Submitted by Thom Kerr
The hour is early, predawn.
The clouds – vanished, the storm – over, the moon – full.
I pull my wrap tighter and shiver by the back window, listening to some nameless chanteuse croon and confess from the confines of the FM dial.
Warming my hands on a cup of tea, I watch the last two leafs in the tree.
They hover together in the gentle breeze.
They dance in the moonlight. Embracing, spinning, reaching – enjoying one another.
Caressing like lovers until one falls away; surrendering to the pressure of the wind and the weight of the clinging raindrops.
The fallen leaf touches down. I pore on archaic words and phrases, planning a poem.
Photo credit: Autumn Effect at Argenteuil – Claude Monet
Submitted by Nicholas Catron
And where do you find us?
We heathens on the fences.
When doctrine is too concrete,
for us to consider consequences.
What dogma can you give us,
when seasons saturate our souls?
A life deep in the thickets,
without hands on the controls.
Could we sing, glory on high?
Could we give, our lives on the line?
Or are we stuck, an essence denied?
Forever in the ether, no light to outshine.
Photo credit: Carvagio
Submitted by Ali Grimshaw
Something other than sleep
more like jumping into water of coolness.
Not dreamland, but renewal of return,
more like the thrill of meeting someone new,
in the skin of an old friend.
Extension of bones to a full tank of calm.
A refrain from shallowness and gasping.
Diversion from daily tunnels of thought.
The upside-down of frenetic.
When was the last time your bare feet felt
the smooth tile of the lobby?
The feel of breath leaving your body
an elevator going down
to revisit the ground floor.
An entrance to rest.
Photo credit: William Turner – Sonnenuntergang über einem
Submitted by Benny G.
Much is displeasing, we learn this too soon
Old friends grow foreign, old songs out of tune
Old lovers grow distant, old passions subside
Old bodies grow weary while anguish survives.
But doesn’t it take just a spring-time breeze
The scent of the soil, the rustle of leaves
The thought of a long-passed memory
The sound of a songbird up in the trees
To show us the truth we seldom see
That beauty lies in the simplest of things?
Photo credit: Edward Hopper Sunlight on the Brownstones
Submitted by Short-prose-fiction
Please, trap me in the rhythms of the Flamenco
Whose sounds invade the nights of Southern Spain
To breathe the notes of the guitars which play,
And, fill the lustrous eyes with burning pain.
And trap me in the Florence of my dreams
To walk with Leonardo in its streets,
To verse in Greek, and cry with the Madonna
When the last word of Christ forever speaks.
And trap me in a Hindu monastery
In splendid nights my sufferings unpacked;
And in the shadow of Mandala
Give me the power never to come back.
Photo credit: Archi e Fiori – Guido Borelli
Submitted by Eve Dobbins
Laying waste to our dreams
We shoot our fears while we wait scared
Scared watching Billy goats parading shakily down the mountain
The butterflies sweep the curve
Sauntering into the garden
And enjoying the sunlight
Streaming shakily in the corner of our eye.
Our eye registers the shaky
Non stream of reality
Like the black and white old photo
My mother kept in her drawer
Of the last known sighting of her father
Before he left New York City
And rolled the dice again in Long Island
With the pipe shirking out of the corner of his mouth and a
Sardonic arm posing in front of the camera as if to tell
Catch me if you can
And it never did.
Photo credit: Employment Agency- Isaac Soyer
Submitted by Kim Whysall-Hammond
Poetry is the orphan of silence
Begging for attention
Word spaces and line breaks
Whatever the poem describes to you
Is a shadow
A portion, a flavour
Of what the poet is trying to say
Photo credit: Leonardo da Vinci – Sketches