almond blossom ballet…

almond blossom ballet choreographed by delicate spring breeze ©2018 by Roberta Beach Jacobson Roberta Beach Jacobson is an American writer who spent most of her life in Europe. She tried retiring, but it didn’t work. Advertisements

Coyotes

The coyotes are crying tonight. From across the creek Their wild howls Rise in the trees, Drift over rooftops Through open windows. Not far from our lawns and driveways Lies an ancient world, Of drought, hunger, fire and flood. Of open range and primal forest. The coyotes are watching Waiting To reclaim it. ©2018 by…

A Tall One

Upon my deck, a vodka poured up tall, I gaze out over my domain of green: An acre verdant wrapped in grassy shawl And sunset rain to add a glassy sheen. King Arthur with his table round and fair, Bright pennants on his soaring ivy walls, Could not compete with my beloved share Of backyard…

Kill Zone

Deer are still staying on their respective sides of the former Iron Curtain a quarter of a century after the electrified barbwire border fencing was removed at the end of the Cold War. ~ EARTHWEEK, 5 March 2014 The spotted fawn does not come near the scar in the land the motherland where under a…

Someone Lived Here

Someone lived here once. Someone, long forgotten, subdued this ground, stacking stone and wood and straw in rectangular constructions — a dwelling-place, with stable or cowshed. Someone beat back the yearly incursion of brambles and saplings to keep a vegetable garden or a chicken run; took venison, herbs and fuel from the ancient forest, and…

Of & To British Butterflies

The warming and dry. Not only those sands, the dunes heaped and rounded, but here. Where the umbrella serves as cover or cane, to gesture and point, left in the stand by the door, its folds with beads found between. And not. For: days and days and days of no rain and the open collar…

Longing

Today, the mirror stares at you. It stares at your lips, your red lips, your red red lips, your lips, red. Red like a cranberry. Red like the cardinal that perched on your windowsill yesterday, with the cocked head and clipped wing. He peered at you with his curious, seedy, black-bead eyes, and you considered…

in the meadery…

in the meadery, this offering of wine and honey . . . all that remains after angels receive their share ©2018 by Debbie Strange Debbie Strange is an internationally published short form poet, haiga artist and photographer whose creative passions bring her closer to the world and to herself.

slowly rising…

slowly rising the winding timber staircase Abenaki Tower ©2018 by Tom Sacramona Tom Sacramona is a poet living in Plainville, Massachusetts, with experiences in both teaching and proposal writing. Sacramona is a member of the Boston Haiku Society and the Haiku Society of America.

Earth Colours – a Haibun

It’s not long after dawn on a clear autumn day, chilly, but set to warm up later. We’re at one end of the 2.5-mile-long Grand Wash, Capitol Reef National Park, Utah, a slot canyon on the Waterpocket Fold through white Navajo Sandstone formations and brick-red Wingate Sandstone cliffs up to 500 feet high. This early,…

becoming more

what a good thing to be young and to call the creek behind your home ‘brother’ and to be fed by the same mouth and to spend the most fragile summer nights wondering how one becomes mighty and when — if ever — we learn how to swim in the bigness we will eventually become…

The Quickening of Salmon & Years

From this island                to that isthmus. Here, an egg.                There, a fish. As quick as that. Never mind swimming upstream, breaking       the surface                even momentarily. None of that wild fervor. You will not have cause to travel (the need’s been excised) so loll & fatten, rushing in another way to your slaughter, all sped up, hurtling…