Late October
By: Steve Van Allen
Cincinnati, Ohio, USA, Earth
global warming?
a beautiful spring day
late October
The Blue Dot
Cloaked from earthling sight, two extraterrestrial fortune hunters gaze down at planet Earth.
“Which bit do you want?”
“I’d take the blue stuff but it’s so full of plastics that I’ll pass. How about you?”
“ I’d take the green-brown stuff but it’s overrun with pillaging apes. I’ll pass too.”
“ Let’s go find another trophy world and leave this one’s sun to evaporate away its atmosphere.”
“O.K., pity though, it looked like such a precious blue gem on the trajector screen!”
ocean highway
too fast and busy
for humpbacks
Oriental Plane
By Diana Webb
Leatherhead, Surrey, UK
It towers above the park this tree . An ancient haven with countless generations of birds to its name. It teems with wildlife down through its roots.
Painters have painted it, poets penned poems on it, children danced and sang round the girth of its trunk.
Now there are plans for this space with a landmark. High rise tower blocks. Multi-story car park. Big hotel. Lots and lots and lots of concrete which will always resound with the multi-wave echo of the crash of a tree.
layered picnic rug
with shade of myriad summers
we shake out the tears
Sooty Smokestacks
By Theresa A. Cancro
Wilmington, Delaware, USA
sooty smokestacks
where dinosaurs
once grazed
Faint Aurora
By Theresa A. Cancro
Wilmington, Delaware, USA
faint aurora . . .
a polar bear clambers
onto the shrinking floe
Crude
Theresa A. Cancro
Wilmington, Delaware, USA
unmixed oil slicks press against dolphin skin
fall leaves…
a plastic bag gapes
wide as Texas
First published in The Other Bunny, June 11, 2018
Broken Bottle
By Theresa A. Cancro
Wilmington, Delaware, USA
broken bottle
at the end of the path
blue-eyed grass
First published in Plum Tree Tavern, 2015
Crack of Dawn
By Theresa A. Cancro
Wilmington, Delaware, USA
crack of dawn —
fireflies escape
the jar
First published in Chrysanthemum #18, 2015
Anthropocene
By Steve Van Allen
Cincinnati, Ohio, USA, Earth
hawaiian honeycreeper
guam flying fox
bachman’s warbler
yellow blossom pearlymussel
scioto mad tom
mariana fruit bat
Gone forever
plastic
pollution
logging
drilling
hate
asphalt
microplastics
cancer
Cannot leave soon enough
butterfly
the only thing moving
this hot afternoon
The Nature of Falling
By Rebecca Drouilhet
Picayune, MS, USA
Sometimes I still dream of those two old oaks on my grandparent’s old farm. Lightning hit one of them first and then years later, the other. They seemed to be potent symbols of my grandparents, who, ending their last days, were also ending the era of noble peasants tending rural farms. In this era of asphalt and progress, multi-lane highways dominate the landscape. Who remembers a barn full of half-wild kittens or bottle-feeding an orphan calf?
new subdivision…
a bulldozer buries
the last of the violets
vanishing wilderness…
beneath the pale moon
a snowy owl takes wing
forgetting who we are…
the cry of wild things
fading into silence
The Last Fable
By Rebecca Drouilhet
Picayune, MS, USA
At midnight the little mouse lights a flickering candle and dips her heavy quill in ink. Outside her small hovel beneath a pallid moon the ocean is slowly dying. Even here, across a chasm too wide to cross, she can faintly hear the din of eight billion people roaring down ten-lane highways. But no one hears the mouse or heeds her warning. Words appear one by one, stark and black on the ivory parchment, only to fall like tears into an infinity where the ghosts of dead forests and dying shore birds flutter briefly and then plummet into the black hole of silence. The little mouse struggles on, writing against the tide, writing of glaciers and of melting ice, of dying animals, of droughts and heat and coming storms, until at last the candle sputters out.
a new dawn
and the earth goes on
without us…
snagged on a dead branch
a plastic bag snapping
Renascence
By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA
No cougars are supposed to roam the Appalachian mountains. They’re supposed to be extinct here, killed off or driven out by logging half a century ago. And yet . . . here and there a single footprint lingers in damp earth, a wisp of hair clings to rusted wire, a blurred snapshot betrays the image of a ghost-cat slipping through shadows.
And once, echoing down the mountainside where I stumbled mile after mile over rain-slicked rocks in gathering dusk—once, a long, unearthly scream to pierce the heart.
I utter a prayer
into the darkness
that enfolds me—
may all the vanished ones return
when at long last we’re gone
The Spinning Wheel
By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA
milkweed blooms
at the meadow’s edge
she waits
for the monarch’s blessing
under a shattered sky
one strand snaps
and the tapestry ravels—
at dusk
a mockingbird sings
the old crone’s song
soft rain falling
through a starless night
she weaves
its many-colored threads
into a shroud for the earth
~Stacking Stones Anthology, summer 2018
Evensong
By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA
butterflies flutter
from the artist’s brush
in memoriam—
a river of monarchs
once flowed across the sky
slow spirals
up the summer sky—
scavengers
cleansing my mind
of its dark residue
I follow a path
of spindrift oak leaves
to a clearing
where no cabin ever stood—
its hidden hearth my home
the day
closes its circle
around me
silver voices
re-enchant the dusk
to keep at bay
the wolfish dreams,
I sleep
with gentle sorrow
cradled in my arms
~red lights 15:2, June, 2019
Out of Season
By Doug Sylver
Seattle, Washington, USA
Not that it wasn’t appreciated
however unexpected
Not that it wasn’t beautiful
however out of place
Not that it wasn’t surprising
however disturbing
A cherry tree
blossoming full
pink fireworks
but in December
not even winter yet
let alone spring
another palindromic day
another palindromic day
12/11/21
Haiku-worthy
cliché as it is
but Basho is walking
uphill
while me down
and he’s taking notes
on his cell phone
noticing the colors
nodding to them
in their sparseness
noticing my noticing
nodding to me
in my sparseness
and this far north
next door to Canada
a stone’s throw from Alaska
tanka-worthy maybe but
I haven’t counted yet
I haven’t even written yet
You say I am keen today and
since the wind is south by southwest
I know a hawk from a haiku
and a handshake from a handsaw
you should see me on the
other days
and in the
other winds
then you’d agree
perchance that
beauty happens even
when unexpected
then you’d agree
perchance that
when everything
and everyone
should be gone
there’s always hope
for disturbing surprises
even then
even then
and especially when
they’re out of season.
The garden in November
By Doug Sylver
Seattle, Washington, USA
Preparing it for sleep
with maple leaves in various stages of decay
a foot thick between soil so cold
and warming burlap bag blankets
with names of coffee companies
from around the world
Cafe Viejo from El Salvador
Cafe Verde from Ecuador
Cafe Nuyorican from Puerto Rico
It was a tough year to be a tomato
cold wet spring
hot dry summer
records falling everywhere
nature falling everywhere
raspberries tinged with wildfire smoke
gardening gloves tinged with wildfire smoke
my eyes tinged with wildfire smoke
But there were others
successes
potatoes hiding underground
happy to be safe down there
and squash of every shape and color
asking, like beaming children,
are you proud of me?
and the soil, the earth itself
so permanent and
so ever-changing
ignoring us
with all our good intentions
and our constant need to fix
everyone and everything
and like us,
these maple leaves
of every shape and color
in various stages of decay
laughing at us
on our way there
laughing with me
on my way there
underneath a warming blanket
preparing myself
as well
for sleep.
This time
By Doug Sylver
Seattle, Washington, USA
This is when the Quileute tribe
calls getting to be the time
of no more berries.
Earlier sooner this time than ever.
It has been prophesied by others
that it will last for a time
times and half a time.
Which time, which times
which half a time is this?
What happens after it has gotten to be the time
and the times of no more berries?
And then, for half a time
when no one can taste the memories
or recall the many times of berries?
As Einstein would say
By Diana Webb
Leatherhead, Surrey, UK
She is walking back from the supermarket, bag weighed down by difficult choices, when in the day’s last rays she sees it.
empty snail shell
caked with soil
the relic
Some go to great pains, she recalls, to stop these small land gastropods from underfoot death, by moving them away from pedestrian paths. This one exited naturally, protective architecture unshattered.
tick in the box
between her fingertips
a miracle
The creature left its home for her to contemplate under the roof of her own small home on the patch they shared in their mutual home planet earth.
silver trace
one gleam of ink at the tip
of the spiral
Beyond the Threshold
By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA
the slow beat
of an egret’s wings
white
against dark oaks—
earth’s annunciation
vultures
cradled on the wind
endlessly rocking
the tall pines sing
both lullaby and dirge
the milk-white flesh
of a giant puffball
broken open
under the moon
an old woman’s grief
with this drop
of russet ink
from the acorn cap
I write nothing—
the oak said it better
a rift in the wing
of a wild goose
flying headlong
through gathering dusk
the fate of the earth
~red lights 16:1, January 2020
Commentary on “Beyond the Threshold” by Tish Davis
Jenny Ward Angyal’s tanka sequence, “Beyond the Threshold” is exquisitely crafted. There is a subtle progression in each of the five tanka:
In the beginning, there is no immediate alarm. There is no frantic reaction to the first two lines which segue into the last three:
the slow beat / of an egret’s wings / white / against dark oaks — / earth’s annunciation.
<>
In the second tanka, there are:
vultures / cradled on the wind
Vultures are birds of prey. They gather in anticipation, patiently waiting for the death of the creatures they are observing.
As the tanka continues the reader is made aware that there is a purpose in the vultures’ movement. They are endlessly rocking
and perhaps that rocking is what piqued the interest as the tall pines sing / both lullaby and dirge. (Quite alarming actually with the implication that young children and babies could be harmed.)
<>
In the third tanka, death and destruction are conveyed via imagery:
the milk-white flesh / of a giant puffball / broken open / under the moon / an old woman’s grief
<>
In the fourth tanka, the color “red” appears for the first time along with the implication that this is the red of blood.
with this drop / of russet ink / from the acorn cap / I write nothing / the oak said it better
<>
In the concluding tanka, the poetess acknowledges the “grit” of survival via a metaphor of a wild goose with “a rift in the wing.”
a rift in the wing / of a wild goose / flying headlong / through gathering dusk / the fate of the earth
<>
Jenny, thank you for posting this! A great read and also a good piece for study.
All the best,
Tish Davis
Limb from Limb
By Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA
morning light
gilding the treetops
as they fall
splinters lodge
in my paperbark heart
the sound
of limbs being broken
as if on a wheel—
bloodless the fallen hollies,
the heart of pine laid bare
the blunt thrust
of a bulldozer,
the shudder
of tissues torn apart—
who cries for the earth me too
a box turtle
crushed by the skidder’s tread
at the edge
of the leftover woods
this barricade of spiders’ silk
plumes of smoke
rise from the clearcut
silvery as ghosts
the sound of wind chimes
before the hurricane
may the words
that tumble from my tongue
be turned to moss—
creep over the wounded land,
bury the cities of men
~Ribbons 15:1, winter 2019