Submitted by Michele McFadden on June 6, 2018
Yesterday
Sitting beside my garden
I happened a glance
As I do between pages of my book
And thoughts of meditating
(An oxymoron certainly)
I caught sight of
Broad orange petals
Flashy purple stamens
A lily of sorts
Where
Yesterday
Had been a bud
Lilium philadelphicum,
I later learned
Spectacular with those delicate purple spots
In a sea of nearly yellow at the start of each petal
Near the ovary
Gazing
I saw beside it
Its sister
Still demure
I wound my way around the wire fences
I’d put into the garden
To keep out whatever critters
Had eaten the tops off all my tomato plants
And devoured all the pansy blossoms
Over the weekend
And sat
Waiting
Beside the columbines
There
Before my eyes
As the sun made a show of her sister’s wild hue
This shy one
Spread her petals—a larghetto of motion
Then popped open
With an audible puff
Today
A sparrow at my elbow
Drinking
Having wound my way again around the wire fences
I sit beside another chartreuse and orange bud
Waiting for beauty to explode again.
Submitted by Michele McFadden on May 22, 2018
I should have known it the minute I saw them
When she walked in wearing red shoes
She was there to take you from me
Your attention
Your smiles
Even your potshots.
That night in our hotel
She was still in your head.
The next day
When I rode away from you on my bike
It wasn’t the rain or the contrary hills
Your misguided sense of direction
(In the end I was right).
Remorseful.
Lost.
There were a thousand directions you could have taken.
Maybe an hour I leaned against that wall
Hoping it would be this one
Watching for your billowing blue jacket
Your bike churning over the viaduct.
Then,
Holding each other
Not letting go
I was stupid.
No it was my fault.
We both knew
It was the red shoes.
We never made it to that stone circle.
Submitted by Jennifer Dixey on May 13, 2018
the person you were
left behind at the gate,
you make your way
down the aisle
to your seat
to meet
the next person who will change you
into the next person
you will be: arrived,
you rise, stretch, try
to fit yourself to a new
frame - someone
with fewer limits,
more options,
new language
with which to decide
what your life will be
and if
we could fly
without the aid
of mechanical wings, would
this still be? maybe
it's not the people you meet, but air itself,
the very sense of escaping
the limits of
our grounded
selves
Submitted by Benjamin Gorman on October 1, 2017
O for the month of harlequin leaves!
Crisp the air and the limpid light!
Time apprehends our memories’ thieves
Offering back what was lost to the night.
Bring on the harvest, the stories and beer!
Everyone gather for feasting and cheer!
Revel in plenty at close of the year!
Submitted by Benjamin Gorman on September 28, 2017
The honkers are preparing already
Trying out flight patterns
Flying desultory sorties
Peppering the sky in not-so-neat arrangements
They're just warming up, after all
The real work is yet to come
There's more prep yet
More fattening to do
More of the work that comes
Before the work
Another arrowhead flies by,
One flank longer than the other;
Asymmetry is nature's pedigree.
This one's very quiet,
Hardly a sound as they silhouette the western sky.
Are they enjoying the sunset?
Like us, do they drop the petty squabbles
To enjoy a moment of wonder?
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