Fangorn never smelled so sweet
beneath the looming hemlocks,
heavy with untouched cones.
Maple leaves drop, then gather at the bottoms of hills
as September’s heat and October’s rains blanch
all colors from their veins.
Saturated tree trunks tower above the soggy bog
like obelisks from a time never known,
as if keeping watch over all things unseen
while releasing nutrients for their young now grown.
Wood rings whisper stories in each creak,
an ancient code, an old stand Rosetta stone
warning each passing soul of winter’s approach
despite the distant chainsaws that encroach.
– Donny Winter…
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I planted pills in the garden and watched them sprout. It was growing season. Birds came and ate the leaves and flew off sideways, sedated. My tongue went dry. The truth was, I missed my arrogance: believing that the saints smiled when no one was looking: believing I could be the sun that never slept. But here we are. The pills grew plants with sweet flowers. Birds plucked them off one by one: the birds sang backwards: the birds put their heads in fountains to cool off. I didn’t miss the pills. I was a little sick. Maybe I didn’t want to be seventeen again. Maybe I just wanted to fit into my graduation dress. It’s not an addiction if you’ve got a prescription. The birds laid eggs that didn’t hatch.…
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the potted dipladenia on my porch
only reveal their wine-red delicacy
when watered well
there’s a lesson in there
somewhere I wonder
was it the wintertime
the aridity between
the desiccated care
that withered us out
we shed each other like
snakes shed old skin
for newer seasons
may it be of sweetness
with new kin
may the ground
we slide on stay smooth
like dipladenia leaves
after the rains
– Nzeru Aquilar Nsaí
…
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Dòng, Dòng—Dòng,
Zī—Zī-zī—Zīzī
Pèng——
first, a sharp sound pierces my ears
leaving me gasping for air.
my soul seems to leave my body,
as if the Black & White from the hell
are here to take me away.
my heart pounds wildly,
almost leaping out of the chest,
& my legs become floppy—
one word: panic.
like an earthquake is coming,
the life is slipping away. i’m filled with fear.
my lips instinctively turn into pale,
losing their colors.…
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I have no memory of my parents ever reading a book to me. What I do remember vividly was the magic of the children’s books that I read to my son when he was young. They were as new to me as they were to him. Some seemed to illustrate important life lessons, especially Winnie-the-Pooh.
Up until Jesse was about three years old, I read him books with plenty of pictures, like the Dr. Seuss books and The Very Hungry Caterpillar. But Winnie-the-Pooh and his diverse companions in the Hundred Acre Woods hit a magic button for both us. Around the time we read the book, we also watched the classic movie, Pooh and the Honey Tree, singing along with Pooh from our living room sofa.…
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It was a bookmark during the last week. He hadn’t noticed. Rarely did. She would wait for his Friday night shift. Sleeping neighbors wouldn’t see the taxi. She wondered how it would feel touching down, and if she needed a new book for the journey; something with fresh, unread chapters.
Dog-eared pages scarred novels across his shelf. No care. Fitting. She lived for the quiet hours; long-awaited calm. Silence apart from the soft purring of a cat that wasn’t hers. She craved something of her own; unblemished, familiar. New without being foreign, easy to understand.
Parts of her would remain; fabric dangling from coat hangers, bottled aromas in cupboards, worn letters from happier days tucked into corners of drawers, out of sight. She knew to cradle the essentials of her soul, take them with her. …
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~inspired by George Mason’s “The Harvest Moon,” 1877
Harvest moon glares, jagged from clouds grinding
their glazed edges against her.
Harvest moon bleeds in colors of oak & maple,
her face round as a hazel leaf.
Landscape burns in a blur of garnet & tangerine
peppered with people & dogs
& scythes.
Landscape drowns in bellowing & howling
& the hiss of metal crescents
against grains.
Frayed cats slink over blades & between
the pauses in lusty laughter.
Frayed cats patrol this field of autumn’s
benediction—fleshy broth
of limb & spine & belly.
– t.m. thomson…
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