and, and, and... flood the seabowl, churn of milkfoam,
eggfroth, windwhip, tattering, liquid slide to suck to
pool, draw back to, crack to, whirl to sheer, to even
tide, to surfaces gloved in whitest
cream, to glisten...
To a Young Poet
Max Roland Ekstrom
Hack Demeter’s tree,
steal the club from Hercules,
pluck Augustine’s pear—
can you speak now?
Picaro
Sarah Brockhaus
The world dipped and waved around us, and we were perfect, those
gentle eyes, cherubim smiles. I didn’t know how to hold her
The sky is grey
Ivan de Monbrison
A shadow dances on the roof.
Birds fly like open eyes.
Yesterday the people on the beach looked like fish or seals.
Hidden Pools
Richard Dinges, Jr.
Broken trees etch a gray cold sky.
White nothing lies where pond once pooled.
Yes, I admit it. I am a nature poet. I say it best in my “Zen” poem, “The Universe sings to its audience.” This inverted view is not original to me; I take my cues from poets and philosophers: Heraclitus, René Descartes, Arthur Rimbaud, Gerard Manley Hopkins. To quote John Keats’ tombstone, “Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”
