“Honeymoon” by Adam D. Weeks and Ellery Beck
How to call these sheets a city, how to reach out and touch.
Two Poems by Aïcha Martine Thiam
in the middle of a sorrow snowstorm even the tossed timber dice looks pearl sugar white
“The Weatherman” by John Tustin
I want to be a weatherman.
“The Last Ones” by Robert L. Penick
They seemed easier to spot thirty years ago, or perhaps my eye was keener.
“Lawn Chair on the Highway” by Andrew Gent
Lawn Chair on the Highway We are used to the disabledtruck, the inevitabledeer or squirrel carcassstill there a week later. But a chair is unexpected. Upright, positionedat the juncture of highwayand exit where the ramp veers off.As if waiting for its ownerto return, beer in hand,to sit and watch the paradewhere we are all equalparts…
“Hiking” by Peggy Hammond
Hiking the Appalachian Trail was embraced as therapy, antidote to tours in Iraq. Now was the time of peace, of filtered sunlight among poplar leaves, of streams tumbling inside rhododendron thickets, of learning if towhee’s call matched guidebook’s drink your teeeeee, learning if blue jays can mimic sharp call of the hawk. Instead, in the…
“Prowl for Luck” by Jeff Schiff
Sure flight’s temping And it’d be tough to find a soul who would not slough it all to lift above braided boughs and neglected spires Today however the air at Lake Mary fills with nuisance taunters swoopers guardians of the cosmic lint pile Here they be crammed in oaks and transplanted ash just where their…
“Late Summer Mountain After the Rain” by Danielle Hanson
The steam from the coffee cup replacesmorning fog entangled in the porch wisteria,blooming and falling. Bird song drips from trees,soaks into ground. The sound of bees liftsinto the tree, solidifies as honey. We leaveporch shade, pour ourselves into day. Danielle Hanson is a poet who strives to create and facilitate wonder. She is the author…
Two Poems by Richard Dinges, Jr.
Controlled Burn Flames climb a hillside just beyond my home, with volunteer firemen along inferno’s border, priest to control this burn, protect me from this heat, from being consumed by flames they hold back with their magic while flames lick blue sky and wave at me, not in welcome, only a wild glee that I…
“Making Kites” by Doug Van Hooser
Making Kites I think it was willow wood. The bark stripped like an apple peel it would bow in a flattened half circle. Strings attached in knifed notches tug the wood spars ends toward each other. A forgotten knot binds them in a cross. Newspaper used for a sail, words to be carried by the…