CLS Sandoval

Sunrise

 

Every sunrise of my life seemed the same until the morning of August 18, 2016. My mom and I flew into Madison, Wisconsin the night before. Then my daughter’s birth mother invited us to the hospital to meet her. I paced in the waiting room for the hour or so that the C-section took. Then I met my daughter. Holding her for the first time, I looked out of the hospital to see the sun in the clear blue sky, the result of a perfect sunrise.

The Oxbow by Thomas Cole

 

Long before I had an iPhone, I tried to capture images on my disposable generic versions of Kodaks.  In the 11th grade, I thought I was really on to something in photography class.  Whether I developed the film myself or waited the one hour for the pharmacy to develop the roll, I was disappointed.  The edges were too sharp or too soft.  There was a person in the photo that I hadn’t noticed at the time.  The tree had some debris stuck in it.  Cole’s Oxbow is the painted version of the photos I took in my mind.  Sun illuminates the valley and open sky on the right as rain clouds crowd the left.  A river runs through the valley and there’s a tree in the fore, cracked and leaning, revealing that even in this perfect capture, not everything is pristine.

Vaccines

When you are a first-time mom, you don’t realize how much time you are going to spend in the doctor’s office with your perfectly healthy infant. Watching doctors and nurses prick that perfect newborn skin can be unsettling to say the least.  I never questioned the value of vaccinating, but I never realized the pain I would feel watching my daughter’s discomfort with them.  Once, a nurse told me that I could leave the room when Evelyn got her vaccines so that I wouldn’t have to witness them. I was horrified at the suggestion, and of course I stayed in the room and held my little baby. She was happy and gurgling and the moment she felt the needle she had a look of betrayal that of course triggered my mommy guilt and tears. But I was going to be there. This was part of the foundation I was laying for her to know that no matter what the world does to her, Mommy will always be here.  Years later, the Covid lockdown stunted our social lives, and though Evelyn still hated them, it was vaccines that were the key to unlock the door to allow us to go out again.

 

Michelle Smith

A key opens a jewelry box

A window of winter chill air

A door of my childhood family home 

A symbol of a broken hearted memory of 

the last conversation with my dad on the telephone.

A key locks my journaled diaries

decades of a lifetime 5 x 6 or 8 x 10

A treasure chest of family photos 

A box of petals, potpourri, and grandma's ring

August birthstone peridot.

A key safely stores my prescription meds

papers, poetry, paintings, and prose

heart shapes, seashells, in a glass square case

A key for my safe and safe deposit box

favorite flowers from my romantic man:

sunflowers and June's birth flower 

the fragrant and fulfilling rose.

Keepsakes are the key, the treasure 

chest of my ruling heart.

"I've never seen a U haul following a hearse."

Keys do not belong to me, once my soul and body from this earth will depart.

Keepsakes remain hopefully to my loved ones 

instead of Goodwill or Facebook Marketplace Mart.

A key 

"Cali Skies"

It bloomed

&

blossomed

from angels wings to petals.

A rose,

A lily,

A sunflower view.

How

bountiful 

&

beautiful 

Are these Cali Skies?

I praise the Lord for the sight 

before my very eyes

I see orange pink cream arms

extended from above 

My loved ones

Are giving me a heavenly hug

"California Dreaming, on such a winters day."

Cali Skies

I am grateful for your 

blossom

&

bloom

always.

gia civerolo

Shape haiku

Between haikus lines

there is your sky. Love poem.

Seventeen bright stars.

decimated sky

LA’s angel wings

Singed black 

Painted for battle

War zone

SONIC BOOM!!!!!!!

Power Surging

Gold halos 

M

E

                     L 

T    I    N       G

Eyes

                                                    Trying not  to    C

                                                                               R Y

Everything with or without 

W I N G S

Must 

F L E E

Flames  not fickle

K A R M A  

Need not apply

CON FLAGARTION

A c r o s s

Mountains                             HIGH

J

U

M   

      P

       I

N

G

Black top

HIGHWAYS

D*E*C*IM*A*T*I*N*G

                                               THE

Blue of the

S

K

Y

for an 

E

T E    R

N

T

Y

Yan Sham-Shackleton

Outside the Sky is Red

Burning embers 

could fly at speed 

equal to the wind. 

Debris and dust 

drifts fast outside.

Neighbor texts me 

a photo from her 

child’s bedroom window.

Three pixelated 

globes of light

slide down the side 

of the canyon.

Smoke glowing 

orange ombré 

into pitch blackness.

Despite the lack of quality

they are no doubt flames. 

Our home drops 

into darkness. 

I show my son our earthquake kit

where the LED lamps and 

spare batteries are. 

“What do we do 

if it comes closer?”

he asks.

 

“I think we’re too far away. 

Don’t play on your 

phone to conserve power.” 

We go to restless sleep. 

Pungent particulate matter 

fill my lungs and 

wakes me as I cough. 

The haze obscures 

the moon 

into a soft crescent. 

The sky is graded red

from the mixture of 

ash and rising sunbeams.

Beautiful yet menacing. 

Compressing my fear 

so not to scare my child. 

I wake him to pack our bags. 

Carrie Farrar

Severance

I think the sky has fallen.

The corpses of stars lie scattered at my feet,

Broken and twisted in their descent.

A sudden, sharp betrayal shattered them.

Replaced by this

Implacable void.

Though fading, I persist, not vanished.

When the last light left me,

I got lost in the dark.

R A Ruadh

Autumn Sky

It’s time to let go

Spring into free fall

Spinning in the air

Risking all

It’s time to cut loose

Shed the old snake skin

Gather back my pack

My real kin

It’s time to hit the road

Travel by moonlight

True partners beside me

No more fight

It’s time to sing songs

In the keys women know

Hunting and loving well

Seeds I sow

It’s time to let go

Spring into free fall

Spinning in the air

Risking all

Lunar Eclipse

For a moment

Time slowed to a forever tempo

Infinity in light and dark

A smokey smudge

In the night heavens

Moon paused behind her veil

Car after car slowed

Halted alongside fields and highways

Heeding an ancient call

Without salutations

We joined in communal homage

To our humility

For a moment

Time slowed to forever tempo

Infinity in light and dark

Shih-Fang Wang

The Artist--Wind

The sky is the canvas 

Where the clouds create

The most amazing painting

By the invisible hand of the wind      

                  

Constantly changing through the day

Magnificent and colorful

On a celestial scale                   

Humans cannot imitate

Other times in a stormy rage

It would layer the canvas 

With thick gloomy color

Causing heaven to wail

In a lazy mood

It would only smear the sky

Lightly here and there

In random abstract strokes

That bewilder spectators’ eyes               

Mark A. Fisher

aftershine

golden sky

above me

free within

moonlit night

stars shining

dark insight

turn the key

to the vault

of heaven

the sky unseen

in the wildness of the spring sky

my dreams are unlocked by the key

yearning to gambol through clouds

while winds whip up vast clouds

of desert dust into the empty blue sky

as I spend another morning tapping keys

building worlds of words where I am the key

yet all the future moments are cloudy

and I’ve cast a horoscope from empty sky

seeking a sky unseen, key to cutting through

        clouds of misunderstanding

 

tanka

early morning sky

poppy orange it’s blooming

day awakening

untouched potentials spout

from this old man’s pile of verse

Jeffry Jensen

NO KEY NO SKY

I could not sleep with the rain hammering

my roof into cosmic submission.

I first thought that there was an instrument of distraction

or maybe more of an instrument of destruction

taking control of the current cellular programming.

The pure pleasure that I take from informative reading

as well as the writing done with a childlike intensity

were tossed into a bin of intellectually poisonous debris.

As a child in cranky Covina, I had a passion for imaginary things.

My inner life flourished behind the garage

and definitely below what God demanded.

I had an uneasy strategy that would take me around the block.

It became all a landscape of exaggeration.

No one was going to out accumulate frustration

when I was around taking aspirations to be no more than baby teeth.

A former coworker hit me up for some quality time in her garden.

There was a prospect that the high-wire act of perfection

would lead me toward her escape hatch of emotional hunger.

I really did not want to ponder the unthinkable on a burrowing afternoon,

but there must be some sort of uplift that comes

with the nurturing of a scrambling suburban imagination.

Bottom line has to be that there will be less bleak Kafkaesque expression

under my breath as I mold a sturdy metaphysical key

in order to unlock a fresh series of aphorisms within a seemingly posthumous sky.

Jackie Chou

The Key

You're a key

with a serrated blade 

to enter

and turn

inside the lock

of a bottomless door

I'll always fall through it

like an amnesiac

my fingers stained

with your rust

Joe Grieco

Note To Self

I wish you hadn’t lost the keys

To the Doors Of Reconciliation

I wish you’d stop beginning every sentence

With the warning “I remember when”

I wish you’d get off your soapbox 

Yelling so much about tyranny and your bellyful of social media

I wish you’d stop writing letters to the editors 

of newspapers no longer published

I wish you’d stop narrating every snapshot in that photo album with:

“That one’s dead. He’s dead. She’s dead. Who’s that? Dead.”

If you don’t shut up

Nobody’s going to want to visit when you’re in The Home

People can’t stand your stupid stories

All reruns, all lies

And quit turning your ear to the sky

To try to hear some faraway herd

Are the horses coming?

Or going?

It’s irrelevant

And irrelevance is a form of betrayal

So just shut the fuck up

Lori Wall-Holloway

From Dark Clouds to Hope

Dark grey clouds blanket the sky

an ominous sign for the coming day

But shafts of light cut through

the bleakness to proclaim

hope can prevail

A Master Artist’s Handiwork

Heaven is declaring God’s glory;

the sky is proclaiming his handiwork. (Psalm 19:1 CEB)

High in the sky, unseen by the naked eye

drifts colorful nebula gas that creates 

patterns beyond what can be imagined

Cosmic blasts of dust swirl 

as the illumination from the sun 

helps to produce a lightshow 

only seen on Earth with the aid 

of a space telescope

Stunning images of star clusters

distant planets and galaxies

show a solar system only

a Master Artist can paint

with a perfection no human

can imitate or envision

Pretend Time

Piano keys produce an effortless tune

with the flip of a switch and the push

of a button by a little one who then

pretends to be an accomplished pianist

playing a familiar song on his toy

Dean Okamura

Hearing wishes of friends when separated by time and tears

 

The crying has long been forgotten, 

waves of tears lost among stones, 

where the earth once sang 

its green melody. 

Now, only the echoes linger, 

whispers of grief without end. 

Doesn't the world still ask us to listen, 

faint echoes woven in the wind? 

Screams claw at the darkened sky, 

splintering the stars. 

A world gone mad hums its dirge, 

a low, throttled sound, 

the throat of history choking 

on its own ashes. 

Yet even in the brokenness, seeds still wait, 

longing for the day to grow their roots. 

What is left in the millions of leaves, 

falling without a sound, 

the long breath of the wind 

that remembers each name 

even as it carries them away. 

The way the light swims softly 

into what remains unspoken. 

When hands meet soil, doesn't the earth sigh, 

grateful to be held again? 

As this land waits, 

patient as the oak, 

its roots holding 

memories of peace. 

If we kneel, 

if we listen, 

as we tend to the earth, 

it may tell us how to begin again. 

The wreck of the USS MAGA

 

(to the tune of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot) 

The wreck of the USS MAGA, they say, 

Was a story of greed and ambition. 

Its captain went down with his lies and his crown, 

While he hammered the crew in submission. 

The captain declared, "It's my ship to steer, 

And no one shall question my power." 

But his bluster grew thin as the cracks let him in, 

As the hull buckled hour by hour. 

The courts were ignored, the truth overboard, 

And the rule of law left in tatters. 

With lies as his sail, he unleashed the gale, 

Tearing through all that once mattered. 

The storm wasn't fate, nor the tides of the lake, 

But his grip on the laws he perverted. 

He dodged every charge, held the courts in his grip, 

While the nation was left deserted.

Financial deceit and abuses complete, 

With his generals leading the pillage. 

The lies he had sown, corruption full-blown, 

Left his brand all over the village. 

Does anyone know where a nation goes 

When its captain becomes the disaster? 

The helm spun around, and the ship ran aground, 

As chaos consumed it faster. 

The ship's crew cried out, "We're trapped in his storm, 

And there's no safe harbor to follow!" 

The waters rose high with no end in the sky, 

While their future grew darker, more hollow. 

Freedom's great ship, now adrift in the tide, 

Fell victim to hubris unyielding. 

Its flags torn and frayed, its promises betrayed, 

Left a wreck that will never stop haunting. 

Somewhere a small poem is planted, does it grow to the sky?

 

          “Do not despise these small beginnings” 

          – An angel of the Lord to Zechariah   

My poetry can be so small-minded, 

where I only speak for myself, 

my perspective, my limited 

ability to visualize a brighter future. 

The reasons are quite many, 

and I stray from the counsel 

of established poets who know 

many ways to fix my poems. 

I write in strange hours of the night, 

when I should get good sleep — 

vital to burst forth in verse at 

the instant I wake-up to create. 

This smallness suits me. 

You are probably not reading 

these words after paying a large sum 

to purchase a poetry collection. 

A minor (small) Bible prophet said, 

"Do not despise these small beginnings." 

At least, I thought similar verses existed. 

Scholars said I use a poor translation. 

I threw small kernels of popcorn 

into the fire. They burned quickly. 

I guess they popped, but the puffed 

white corn did not jump into my mouth. 

"Small acorns grow into giant oaks" 

which is not correct, as the saying is 

"Mighty oaks come from tiny acorns" 

because not all small acorns succeed. 

This sums it up for my small poetry. 

1 Zechariah 4:10 (NLT), "Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin, to see the plumb line in Zerubbabel’s hand."

jf giraffe

WHERE'S THE MUSIC? (Haiku) 

Piano is sad. 

No one ever plays its keys. 

Misses human touch. 

Ellyn Maybe

Harmony (Haiku)

The sky breathes magic

right before the song begins

Kaleidoscopic

Alex S. Johnson

The Key To All Skies

Reaching out within 

the frozen dream

Slaves mount the system 

grinding the sky with the solar key

Riots unblinkered scale destiny

cities on fire with revolt...

Climax 

"I alone hold the key to this savage freakshow"-Arthur Rimbaud

The fingers of acid 

creep down my spine

Don't open your eyes

don't close them either

Take it from me...

There's holes in the ceiling of my

run-down studio 

Apartment in South Pas...

While "Hole in the Sky" by

Black Sabbath

Blares on my ghetto blaster.

I'm a white guy of privilege living in

the worst section of 

a neighborhood with

Million dollar

houses and they want to 

carve a path to a new 

Freeway right through my

residence...

Cosmic Keys and Mysteries 

Within this box 

you will find 

All the

Things...

Trish Saunders

Ode To A Pair Tossed Into A Ditch

(after Jane Kenyon)

Walking through this posh neighborhood

to my beloved hovel

on a poorer street,

I see an empty bottle

upturned in tall grass,

slender neck pointing

to the sky. Two-foot

douglas fir leans over it,

frayed ribbons still tangled 

in its branches. And I

would ask the poet,

Isn’t the possibility of love

always alive

in the grasses of spring

even when the world

abandons us?  And she

would answer,

Yes.

Please, Night Sky 

New moon rises over bombed-out shelters.  

Don’t forget me, my little ones,

the mother rests a ghostly head

on her son’s shoulder, clasps

the daughter’s hand beneath a blanket.

Her twins, just learning to talk, are silent. 

Who will console the mother the moment 

she realizes they are dead, like her?

Please, night sky, be kind to this mother. 

She might think her children only sleep, 

might be dreaming about her. 

Stars wince.

Find Me, Lighthouse

After a long and dark wait, I notice

a glittering bird, white feathered, 

black limbed, incredibly this egret smiles at me.  

He asks if he should bring another limoncello.

Then he turns into a river 

gliding around marble tables 

where café patrons sit

with hands waving in the air.

You were born to a higher

purpose than this, my egret, 

you were born to dance eight to the bar, 

under a sky serenaded with jazz piano 

and saxophone, while over the harbor,

a red-and-white radio tower winks. 

David Fewster

THE NIGHT I MET ALLEN GINSBERG

It was April tenth, 1993, the Crocodile Cafe,

home of the world famous Seattle music scene,

where the Tragically Hip & Conspicuously Pierced

could be observed in their habitat,

clawing tooth and nail to get in to see their favorite bands,

and then stand around and talk loudly amongst themselves

during the actual show to prove that they were

Too Cool to Care,

and, if you were really lucky,

you could stand next to Peter Buck

at the vomit-splattered urinal

while taking a piss.

We had all laughed when, the January before,

Hamish, bar manager and clown prince impresario

of our local Spoken Word movement, had

stood onstage during a Seattle Writers' Guild show

and proclaimed with Old Testament fervor

that Allen Ginsberg would appear at the Crocodile and,

by implication, give his blessing to all our literary endeavors.

(This, of course, was before I discovered that Ginsberg

would show up in Jesse Helms' living room as long as he

had his $5,000 fee guaranteed.)

Anyhow, two-and-a-half months later,

there was Allen Ginsberg performing at ACT

(with Hamish, of course, as the warm-up act),

then back to the Crocodile, 

where a spoken word/music tribute

was held in the showroom. 

To add to the historical significance of the evening,

Roberto Valenza performed sober, which most of us

had never seen before and would never see again,

and can only be attributed to the proximity of his former mentor.

He was so good the kids actually shut up

for almost three minutes to listen to him.

Later, Allen sat in the bar for a couple hours signing books,

which I thought was pretty game for such an old fart.

As I craned to see over the heads and shoulders

for a glimpse of the poet,

I saw that he signed all the books with name, date

and the capital letters 'AH'--

What was this strange acronym?

No one else from the scores of autograph seekers was asking--

How typical of these Gen X slacker sheep,

curious about nothing, not even the potential

Key to All Knowledge, so when my turn finally came,

(my brand new copy of 'Howl' bought for the occasion

clutched in my hand)

I blurted "What DOES AH stand for?"

Looking up, Ginsberg fixed his seer's eyes upon me

for a nanosecond and replied

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

Wow, man, I thought. How cosmic. No wonder

I'm the guy standing in line for an hour and a half

and he's the one signing the friggin' books.

(Photo: Roberto Valenza and the back of Allen Ginsberg's head, 4/10/93,

Seattle Writers' Guild Literary Salon, 74 S. Washington,

right before AG's reading at ACT Theater)

Antoinette Vella Payne

Stardust 

Winter’s darkness falls asunder

Spring brings in the light

Ishtar’s ancient name resides in me

Without ignorance or ego

I am determined to see

Obeying no laws save nature and change

My eyes do not see

The Light

I am not a body

But what am I?

Love and light essentially joined

In spirit housed in flesh

Everything trimmed in light

Glitters away the dark

Shows what’s hidden

Yet always there

Compassion and strength’s subtle shimmer

Radiates in my voice

My stance and stride

Curiosity brings worldly gifts

Melons and grapes

Sweet sizzling summers

Rites of spring

When the wind breaks

Sky opens wide open wide

Where nothing stops

The Light

You and I as co conspirators

Hold this dream

To billow out under our flaming

Fortuitous fraction of time

Detonated at birth we are exploding stars

Easter in November

Celebrating life

A vase of lilies in the window

Ornate like Christmas trees

Lit in white for neighbors to see

Falling in love with life really hard

Reflections in my rings

Given by one who stayed a while

Invited into my chosen home,

My body adorned with his gifts,  

Offers separation placed on an altar

Using no eyes to see

No food no fonts just

Intuition, my best hope

Behind the words.

To know what presence brings

How it unfolds,

 

Poems can take you there.

Thoughts like clouds,

Large or small

Or not at all

Only wide spaciousness

Just under heaven

Close enough to earth

An ah ha moment

In some languages

Sky & heaven are

The same word

Unlimited like us

Jeering Jaws

His baby teeth

Bite my arm

In love he eats me first

Lessons earned through survival

T-rex with claws and jaws razor sharp

Sends archaic shrieks to four corners alerts

Twilight’s end for indigenous giants

In the land of big feet 

Language spurts through gnashing teeth

In rough currents & strong winds

A treacherous burst of night sky opens 

Over mountains 

Where Atlantic & Pacific waters meet in this Cape Horn sky

Dreaded williwaw gusts ring in huge waves

Sudden &d unpredictable

We embrace rooted etymology

Sprung from these savage lands 

And like the female tarantula 

He eats my arm then wipes the

Spit away with a touch of his fang 

Holy Crap uttered in admiration

Falls from his mouth 

A gentle inconsistency

A divine provocation 

One by one

Chewing fireflies captured in a jar

Burnt embers fill his belly

Lighting the path least taken 

Lynn White

Sky Dive

Stand back.

Now you’ve found the key

and unlocked the door

I’m going to jump

you don’t have to push me.

Here I go,

I’m going to jump

into the sky, 

the door is open now

and I’m going to jump!

You don’t have to push me,

Did I miss my slot?

I think you turned the key

so that the door locked

when I wanted to jump.

The Sky At Night

She thought the night sky was like a puzzle

where you had to join the dots

to find the key 

to unlock 

the glittering cairns

marking the paths 

to the moon,

to Venus,

to the sun

and beyond.

She thought that maybe

a cairn would come apart

and a piece fall to earth.

Perhaps she could catch it there,

hold it in her hands

let it warm them

let it shine 

through

then she turned the key

and let it go back into the sky.

Light Dawns

Once the darkness was everywhere,

but now it has had its time.

It thought it could last forever.

It thought it could cover its traces,

but it was wrong.

We found the key

to open up the sky

and let light shine.

Now its time is ending,

the key is turned and

the sun pierces the sky

revealing, 

not everything,

but some things.

Enough.

Mike Turner

Starlings

Flock of starlings

Glorious sight!

Poems in motion

Art in flight

Flock of starlings

Paint the sky

Upon your wings

Our hearts soar high

Church Key (Haiku Suite)

In this day and age

My “church key” can opener

No longer has use

Save as reminder

Of hot dogs on the midway

Washed down with cold Coke

Yet, one could do worse

Than be that which reminds me

Of those summer nights

Thus I keep the “key”

Which has its use after all:

Reopening youth

You and I

Some things last forever

The stars up in the sky

The playful sound of laughter

A joyful baby’s cry

There is a sense of wonder

Throughout the world to know

Let’s find it both together

And then we’ll know it’s so

Take me by the hand, girl

Look me in the eye

It’s here we’ll make our stand, girl

Together you and I

Lorelei Kay

Inexplicable Trish

I wanted to be like Trish.

Trish had it all together.

Trish never lost things.

I was always losing my keys. 

“It’s easy to keep track of your

keys,” Trish explained.

“Just do what I do. When

I get home, I hang them 

on the hook by the door.”

Why can’t I be like Trish?

Her house was immaculate.

“It’s not that hard to keep 

a spotless home,” Trish said.

“Just do this like I do:  Put 

everything away as soon as 

you’re through using it.’

Why can’t I be like Trish? 

Trish’s marriage was perfect— 

her husband faithful and true,

with her at church each Sunday.

Why can’t my marriage be like Trish’s?

Even after her husband’s heart attack,

Trish showed great personal strength. 

Everyone admired Trish.

I wanted to be like Trish

—up until the day Trish pulled her car

to the side of the 405 freeway

and stepped inexplicably into traffic.

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Ballad of the Wind

I listen

to the ballad 

of the wind.

The wind clings 

to everything,

from a toy car

to an open book.

Crops grow

and lands change.

The wind sings on.

In the sky

a speck of dirt flies.

The still statue

takes a break.

Shirts sway on clotheslines.

I sense the ballad

and I sense the wind.

A human cannot sing

like a gust of wind.

A human cannot see

the wind singing on the moon.

To an astronaut 

this is untrue.

Who says all humans are astronauts?

I listen to the ballad

of the wind. I am amazed

how far it travels.

This is true.

This could be measured.

It could be an ordinary Monday.

The sweet ballad will linger.

I heard it a hundred thousand 

times in my life.

I live a life of impermanence.

This is the human existence.

The wind and the ballad 

will go on with integrity.

On rooftops,

on the moon,

the soul of the wind

will sing on while 

a speck of dust flies.

Imprisoned 

You hide in a jail

of your own making,

searching for words 

within the shackles 

tattooed on your wrists,

emblazoned on your

mind, and tied firmly 

around your tongue.

The keys are buried 

somewhere under a

red hill, in a cold grave,

in the mouth of a

songbird perched 

atop a wire fence.

It’s the blood in your

veins, which keeps flowing 

in search of those words,

intent on breaking free

from the make-believe 

prison in your mind.

Walk Out

And I walk out

because the

sun has yet to

climb free of

the mountain 

to the sky,

clinging to its 

golden sheets,

crisp and warm, 

scented with 

volcanic glow.

I walk without 

looking up.

I go at a 

steady pace

while the sun 

takes a peak.

I look up 

and then down.

The breathtaking 

mountain has grown 

a golden crown.

The top of it 

is golden brown.

I feel the first

bite of sunlight. 

I keep walking

where the trees

and its leaf 

filled branches

shade me 

from the sun.

The walk home 

is warm, somewhat 

comforting, unlike 

an eagle’s claw

I imagine, 

digging and

not letting go.

Matt McGee

STUCK

On the evening of 9/11,

Erich was behind a cash register in a retail store

while a nearby TV played the footage 

over

        & over 

& over.

Two years later, spending well-invested income,

he walked into a bodega near Times Square

and found 9/11 t-shirts, key fobs, posters 

hats and collectable glassware.

The guy saw him looking and asked:

"Where were you that day?"

Erich stared down the single security camera,

recognized the chance to turn and get out,

but right there in his face stood a row 

of China’s finest WTC commemorative shot glasses.

And suddenly a Derek Jeter replica Louisville slugger

found his hands like every model ever used 

to settle ballgames and barfights;

it wiped the shelves so perfectly clean

Erich had to pause and admire its power.

Then the rainbow of glass and plastic resumed,

the bat doing its job perfectly, until he dropped it

where one of New York’s finest

would bag it as People’s Exhibit A.

He knew better than this,

but having money does strange things

to a person’s sense of right and wrong,

especially those who know that

the key to identifying real revolution

is not in its glorious battlefield victories

but many small, sincere rejections.

Joan McNerney

Sewing curtains

All weekend long,

how quickly my needle

skips over hems.

We won’t have to look

at bricks anymore.

I bought a patch of

heavenly blue sky to hang

from the kitchen window.

A few yards of green

fluffy cotton in the bedroom

waving like soft meadows.

Green meadows will

keep city lights

from our eyes.

Sewing curtains all

weekend long.

Now we will have

found our own place

hidden from the world.

 

Skyward

Another hot day at the playground 

filled with shrieks from children 

tumbling down slides. Shouting boys 

hop on/off a whirling carousel 

as girls sing songs to jump rope. 

Waiting for my chance on the swing. 

Finally one is free as I clutch 

metallic link chains pumping myself 

up pushing pass trees feeling cool 

breezes brush over me. 

All the noise far below as I rush 

towards blue skies my feet are

walking on clouds now.

Marieta Maglas

The Rainbow

In the violet blue sky, nature's

symphony; the light gets absorbed;

photodissociation or

photosynthetic photolysis.

Makes the Earth's oxygen and

the green of the leaves;

staying in the light to see

the Nepalese poppies

trembling in the wind~ still red.

Frozen leftovers can break through

the hot crust of the orange sun~

staying in the light to see 

the wheat field

shaking its weary yellow.

The dying stars become light

in the absorbing darkness;

astral jazz blues chord progression;

people dressed in 

indigo banana leaves;

absorbing love;

love means not victuals to be left over.

The Eye

A cosmic dimension liberated her from

the confines of epistemic reasoning.

Raindrops flowed down

her oval window,

sounding like ancient 

lachrymose songs;

a feeling of regression.

The window became 

a cosmic eye that

shimmered in the bluish hue 

of the nascent stars

that began to dissipate 

from their gist;

miscarriage; reminiscence;

heavy-heartedness.

She knelt in front of 

omnipresent God;

old, woeful words 

have been released

from her tongue of love.

Their significance 

have become obscured in

the rhythm of the rain;

a sense of mourning, despair,

and indecision.

The blue of the stars seemed

to merge with

this deepening sorrow, evoking

a sensation of blindness; 

fading away;

Celtic knots and stony eyes

The Numbers

I am convinced that

the depth of words 

is shaped by numbers.

For instance, 

the hieroglyph ‘4’ signifies

‘to breathe out of mouth’ 

and ‘44’ indicates

‘nice to meet you’.

Although the chance of 

our meeting is

still merely a potentiality,

I can devote time meditating.

I might not understand 

these mysteries.

Similar to the Pictish language,

they elude my comprehension,

yet I do acknowledge that

the journey of understanding 

is cyclical,

akin to a tondo or a circular loop.

It will invariably contain 

imperfections.

The moon plays a crucial role in

influencing our feelings.

It moves in a way 

that is misaligned 

with the sun,

continuously shifting from 

what is present to

what is about to happen.

While time is simply 

a cognitive construct,

the moon's path is 

a concrete truth.

It is through 

the mathematical mind that

one perceives 

the progression of time.

Love keeps you intertwined 

in my dreams,

and I long for your presence.

Time is not constant;

it varies with our viewpoint.

While numerous experiences 

happen concurrently,

our failure to perceive them 

is attributable to

the absence of harmony.

Harmony is the key to 

any relationship

and can result in an encounter.

This is why I am starting to 

fine-tune the numbers.

Robert Fleming

nearly late

for 9 am

braked.

 

two birds

in the wind

 

falling

on morning leaves

 

took my eye

away from the light

 

and my need

for change

Mary Mayer Shapiro

SOCIAL LIFE 

One continuous  

Party 

Never ending 

Day or night 

Constellation of 

The sky 

Tells a story 

Floating clouds 

Of different stratus 

Predicts fair weather 

Rain, storms 

Streaks of lightning 

Some hitting  

Ground, people, buildings 

Thunder 

Loud, noise  

Warning 

Let's you know storm 

Advancing 

Sun is motionless 

Guardian of the sky 

Moon circle round 

Spying 

Like a drone 

Lighting the sky 

Partial, full 

All serving  

A purpose 

Reason known 

Unknown 

Just one  

Continuous

Party

WINDCHIMES 

Hanging  

From ceiling 

Of the porch 

Full of 

Lost keys 

Once they 

Had a home 

Lock and unlock 

Doors 

Provided protection 

And safety 

To homes they 

Secured 

People moved 

Locks are 

Changed 

Now 

As a metal  

Of Honor 

There they 

Hang 

As a remembrance 

Of a well thanked 

Service 

ENTRANCE 

Spirit rises 

Transition from  

Three dimensions  

First say goodbye 

To those that 

Are living 

Float around  

Looking for direction 

No maps 

Many paths 

Hit an invisible 

Wall 

Search for a 

Door 

Opened without 

A key 

Climbed steps 

Of clear glass 

Reached the top 

Man standing 

Next to the Pearly Gate 

Enter, said 

St. Peter 

We were waiting 

For you 

Carl Stilwell AKA CaLokie

OLD McDONALD HAD A CORP FARM

Old MacDonald had a corp farm

EE I EE I O

And on his corp farm he had some cows

EE I EE I O

With a moo-moo belch here

And a moo-moo fart there

Here a moo-moo belch

There a moo-moo fart

Everywhere moo-moo methane emissions

sent to Father Sky 

EE I EE I O

Old MacDonald had a corp farm

EE I EE I O

And on his corp farm he had some hens

EE I EE I O

With a cluck-cluck in cages too cramped

to spread wings here

And a cluck-cluck in cages too cramped

to spread wings there

Here a cramped cage cluck-cluck

There a cramped cage cluck-cluck

Everywhere cramped cages cluck-clucks

EE I EE I O

Old MacDonald had a corp farm

EE I EE I O

And on his corp farm he had some pigs

EE I EE I O

With pregnant oink-oinks kept in metal pens 

too compact to turn around here 

And pregnant oink-oinks kept in metal pens 

too compact to turn around there 

A pregnant oink-oink kept in a compact pen here

And a pregnant oink-oink kept in a compact pen there

Here a pregnant oink-oink kept in a compact pen

There a pregnant oink-oink kept in a compact pen

Everywhere pregnant oink-oinks kept in compact pens

EE I EE I O 

Old MacDonald had a corp farm

EE I EE I O

And on this corp farm he maximized 

his bottomline 

EE I EE I O

With a maximized bottomline here

And a maximized bottomline there

Here a maximized bottomline 

There a maximized bottomline

Everywhere a maximized bottomline

EE I EE I O

Old MacDonald had a corp farm

EE I EE I O

And on his corp farm they used 

petrochemical pesticides 

EE I EE I O

With a silent spring here

And a silent spring there

Here a silent spring 

There a silent spring

Everywhere a silent spring

EE I EE I O 

Jesse Rey Tovar

I'm Found in West LA

off Corinth.

I make Tacos de Fideo

because the sky said

it equals to Aztlan.

One time, I make them.

Decide to act all foodie

and experimental.

Ramen is cut to

Fideo lengths.

Broth is

influenced by spicy

characteristics of 

Sawtelle Ramen spots.

One time, my brother's ex

was being a baby

and made us wait 

a long ass time

to get ramen.

Glad I live close enough

to fiddle with keys to

enter my apartment.

Anyways, because

me aburro

de pollo,

yo come

los Fideo tacos

con un thick

beef patty.

I'm found in West Los

off Corinth.

where the wind

y un possible arsonist

equaled a conflagration.

I went to Super Domestic.

Got a latte.

Dude handed me 

a surgical mask.

Used it for days

until I found free

N-95s

Off the LA Metro 

4 to Santa Monica.

Used it for days

until the smoke

cleared away.

I ride the 4

to Westwood Bl

to rest where

that person I spoke with once

would pass away,

hours later in the sun.

I sit there

to remember this person

right before his ascension

to Aztlan.

Chad Parenteau

E-lone

One hand droning

through Diablo 4,

other puts it on.

A winter glove 

spray painted 

safety orange.

Fattened fist erupts.

“Stop making me 

your puppet!” 

He pushes puffed

fingers against 

gaudy palm,

whispers Stop

hitting yourself

over and over.

The mitt erupts.

“Stop! Making!

Me! Your! Puppet!”

Palm drawn

to mouth, he

lifts his voice.

You didn’t come

here to fight

did you? 

Druid paused,

zipper undone,

strained silence

as he wonders 

when an orange 

stops being one

and starts being

something else,

something that

rhymes with 

Musk? Dusk…

Husk…Tusk…?

Wayne F Burke

Like Coconuts

I am in a zone heading

down the coast through

Miami Beach and

Jackie Gleason's ghost;

blue sky and boats, tall

palm trees--

on my left the ocean

rolls--

this rental car has balls

and so do I:

I blow by a Corvette in the

shadows of

I-95 as

Miami goes on an on...

Homestead at the end

of the line.

Sunset

shadow of the ridge line

hides the scars

of this ugly town;

another day of history down, another

step toward a destiny--

car headlights come out of the

gloom as

the sun stubbornly perches

on the rim of the known--

burning embers behind

trees

starkly outlined--

last yellow flares sent out

through sky

gold all over.

Sunday Evening

Clouds hang, suspended

in a baby blue solution, as

the sun drops

toward the ridge line, 7pm.

A plastic cup skitters, flopping

like a fish out of water, across

the empty parking lot;

clouds putter across the sky;

the cup lies still, 7:05

the sun creeps behind the

shadowed hillside.

Don Kingfisher Campbell

Under the vast wispy sky

(Inspired by a photo taken by Deborah P Kolodji)

I am a wiry brown cliff tree

Approaching the coming winter

My leaves have fallen off of me

Into the grand canyon below

So I point across the divide

With many gnarly twig fingers

To how wide the years are

You may notice me for a minute

But the carved rainbow ridges will

Captivate you all your short life

As they have mine, when I die

I just want to fall in, remain part

Of the millions through eons

Sky whispers

Wake up my eyes, clouds in the air,

Like trees reach out try to touch moisture

Clouds in the welkin dance with love

Like white dragons or flapping doves

Me and the trees can only watch and sway

Want generated winds to carry us away

Clouds stretch and become so wispy

Spirits in the baby blue get so hot and dry

Trees are a feeling audience and so am I

Some clouds finger God because they are

So fleeting, so temporary, so repetitive there

One day they are this, they know they can fly

The next they are not, I too wish and cry

Eat me ground, process me, send me high

Key to the Sky Steps

A woman is rejoicing

head upturned with

arms full of fallen apples

The wind itself

shook the tree

like a skeleton

A nearby dog watches

not as Cerberus

but harkened salivator

The mammals dance

give thanks to the sun

provider of decay

Maker of new seeds,

sprouts, puppies,

babies, cadavers