By Stephen Mead The good guru—–wisdom/innocence,a rush as if from rocks,water gushing through.Give air, a gasp, a snort,innards/spirit, a sprayof baby’s breath, soft rustlesnow, hush hush fingers, clap,cover the whispering lips, eyes reflecting the sound,eyes only, squinting & maybea few trickles, (lick, trace, let fall),carrying further what spirits knowliving in the torn forth sound.__Stephen Mead […]
By O.P. Jha As a tailorbird I pluck long leaves rustling with mild breeze I stitch them with fibers of intimacyspread in a lovely heart that get unfoldedin the passionate moments of loveI weave and string up the nest of my love with a low branch not much above the reachof my flapping wingsand make
by Karen Breen Volt(a)/aic/age after Anne Marie Rooney’s “Overture” The lighted blue. Swell. The third return. The locals croqueting at the park. No one in gazeboes w/o cigs. Bright-finding & heat. I have not withdrawn. When I remember, I smack against square hoops. Mallets that sent me: their sphere. Bent fingers pinched between two of
by Clara Silverstein Trespassing at the Homeplace I know every invasive, every bulb with ruffled purple fisted in its center, the rock wall’s shine of poison ivy, and the willow, a spangled cathedral for remains of our pets. Someone else is taking shelter under the forsythia, its splinters of yellow each dreary March, and the