Its a sweet June day, and the mockingbirds
are singing, as are the rubber tires of cars
on the road, and both of these sounds reverberate,
echo, the jazz of early summer, with the muffled
percussion of wind in the trees. A crow
twangs and plucks his big black bass,
Poetry
Barbara Crooker 6-01-2005
Joel Kurz 4-01-2005
I have climbed out of the depths
where human ash and soil
comprise a pyramidal mound
covered by the green of life.
Here women, men, and children
Louise Murphy 3-01-2005
The earth is eating all the little birds.
It feasts, grows fat. Their eyes are stones, black jewels
we rattle in our pockets. Mouths are blurred
Scott Cairns 11-01-2004
Availing space in which
we live and move and come
to glimpse the import of
our being. Opening
occasion of our brief,
expansive guess that when
were after meaning, more
is always likelier
Linda Mills Woolsey 10-01-2004
At the regional airport in Waco, on the third day
of the war, we stand barefoot, as if on sacred ground.
As each in turn is beckoned, we file mutely past
the metal box that peers into our carry-ons and coats,
examines our watches, our wallets, our shoes.
Jene Beardsley 9-01-2004
"
as if religion were a state of shock,
deep, peaceful shock, that
men like these
are driven into by the spectacle of reality."
Peter Matthiessen in The Cloud Forest
Ananda Robinson 7-01-2004
Blessed are those who wash their robes, so that they will have the right to the tree of life and may enter the city by the gates. Outside are dogs and sorcerers and fornicators and murderers and idolaters.... - Revelation 22:14-15
A voice whispered in my dream:
Either you love or you're happy,
but never both.
I don't know how to live
without the dogs,
without faces writhing
in the bone-spurred night, bituminous
duels of prophets
and scoundrels, flayed
condoms in gutters,
without the infinite idols
to which we bow
in our desperation, shadow-dancing gods
that every day destroy
the city I cannot
live without.
Cynthia Gustavson 9-01-2003
Hundreds of years growing on a steep hill, desolate, aging / despite scarce nourishment, they wait for history to recognize them.
Joseph Ross 7-01-2003
Indigo true
purest blue,
a man on a cliff
waits with open hands
and closed eyes
to receive
a breath.