Circular cracks show on its map
Its rivers do not flow, only dried up sap
Mountains rise up and its structure still sure
However, the dying giant has no cure
Grey, empty, hollowed out
Water it cannot go without
It gains new life on a lonely night
when by lightning strike it is set alight
Its ashes nourish
The soil it will encourage
Seedlings sprout from its ground
The extent of life is ever profound
Tanzelle writes “for creative expression.”
Suddenly they rise –
we heard no signal,
but they know to go up
together, and twist
and turn in a maelstrom
of black wings
and guttural croaks,
for no reason
we can see,
except the delight
last sight of sun.
“I write because I want to make sense of the world, and share that sense with others. I write because it’s easier than meditating. I write because I love reading.” – the writer
By Mark Tulin
I often remind myself
how much I love the first day of spring.
It appears unexpectedly
when the world seems cold
when my youthful soul yearns
for a blooming flower
in one fragrant moment.
The sun doesn’t have to shine.
The world doesn’t have to feel safe or stable.
Nothing has to be in order
or to make sense.
It is the first day of my favorite season
when I feel most grateful
to be a small part of a grand universe,
that gave me my first breath.
“Writing creates an intimacy with the world.” – the writer
By Lian Wang
when god piled up lumps of dirt and stone
did he think to himself
host singing competitions
between baritone owls
and soprano sparrows
sport seasonal fashion
green and frills for spring/summer
orange and nude for fall/winter
shed dead skin
from a symbiotic relationship
with bamboo scaffolding
yet tall ones would be mountains
and short ones hills?
“The mountain outside my window distracts me from virtual classes.” – the writer
By Melissa Gill
If you find me
Please do not pluck me
Out of my element
Let me live
Among the wildflowers
Instead of leaving me to wilt
In the corner of your room
“I write to slay the monsters in my head, and to remember my grandmother’s smile on my birthday.” – the writer
By Jim Bates
“It’s a damn coyote,” the man exclaimed, looking out the window of his mansion. He yelled to his wife, “Ellen, call animal control. Hurry!”
Oblivious, the sleek animal trotted on. He knew he’d ranged too far from his den and into the Neighborhoods, but he was hunting for his mate and their pups. The rabbit he’d killed was his reward and he hurried to get home. The smell of humans frightened him. He trotted faster planning to never return.
Ellen ignored her shouting husband. Instead she watched the coyote lope away, envying it’s freedom, wished she could join him .
Jim Bates is fascinated by the interaction between humans and the natural world, and he hopes his writing reflects that interest.
By Neal Crook
even the sturdiest rock
is swept into the whirlpool
when debris floods
Neal Crook is a retired high school teacher starting a “new” chapter of his life as an emerging writer.
By Conor Kilbride
The mountains have grown
They are growing still
This is how it will go
One never-ending show
The peak will breach the sky
We have passed that
Now we can fly
And when humans fall
The mountains will be there
Conor Kilbride writes “to pretend I am a more serious person than I am in reality.”
By Cap’n Five7Five
through my front window,
I spied a floating seedling, and—
in that nanospeck of space/time—
itself on a random journey,
existing on its own invisible stream—
My eyes. the wind.
“Today I wrote a poem. What did you do?” – the poet
By Martin Christmas
I, garden sitting.
Magpie perches on a bush,
so close I could sense it watching me.
Slowmo, I walk closer,
Magpie perches unafraid.
I could have almost touched it.
Magpie watches me.
Stepping away slowly,
into the house for the camera.
Magpie to have flown away.
No. Magpie remains, watching me.
I, the junior partner in this trust relationship.
Magpie gives me time for three shutter pushes,
then flies away, majestically.
Man makes contact with Magpie.
More correctly, the other way around.
Magpie gives time of day to man.
We are not
the centre of the Universe.
Martin Christmas has been published in several Australian anthologies and overseas in Red River Review (USA) (Featured Poet), and StepAway Magazine (UK). His chapbooks are Immediate Reflections and The Deeper Inner. “To write is like breathing,” he says.