endure the pain afresh

And trudge wearily on

Small Moments

Celebrate

The small moments

A soaring hawk

Framed against azure skies

Ocean’s waves

Lapping on white sand shores

The smell

Of new-cut green grass

Rustling leaves

In a warm Autumn breeze

The muffled quiet

Of a winter night’s snowfall

For each

Is a moment

Of seeing

Hearing

Experiencing 

The “now” we are in

Of simply being

Living

Connecting

To the world around us

To our innermost soul

Live

In the small moments

Joe Grieco

Only Nine At Eaton Canyon

Single today

Only playing nine today

My legs won’t carry me 

The full eighteen today

There’s no gallery today

No drunkies yell out the jinx

“In the hole!”

There’s just this spoonful of sunlight today

There’s just this pining

To get back

To things that comfort me today

There’s just this scent

Of mowed down grass today

Sandra Frye

Sparrow's child

out of the way, out of the way!

the stallion's coming through!

--Kobayashi Issa

A Bird of Worry

My sister rode horses on summer days. As she raced through fields of mustard grass, her yellow mane of curly locks whirled while I stood at the edge of the pasture biting my bloody fingernails trying to stay out of the way. I worried about everything. What could be coming next? Would she be thrown hard to the ground? Maybe her foot would catch in a stirrup. She might be dragged for blocks.

Once she found a fallen sparrow near our house. Its short sturdy beak protruded from a jaw. My sister studied drawings in books. She sketched wild stallion skeletons. And all sorts of happy dogs. Curly-haired poodles and chestnut Irish Setters. She liked slippery blind moles too. Their slits for eyes. 

She brought the fallen sparrow home, placed it in a shoe box lined with fallen leaves. She tapped its yellow beak, told me, “You’re a cousin to this bird. You must learn to use your beak for more than eating food.”

two girls

poles apart 

each holding

a bird’s wing

 

Fifteen 

From the sky, the land

looks like God’s mighty finger

pointing to the center of Lake Mendota

where time spins in all directions 

through still water as clear

as apple jelly, cutting through

silence like a scalpel,

a rocky serpentine trail passes

a rusty water pump

climbs up a bumpy hill

merges into the past

at an Indian mound

to when the blades of grass

smelled green,

like summer, like youth.

Mother wore her white dress

with pink tulips,

little upside-down mouths

saying listen.

That summer on Picnic Point

red-winged blackbirds

spilled from willows

like shiny cat’s-eye marbles.

I am fifteen.

I can’t see what happens,

how I will fall in-and-out of love.

I liked sitting quietly

the rusty water pump,

blackbirds circling my head,

sour blueberries on my tongue.

Today I wrap tennis shoes

around timeworn feet

tie the laces

hike the trail

past the berry bushes

to sit at the edge of the lake

and listen once more for

my mother’s voice.

 

"Best Things Dwell Out of Sight”

         ~ Emily Dickinson 

Ox Eye Daisies

It was June of 1953 that ox eye daisies popped up 

through roadside fields in library books full of sun

so happy were they with those cheerful yellow eyes 

their dark green, spoon-shaped leaves and rounded 

jagged teeth that for years had scared me because I 

couldn’t see. Grandma used to bring armfuls of

daisies back from the cow pasture each June in 

Illinois when I visited, she said they were lovely 

and bloomed in a thousand white flocks of happy.

But when neighbor kids jumped rope outside or

played hopscotch, I was caged safely inside listening

at my bedroom window to the sounds of summer

blooming and busy thinking, busy feeling.

My mom afforded my first pair of glasses the year

I turned eight; before that I squeezed shut my 

blurry eyes to fend off monsters in the dark nights.

Finally I could see how the black and white world

transformed into a kaleidoscope of reds, blues,

yellows, and greens—but instead of a pleasant 

transition or a happy variation, instead of regeneration 

I had already discovered the best things live within.

John Townsend

WE

We 

wish the good,

but

do the bad.

Treasure the real,

but

praise the false.

Hold 

fast the truth,

but

obfuscate, omit,

lie.

Proclaim 

that flame of love

yet

burn with

hidden hates.

Hunger for manna

by day

feed wild desires

by dark.

Take pleasure

in nature,

cut

 trees to stumps,

grasses to roots.

We 

trudge forward

in

swamp and sludge,

Stretch

eyes and arms

ever upward

for

the lights

of

heaven.

Mary Mayer Shapiro

GRASS LEAVES 

Blade of grass 

Among its peers 

See only sky 

Not tall enough 

Wants to leave 

Observes blades  

Fling into the air 

Blade to blade 

Blew out to the Wind 

Flew in the air 

Saw the trees 

Houses 

People 

A thirty second 

Flight 

Landed in a pile 

Left on lawn 

To decompose  

Add nutrients 

To the soil 

Slowly dying 

Be careful what 

You wish for 

  

 

 

LIFE OF A GRASS SKIRT 

Began life 

In a field 

When time was right 

All base plants 

Were plowed 

Sent to the factory 

Sewed into a 

Hula skirt 

Life was good 

Each movement 

On the dancing hips 

Told a story 

Along with hand movements 

Began as a cultural  

Expression 

Not just a way 

Of living 

But existence 

Chants at Temple ceremonies  

Honoring a chief 

Or telling stories 

Explaining topics  

Including weather patterns,  

Star movements of earth and lava 

No written language 

Pass on knowledge 

From generation to generation 

But now 

Dance to tropical music 

Rhythmic swaying 

Performing day  

And night 

Traveling all over 

Never a dull moment 

jf giraffe

THE TREE'S SADNESS (Haiku) 

The tree lost its leaves.

I wonder if it's lonely. 

Glad they will return.

LOVE ABOVE THEIR ROOTS 

Looking out my window, I saw two trees whose leaves were gently touching each other and I began to wonder if they are in love.

And if so, would they have a problem since they are not the same type of tree and our world can be very judgmental. 

Birds and squirrels seem to enjoy both of them and though their branches and leaves are different, it doesn't seem to matter.

If only humans could be that way.

Ellyn Maybe

Eternal (Haiku)

the leaves had a song

remember to thank the trees

sing it all life long

David Fewster

A HAIKU

Grass Leaves: the title

of Walt's book had he lived in

the Age of Twitter

(Illustration: Van Gogh, Summer Lawn in a Public Park, 1888)

Trish Saunders

The House Of Timothy

When summer came, we built a house of timothy grass,  

open to sun and rain and air 

and the children said 

“This is ours." 

I hadn’t the heart to warn them—

happiness is usually impermanent. 

They would grow very tired of 

lying in eye-watering grass  

contemplating cerulean blue.

Days shortened. Mowing machines came—

I felt the grasses shrink in fear. Crows  

came next, then coyotes, and 

we loved those shy wild dogs  

poking delicately through garbage. 

Someone left a tarp; we ripped 

open a corner, look, a door!

and moved in happily. 

Winds came tormenting the trees. 

Then fires came. 

With nothing left now, 

I’ve asked the children

to finish their story. 

"It’s over” is all they will say.

Tim Tipton

New Start

it’s late September

the leaves on the sycamore tree

have touched earth

the wind clears the last days of

summer like a sky of clouds

there’s not much left now but

the faint echo of carefree children

making most of their long hours

these changes depress most

but encourage me

rustle of feet on brittle grass,

the early evenings, and

the cold air blowing on my face

September brings in a fresh start

a feeling of rebirth

It's a great time to change your life.

After a long winter 

Spring’s sweet light

fills my chest.

I pick up a garden hose 

Scatter a stream of water on the

Begonias, calla lilies,

The birds of paradise,

And the hollyhocks

As well as the trunk of the old elm

the ivy bed,

And the poinsettia plant;

After that the steps of the back porch,

And the windows too

Everything in sight was bathed in a pure

Cold light

I gaze at the blue sky and can hear

The evening doves wheel over the trees

I drew the hose up to make a rainbow

I drift the garden house back and forth

The rainbow drifted

Now everything was pleasantly damp and fresh.

Bedroom Window at Dark

stay awake nights

see the moonlight spread across the grass lawn

    as the nocturnal sky take shape

feel the fresh air pour in

    observe the wind waves steadily off the ocean 

    and the leaves on the wet barked trees shake

make a fire where black and white twigs of wood 

    crackle inside

hear the refrigerator gently drone

be awake to see the sunset

     watch the colors of the land appear

     From nowhere: pale orange, chocolate

     Topsoil and pale blue like a tear 

have your bed ready for sleep

    for a vast library of dreams 

    awaiting to stir inside you.

Joan McNerney

Green Rain

I woke up

looked out

my window

and saw green

pouring down trees 

cascading over 

emerald grass

This noon

swollen wet

bursting water

now even heaven

is tinted jade

as birds linger

under branches

listening  

When I Was New

When I was new

and the world was new.

So many roads to wander

under a cerulean sky.

Forbidden fruits to savour,

forbidden lips to taste.

Full of promise, flowers

budding on the vine.

Their perfume covering

my fingertips.

I hurried through each day

alive with my songs.

The moon rose just for me and

stars burned just for me

Every morning brought

sunshine to my window.

Another day filled with wonder

waiting at my doorstep.

Spring was greener then.

When I was new

and the world was new. 

 

a glimpse of spring

shy blue morning black trees 

etch sky as children skip

over puddles 

bramble on snow soft birdsong

listening to water race down

stream winds gently kiss my

forehead 

grass shoots push thru first thaw

.

Shih-Fang Wnag

Waiting for Spring

Our love has lost the battle to hatred    

It is the bitter winter of our relationship 

Words of love have been exhausted 

Only hostile comments are left

Let silence and time be the healers

To assuage our discontent

Allow our resentments 

To fall like autumn leaves

Let the icy anger quietly thaw

As we begin another spring 

 

Dandelion Mission

Dandelion seeds 

Tiny delicate parachutes

Are swept by the wind

On a mission 

They drift through the spring sky  

Venturing far and wide

To sow new life

In waiting soil

Among the grass

They dauntlessly take root

And soon they bloom   

An invasion of golden beauty

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

The Green Leaf

I feed you a leaf from

the tree of life. I feed

you the dreams of birds.

The green leaf will grow

inside you until leaves

and more leaves spring

from your breath along

with the song of birds

and from the dreams

you were fed. You will

find the brightest light

in the atmosphere. And

that will be the sun. I

feed you the wind and

the clouds in the sky.

Happily, you will feed on

on green leaves and

the songs of the city,

broken bottles and torn

leaves from the tree of life,

and the clouds will go

south and north, and

rapacious birds will sing,

a flock of them will nest

in the tree of life. Their

fragile song will linger.

They will bring joy to this

world and hidden meanings.

I feed you another leaf

and a slender blade of

grass. I will feed you the

south wind and you will

breathe like the wind.

I will not feed you swords

or the gibberish of

politicians with small minds.

I will feed you leaves.

I will dance with you

as our distances close.

Come with me. I will feed

you birds and bees with

a little honey on the side.

Soft Grass

 

The grass is kind

to my feet.

I walk here with

no sandals

or shoes and it

feels so good.

 

It is soft.  This

lush green grass

feels like I am

walking on

pillows filled

 

with goose down.  I

could sleep here

without a doubt.

If the ants

do not bite me,

I could dream.

 

I wonder how

it feels to

walk on water.

Does it feel

better than this?

This soft grass

 

makes my feet feel

loved.  I walked

on wet sand and

it did not

feel half as good

as this feels.

In Bloom

 

In bloom,

the fruits in the trees.

Sadly,

sometimes they rot like teeth

 

or love.

I sit,

face in agony,

looking down.

 

I can barely feel the air

or the sunlight.

The plums decay

on the green grass.

The sunlight

cannot find my eyes.

 

Happy one moment

with life and with love,

dead to such feelings

the next hour.

 

Knees buckle to the ground,

your hands at your sides.

You cannot pick up the plums.

You leave them there,

the apricots too

because love was killed

the moment

she decided to end it.

 

The poet prefers the color of

pomegranate seeds.  My love

liked the juice. 

She preferred melons

and pears.

 

On rainy days

we ate fruit and made love.

 

Last month before a single tree had bloomed

and snow fell on the mountain tops

our love was like a prison.

We talked like strangers.

She would explode in a rage.

My stubbornness made things worse.

Why do we fight with the people we love.

Dean Okamura

Chasing rhythm in words

 

The best my mind can do is 

     chase a rhythm in the words 

     with meaning I don't grasp. 

Linger in the grass for lyrics that never form, 

     chasing melodies that never come, 

     this upbeat after another, 

     one missing beat embracing the world. 

Where silence settles like mist 

     over a valley, spiraling upward, 

     while winds bend branches 

     into wild patterns wound precious. 

That's all there between my eyes 

     in front of my face, searching 

     the fading edge of twilight. 

Where rhythms move clouds 

     on the horizon. 

grass leaves

 

we look at darkness and we see ourselves 

we sit in silence and hear ourselves 

our lives full of confusion 

when so much is at stake 

can look hopeless 

while planted in darkness 

with overgrown silence 

I thought I heard you once 

breaking the silence 

I thought I tripped over you once 

in a corner of darkness 

someone bumped into me 

told me to look where I'm going 

there are no directions in darkness 

no sirens in silence 

let's get up 

give each other a push 

you know 

forward 

really 

anywhere 

like smiling grass leaves 

reaching for the sun 

The noble desk

 

The noble desk stands in the tall grass. 

Her legs creak after years of service. 

The weather-worn wood has lost its shine. 

She needs repair but stands resolute. 

Student doodles washed away by rain. 

Yet their scribbles remain etched in wood. 

They have forgotten their childhood days. 

But she recalls every one of them. 

After years, the noble desk decays. 

Its memories mix into the earth. 

Wyatt Underwood

leaves of grass

good old Walt Whitman

in some ways the father of us all

we who work at defining American poetry

from a humble beginning of twelve poems

to a mighty compendium of four hundred

Whitman kept redefining _Leaves of Grass_

kept reexploring what American poetry meant

until he ran out of time and had to accept

what he had done that far

but oh my!  what had he done!  "Song of Myself"

the plains, the Mississippi, the frontier

a bunch of individuals becoming a people

trains connecting the coasts

a few states slowly spanning a continent

what an adventure!  what an experiment!

and what a way to define himself and us!

Andy Palasciano

Sea Grass

Collecting sea grass for Captain Nemo’s

seaweed cigars,

we have on a scuba suit that resembles an

astronaut suit

but like space, the ocean is largely unexplored.

Who knows what cities or monsters live

within,

like today, we call the 95% of the universe,

which we don’t understand,

dark matter,

and we cling to the 5% we do understand 

and say, 

“We’ve got it all figured out.”

The grass sways on the bottom of the ocean 

from the currents 

that we do not control.

We dance in out suits with the sun rising and hitting

the glass covering our eyes,

and the present contains the joy of

the future’s surprise.

The Walking Bridge

He had an office

that was an old house, converted,

that was down the street from a

walking bridge.

Each session we would

have a minute of 

meditation before we started.

I always envisioned us

walking down to that

walking bridge,

but we never did.

He told me about

one patient, that was

in her sixties,

encountering a pile of leaves

and jumping in them

and playing as she did

as a child.

I got the news that this doctor passed

and I can close my eyes now in meditation

and play in the leaves

just beyond the walking bridge.

The Thoughtless One

He sat with his elbow on his knee

and his palm under his chin like “The Thinker,”

yet the inscription on the platform he sat on, in the meadow of grass,

said, “ The Thoughtless One.”

There were leaves swirling around his head

with the wind blowing and whistling in the evening sky.

Children might bring to the statue, “The Thinker,”

questions about science and philosophy

and they may look in his eyes and get the answer

from his expression, “It is this,”

or, “I will think on that and get back to you.”

This statue, “The Thoughtless One”,

may have children arriving at the pedestal

and looking up into his eyes with similar questions

and he may say, with his expression,

“How should I know?”

or, “I know you are but what am I?”

The leaves would swirl up into a rain cloud with no rain.

Marieta Maglas

The Robin Bird

Wimpling wings

in the twinkling lights and

eyes to weep

in the downing dawn's blue ink

of the springing spring,

while swirling from nature's swing

to sway, to rock

the night's ring,

and to reach out to free birds

without falling,

it leaves the leafy tree forthwith

right in the light to fight 

the last winter's wind.

 

Ekphrastic Tanka

 

She is bitter dust.

Her eyes fit for the blessed trust~

a light for shadows.

Love freed her from fear and lust;

walks through the grassy meadows.

 

 

The Stone

 

In her descent from a mountain peak,

a stone embarks on a quest for a more

profound understanding of existence;

 

she becomes a green river rock that

absorbs the history encapsulated within

fossils. This stone possesses emotions.

 

This stone feels the weight of time's tears;

the gentle caress of grass. Sparkling joyfully

in the sunlight, she carries a sadness in the

 

mountain's shadow, a sense of longing under

the moonlight, and a dreamy essence at night,

especially when the river's waves cradle her.

 

She may crack like the stones before her,

remain a symbol of sacrifice, or rise to become

the pinnacle of a pyramid. Yet, at times, she might

 

embody the essence of a philosopher's stone.

No matter her form, she remains unyielding and

steadfast, for a stone will forever be a fragment of

the mountain from which she was separated.

Lynn White

One Last Time

Before the trees begin to fall

I’ll take a walk

through the woods

one last time,

hear the leaves glistening

and shaking

in fear of what is to come

some are already fallen

lying

dying,

it’s the season for it

after all.

I’ll see the light shining 

lighting on the leaves of grass

that push soft spikes of green life 

in between the fallen

see the light shining 

through the trees

one last time.

It lights up the white crosses

chalked on the trunks

as it passes by

too many white crosses 

all ready

to mark the graves

of the fallen.

It’s the season for it

after all,

always the season for it

one more time.

Endlessly Rocking Whitman Anthology, 2019

Skull

The skull lies desolate

on the bare mountain side.

Just lies there among the rocks. 

Lies still with a few accompanying bones.

Each day it decays as wind and rain weather it

and destroys its form and substance so that it wastes 

away and fades into the landscape and decays.

If it had come to rest lower down the mountain

it would have sunk into the grass and leaves

and risen with hair and hide intact with,

the cause of death discernible, with

its last meal of grass or rabbit

still there inside its stomach.

Preserved by nature.

Preserved or wasted.

It all depends on

where you 

fall.

First published in With Painted Words, August 2016

Running On Empty 

We take care how we fill our shoes.

Our trainers and boots.

Our flats and heels, stilettos and cuban.

They may match our mood, specially chosen,

or be eternal representations of our unified self.

So surely something of us must remain

when they are emptied.

Not just our smells and mis-shapes,

evocative as they are,

but something more fundamental.

Something spiritual.

Something symbolic.

See here

empty shoes

laid out tidily in rows.

Blocked together in the leaves and grass

or concrete yard.

Rows upon rows of them

that once contained the school children

now shot dead,

our children.

See here

empty shoes

piled high in untidy heaps.

Heaps and heaps of them, 

that once contained peaceful people

now massacred, bombed, burned.

Our people

spanning place

and time without end.

First published in Tuck, June 2018

Joseph Milosch

Mother Pins Her Braids

Mother pins her braids in concentric circles

to the top of her head. Each ring appears

as a mysterious crop circle. In sunlight,

the pupils of her eyes become identical wells

in twin wheat fields.

Lying in the grass with her son, she tells a tale

about children whose mothers are scarecrows,

smoking corn silk while crows squawk,

and the corn covers its ears tightly

with green leaves.

 

Under the October Night

lamp light landed on concrete,

as the cold and hungry

walked the streets of Chicago. 

Some spread their bedding

on the sidewalk. They were

not safe from the cold.

Laying down, the sleepers

turned their backs to the cars,

creating the winds of traffic. 

They blended with the gusts

coming off the Great Lake

and frosting the high-rise windows.

Apartments.    Apartments.

Apartments lined the streets

and dwarfed the redbrick factories.

Earlier today, the fall leaves

belonged to the elms outside of

the Holy Name Cathedral. 

The trees stood in front

of the basilica with its tall,

thin stain-glass windows.

A pigeon flew through the doorway,

and past the image of a bearded saint.

His lips held a permanent frown.

Believing this sanctuary

was for members only,

he wanted the bird chased

from this place of worship,

but the Polish, cleaning woman

refused. ‘No, let it drink,’ she said

as she scraped the candle drippings

from below the Votive stands.

In the vestibule’s warm safety,

the purple throated bird

perched on the holy water bowl.

Carefully, it swallowed,

drop by drop,

the heart’s first nectar.

 

La Jolla Tidepools

This morning, Patsy, we are in our fifties.

Braiding our fingers, we stroll slowly, 

and watch our barefoot shadows cross

the sand beside the cliffs. The ocean

sparkles as far as we can see, and we seem

as young as we were once in the evening

when we strolled under street lights.

Remember yourself young, shy, and idly

loitering with me on main street. You

are still shy as you walk next to me

on this beach and over the rough stones,

holding the secret caves of tidepools.

Stopping, we watch the hermit crab

that cult leader, strutting his wealth

in the bottom of the pool. You are here.

I am beside you. We control nothing

but tell the ocean’s mood by its waves.

They blindly rise, falling and leaving

tatters of foam that erase our footprints.

As the surf abandons the kelp’s

wing-shaped leaves to the sand fleas,

the sandpiper tenses before sprinting

behind the receding waves. This morning,

we are old and walking hand in hand

along the water’s edge on the Pacific. 

Connie Johnson

Not Everybody

I swing with punctuations 

Lavender noir / an offering 

Of elevated jazz 

And sapphire blue 

Thunderous applause

Scattered leaves of abandon 

and who knows which way 

the weather will blow?

I tried to make you my trademark 

Of chords / complex between-the-

Lines melancholia

Our official drink will always be whiskey!

A jazz after party /tethered to a new world 

Veined with red accents

And tenderness 

I’m thrilled with the way 

You resonate    /    I dance 

to your lonely translations 

But make sure you never use 

The word:  everybody 

Everybody 

Has never spoken 

For me

Soul Sickness 

Belly full of the blues

But you stay hungry 

When did you become 

So insatiable? 

Smoked grass / private revelations

On the sodden bedsheets of a true blues explorer 

You rise to dress in black to stare me down / head to toe 

O lonesome bluesboy of incalculable woe 

There’s Memphis in the recipe 

A little Texas in the secret sauce 

If I fed you with my word / body / testimony 

Would you finally accept the music that they contain?  

There must be a way to cure our soul sickness 

Released by yearning / released by eons 

Of unsatisfied desire 

The pen / the bass 

The whiskey / and the wine 

And why are your eyes filled with 

More tears than mine?

Absinthe Blues

I can recall the way we took

The short route to a soul understanding

I bombarded you with an off-key rendition 

Of everything contained within 

My anxious mind 

I invited you 

To join me in a duet

A fusing of souls: I was the upright piano

You became my funky, acoustic guitar  

With a sip of absinthe 

My singing became better! 

Majestic moonlight

Liquor of tears and 

Melancholia 

Leaves crunched with age 

that you brushed from my hair

Orchestral

And simpatico!

 

There are some who 

would call this: abandon

I only answer to those who 

would call this the blues

Bill Cushing

SUMMONING THE PAGES

I love pulp I can see, feel;

pages to taste, chew and digest;

versuri made more real

by the musk of their smell

released in understated swells

as they age.

I dive head first into leaves

surrounding and filling me

with joy, sadness, information,

recording the souls of each generation.

They shelter me like protective eaves,

each waiting to provide.

Words become beatitudes

of discovery; others confide

melancholy meditation.

I still refuse to submit

to the new allure of reading a screen

designed by the demon Kindle,

preferring to listen to the crinkle

of paper as it flips,

falling flat against its ancestors.

Even cheap escapism

or the worst of creations

can fill a purpose,

have a message to tell.

In the end, the pages I’ve viewed

have all served me well.

(Part of Just a Little Cage of Bone, Southern Arizona Press)

Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie

TO A COSMOS FLOWER

I want you orange 

like the Mexican Marigolds which honor the dead 

and celebrate their lives during 

Los Dias De Los Muertos 

but I also want you yellow 

as sunlight shining through your petals

like the life coming from our sun

I want 

the sky from where the sunshine comes 

blue

the clouds which float by

white

and your chest high stem with leaves 

growing in pairs along it

green

and the ground from where you sprouted and grow 

brown

I want

your roots sunk deep into dry and sunbaked soil

where you need to be watered 

only once a week or when you start to wilt

and intertwined underground with those of your 

nearby flowering family

I want you

to stretch to the firmament flexible enough 

to bend with the wind

but strong enough 

to return upright whenever it calms

I prefer you wild like your ancestors 

who first grew in Mexico or mine 

who became known as Homo Sapiens

in Africa

I want

you as balanced

as the Cosmos we live in

and which lives in us 

5 TANKA TAKES ON 2025 L.A. FIRES

1

Firestorms explode—

Palisades-Eaton Canyon

Flames jump house to house

Everything is on fire

There is no stopping it

2

Wind sends ash into eyes 

Embers fly all around them

Grass catches on fire

The fire is coming closer

“We have to get out of here!”

3

Fires near Mt Wilson

Thousands of homes destroyed

Apocalyptic scene

Man died holding garden hose

“I think the death toll will rise”

4

Just chimneys standing

Neighborhoods wiped off the map

It’s a war zone

She’s staying with a friend 

Says she may leave state

5

Buddha statue 

and small desert plant saved

“That gives me hope.” 

There is a grieving process

There is a healing process

Gabby Gilliam

I’m as Bare as the Tidal Basin

I am a tree stripped 

of blossoms––that is to say 

time has ripped away 

all that was beautiful 

and every blush of promise 

but the wind caught 

each petal––carried 

velvet white and pink 

to grass and river and nest 

those small, soft pieces 

shed so painlessly 

I didn’t know to miss them.

When it Rains on Thanksgiving

The way the storm 

swirls errant leaves 

and they land 

on the sweet potatoes 

but I pluck them out 

edges trailing tacky threads 

of melted marshmallow 

and I hope 

no one will notice 

the patchiness of potato 

peaks bare of that 

pillowy sweetness.

The family casts judgment 

like fistfuls of glitter 

a shining censure 

a residue of reproach 

that sticks in my throat 

as I eat the entire pan.

Jackie Chou

Three-leaf Clovers 

Their little leaflets

face away from the blinds

as if the sun

were a wrathful mother

flashing fierce fists

instead of warm rays

on her yellow children

What to make of shadows

the box of tissue by the pot

for collecting the tears

of anyone brave enough

to cry in group therapy

The couch where I sit

cross-legged

is laden with burdens

of the winter months

as I say a silent prayer

to those tokens

of superstition

far from God's grace

and St. Patrick's Day

Summer Grass

Is there a Crayola color 

called "summer grass"

neither green nor yellow

but a blend of both--

"chartreuse"

a word I learned today

from a fellow poet

when I tried to describe 

wilting clovers?

If there was such a crayon

would my six-year-old 

non-English-thinking brain 

be able to visualize it?

Perhaps 

it would awaken my desire 

to sit on dewy grass

instead of in the attic

like a wild child

my thighs exposed

under forbidden shorts

stung by ants

Falling Leaf

A leaf has fallen 

straight to the concrete 

with a soft tap 

missing my shoulder 

Is this how you slip away?

I've begun to lose

my adoration for sparrows 

the fat ones weaving 

in and out of bushes

I fed them handfuls of rice

from my Chinese takeout 

but now I loathe them

for their abundance 

and common plumage 

As for me

I am a lone blue butterfly 

shimmering 

everywhere I go

CLS Sandoval

Arizona Love

 

Underneath this blue, never-ending sky,

You grant me an infinite high.

Through the grass valley, cool water flows,

And you make me quiver from head to toes.

 

Depth of your gaze, reaches in to me,

I wish that I could show you what I see.

You make me truly and passionately feel,

Please, let time prove that our love is real.

 

Whenever you are next to me, I am all here,

Your love for me makes all things clear.

I want to live my life for God and for you,

Unwrap my sheltered heart with all that you do.

 

Texture of your skin, contour of your mind,

Reveal to me all that which you find.

Anger or joy or sadness, please do not hide,

Always know, in me, you can confide.

 

Much laughter and many tears are yet to come,

We have yet to discover our love’s sum.

Tell me what it is that really makes you tick.

I will love you forever, whether you are healthy or sick.

 

Cornerhouse Evening

 

An exchange of smiles, and a brush of your hand,

A nervous laugh, and a quick look away,

On the grass, you lie, then I cease to stand.

In my heart, I struggle to keep fear at bay.

 

Your eyes caress my fragile, heated frame.

Closer, closer, your body is pulled to mine.

For the blush of my skin, you are to blame.

In this silence, for your touch I pine.

 

Lips parted, hands upon my trembling waist,

You make contact, a spark is newly lit.

Soft and strong to touch, and sweet to taste,

Your kiss is an irresistible fit.

 

Deeper and longer, melting together,

Your fingertips dancing upon my neck,

I sink into this moment, maybe this forever.

I am taken by your passion and your softest peck.

 

Behind your smiling, moist, bowtie lips,

Peeks that adorable gap between your teeth in front.

A sharp quiver spreads from you to my hips.

Please, just show me what it is you want.

 

Wrapped up in your thick arms, I lay.

Your ear pressed to my abdomen.

Your eyes meet mine, with them I sway.

Someday, I hope that it is your heart I win.

 

This roof of yours warms us from the night.

Your hands of fire dance over my blouse.

Exhaling deeply, you cling to me tight.

Flirting escalating as we enter your cornerhouse.

 

Shiny Gold Studs

 

She left her shoes on the side of the road

The black ones with the gold studs—collecting leaves and grass now

The day she bought them was the day her high school boyfriend took her shopping

For the first time

He said, pick anything you’d like

She smiled and blushed

Thrilled that a boy loved her enough to spend his money on her

But when they got to the register

She had to pay

‘Come on baby, he cooed, you know I got you next time

 

She figured it would be a one-time thing

They stayed together

Every dance, every ball game

They were side by side

He went to her choir concerts

She watched him in the jazz band

They even worked together at the Tasty Freeze

She asked him to meet her at the clinic for her appointment

He promised he would, but he didn’t show

When she saw him next she shared the ultrasound photos

‘Come on baby, he cooed, you know I got you next time

 

Her mother threw the baby shower, all her friends came

It was co-ed, just so that the daddy to be could attend

But he didn’t

He came over days later, acting like he never knew there was an event

‘Come on baby, he cooed, you know I got you next time

 

The last time she saw him was the day she gave birth to their daughter

And he didn’t arrive at the hospital until the next day

This time when he cooed, ‘Come on baby, you know I got you next time

She asked him to leave

 

She drove herself home, baby in tow

When she parked the car and took the infant seat out at her mom’s house

She watched her mother open the door

Excited to see her

Reminding her how she had wanted to pick them up

So the new mom kicked off her shoes, right here in the street

Leaving all those empty promises behind with the shiny gold studs

Lorelei Kay

Gloving it

Yard work yard work

hand in glove with hard work

grass is growing needs a mowing

weeds shoot higher, reaching skyward

those pine needles just keep stackin’

means my rakin’ best get crackin’

zinnias all need fertilizing 

so their blooms can start their rising

patio could use a washing

brushing, splashing, bubbles sloshing 

bird bath needs a thorough stripping

don’t want any blue jays tripping

soon must trim my roses back

while keeping thorns from their attack

old trellis needs a good restaining 

‘cuz next week it might start raining

maybe I’ll create a pathway

placing pavers under archways

rocks we’ve hauled from many Jeep runs

need arranging under hot suns

I’ll gloss them up to make them shine

and place so their best sides align

outside chores seem never-ending

why my back is always bending

the sweat keeps dribbling down my neck

oh yeah I’m looking like a wreck

yard work yard work—always need to glove it

yard work hard work—MAN, how much I love it!

Barry J Vitcov

Leaves Rarely Fall One at a Time

Poets pile words and rhythms

finding order in disorder

the essential in random

the essence of nature.

 

Leaves rarely fall one at a time.

When they do, it’s mesmerizing,

an acrobat putting on a display

with loops and turns in endless array

wearing colors fading to decay.

 

The newly planted three-flowered maple

was in full leaf, all green and pliable

with exfoliating bark like Gypsy Rose Lee.

Its leaves tinged by sunburn

and we thought it would not survive.

We soaked it overnight for weeks

and hoped for the best.

 

When summer turned to chill,

golden hues gilded each leaf

before the fall began,

leaves doing their gymnastic routines,

stacking themselves in pillowy heaps

proof of life.

 

Poets carefully observe

nature arranging itself like a poem.

Wishes in the Wind

 

Winds howled out of the south

like banshees prowling,

politicians with something to prove.

We sat comfortably on our worn leather couch

watching the bluster of leaves and untethered debris

carousel down the street

followed by a tiny person

in yellow galoshes and a red mac

rapidly clomp-clomping after a pet or a dream.

Who goes out in a windstorm?

I asked Abbey, my brilliant poodle

confidant, keeper of secrets

guardian of my sanity.

She stared back with large dark eyes

full of wisdom and tender advice and replied

someone who finds wishes in the wind.

Leaf Tromping

 

Grandpa’s favorite season was fall,

walking with my soft toddler’s hand

in his, using me like a compass

giving direction to our tromping

through the dried detritus of nature’s cycle,

sharing stories of his childhood

joyful memories of kicking through leaves

while his father told similar remembrances.

 

I repeated the same seasonal rite

with my son, generational lore

prompted by ambers, oranges, reds,

the shift from scrunch to squish

after an air filtering rainfall,

the scent of mold and mildew,

of purposeful decomposition.

 

Ash and maple leaves seem to turn

later and later each year,

summer’s warmth lingering,

fall fading into a shorter, harsher winter.

Will I be able to walk my grandchild

with a soft hand held in my callused palm

pulling me with the excitement

of an explorer in new lands,

lands with altered seasons?

 

Laura Daniels

The Unseatable Bench

Avery notes: 

grass screams when it is cut

tasting the blade before 

being mowed down

my eyes hear your cries 

for help

Meg declares: 

a smell 

cannot be a scream

it is but a breath 

of oxygen 

being released

Welcome to the pearly gates of stupidity

take a rest on the unseatable bench

as Annabell tosses herself down the stairs

screaming: Annabell is leaving 

the book writes itself

because the rusty gate 

leads to hell

her pen bleeds these words:

the grass screams to grow 

but will be cut still 

another day

From my Gentle Grasp poetry collection published by Kelsay Books 

Auburn Leaves

the storm just passed, but your leaves 

are still inside out, flipped over

showing your veiny muted under-side

not your smooth flossy top-side

your moisture response is to soften your stems

letting wind flip-flop your leaves around in the rain

reminding me of my hair's reaction to moisture  

growing my strands from flat to frizzy, dancing

twisting and turning like a baby's mobile 

caught in the wind's cross-current

created by the impending storm

short sprays twirling with dancer’s grace

off my head, a crown haloing in the breeze

each strand drifting away from its 

follicle fix, slackened from a prone position 

floating and flexing and moving about freely

abracadabra: from one step to the other

still the same but different, looser, liberated 

until the dewiness dries and you’re up-righted

by a new kaleidoscoping hairstyle 

 

Leaf Life

In  

spring  summer

leaf   has chlorophyll

making                it green

as days                          shorten

chlorophyll           travels from leaf 

to the tree trunk                                roots

letting other protective pigments shine through

xanthophyll                            delivers yellow hue

carotenoid                            provides orange tint

anthocyanin                               yields red blush

autumn progress                                 leaf dies

tree prepares                                for winter

foliole morphs                    burnt brown

all                                          needed

is                           gentle breeze

swaying        back and forth

to break           loose

and       drop

down 

b

   y

     e

       f

                      a            

              r

                  e

                      w

                          e

                              l

                                l