downwind from the cattle ranch, cooking hash on a campfire, smells like nuclear fallout, the time for mourning the cows—over and done—we milked the last one before slicing her throat yesterday, moo-town blues, harmonica melted in the blast, no lips anyway, half the world gone, the other half going, better for the cow, no slow slow death by rad poisoning, snow and rotten apples on the trees, up to my knees in shit

stock market plunge
the rising cost
of a cheese sandwich

Richard Grahn

What even is a poem
if not a word sculpture
of carved absences
you assemble yourself
a commentary
on the loss of white space
a hand-hewn quiet
made visible
a sight for sore ears
a hush that keeps
months in the root cellar
a hush

year’s end
starting a new glow
of honey jars

Peter Newton

The architect makes use of all three miracles at his disposal. To calculate the span the side-rule of a kingfisher’s flight. To draw the curve the compass of a swan’s wing feather. To gauge the height the spirit-level of a heron poised for the catch,

flintstone bridge
a channel between
one moment and the next

Diana Webb

(for world ballet day)

i know it sounds silly, sissy even, but there’s nothing like an arabesque  and a touch of sequin to lift the mood.

grey morning
sparkle of rain
on headlit tarmac

You mean the pirouettes, fouettes, the thrill of watching such brilliant techniques?

the turn
of turning leaves
aswirl in the wind

And the stories, fairytales like those of Tchaikovsky , romantic oeuvres like Giselle, both chilling and sad.

low cloud
so many layers
a more beneath

Diana Webb

It’s my fiftieth birthday and I plan to make a will. There are so many things to be sorted. For one who shall benefit the most when I die? It’s a scary thought and I am in doubt yet again. Do my kids love me for my money? Will they remember me if I don’t leave them enough? My dog comes and snuggles next to me. He knows I am worried and I feel a sense of relief feeling his warm body.
I finally make a decision to leave everything to my dog.

spider’s web
the way it believes
in karma

Mona Bedi

From where I’m sitting three roads meet.

            Towards the sea

             a wave

             Towards a hill

              reaches its peak

             Towards the ancient town with its view of the landmark spire

             ghost of a sunken church

Diana Webb

My favorite entry in the old encyclopedias,
its inclusion meant they must exist:

Ann Boleyn and her head pacing the tower,
the vanishing hitchhiker at the roadside.

My grandmother, in a white nightgown,
white haired, rearranging clouds.

Headlight-glare in bubbled window glass, fragrant
explosions of lilacs bursting around us in the dark.

Those wild geese that flew low over your head
as your dear friend passed away on the other coast.

A Civil War soldier who paced a friend’s room
when he was three (though he was a liar).

Resonant piano notes that bring back
his hands on my body, those long nights.

In a desert ghost town, late: coyote’s howl,
then later still, low notes of an owl, a summons.

Voices within the churn of the waves,
like a radio’s murmur I only hear at night.

In the rented farmhouse, moans of winter wind
from the open barn door’s black throat.

the dire fate
of the monarch
butterflies

Kristen Lindquist