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Evan Stephens Jan 25
The fog loses purchase
on the window
and, dying, wicks
ashy vapor's slick scatter
to gated green-brown.
Morning comes again
in fractioned crooks
of snow declining
into fat eggs of rain.
The fog is a colossus,
ravels with dragging step,
before retiring itself
above oak branchlets.  
The sun wraps away
in gray, as if stolen.  
Nativity of cloud.
I'm telling you this:
everything is possible.
ED Greene Aug 2019
if  i had a flower for each day of this life
and if I could devour
my wanting and my and my strife
I'd plant a little bed
right inside my head,
where daily flowers grow
calendrical in rows

and at nighttime when I tire
the petals fall like leaves
this daily rose expires
and the ground consumes my grief
Derrek Estrella Apr 2020
All the women in my life
They- I cannot deny-
Have shown me love unknown
To men who vainly roam

Their words of dew and sway
Bring rise to dawn and day
Their hymns and fabrics blown
From their sylvan loam

They bear me in their arms
Where sorrow breeds no harm
And turn my mouth to crow
Of harsh and fleeting home

In time and hastened feet
Approaching skin's defeat
I recollect and row
Through times of sky and foam
Thank you, Sibylle Baier.
Derrek Estrella Apr 2020
See the eyes, through jagged trees
Humbly calling out to thee
And the damp eagle plea
Downy arms falling free

As breath makes no qualms
With the levity of psalm
And the soot between palms
Lies still in fearful calm

Orion’s sprightly pace
Shrouds the cratered face
As pearls fall without trace
Miss the ocean’s embrace

Neon ghosts surround
The orphaned mobile sounds
As empty fertile ground
Now bitter and profound

Within malignance, the smell of stale night
As blue and then amber engulfs the sight
Grey Sep 2019
In the waist high soy fields
We laugh like choking dogs
On the image of the hand that yields
So we worship in restless monologues

In the ice cold bite of the frozen lake
We encounter the spirit of naught
Naught which has given, naught that we will take
And the holler seems farther with every thought

I am a soul sick woman in the body of a child
A child with formlessness untoward
I wish to run as fast as the stallions, bucking wild
But I’m stuck here in the yard

When you push your eyes to the horizon
Do you feel that stirring, longing, yearning
Deep and tender heartless feeling
Leaves the mind inside the body reeling
When you tip your face up to the endless sun
Do you feel that wars inside we only narrowly won
The civil conflict, the trenches, blood in buckets subdued
The maladapted, anachronistic, bad attitude
I am forgiven for all my double-hearted shame
Tell me, if you can, what is my name
Beth Garrett Jul 2019
We could have a kind of farm,
I suggest,
With a little shop attached,
We could make jam and lemon curd,
Maybe chutney or,
Other things in little packaged jars,
I could bake things,
You could sell paintings there too,
We would only grow vegetables,
And fruit,
We would cook things with love,
Labour the earth with love,
Live together in love,
I feel sure that I could work the soil,
I have always felt an uncertain hard need in my bones,
To give something back to Mother Nature,
And I grew up in the country,
So I feel sure I would acclimatise,
But it is only a fantasy,
A sort of a story,
Even though it does sound nice either way.
Blades of deadly green grass
Flowing through the mountain pass
Cut by streams like flowing glass
Icy cold to the touch
Reflecting luminous golden rays
Gifted from heavens above

A modest man tends his cattle
Watching closely with one eye
The other capturing a picture so sublime
A life of duty he would never decline

Tree's sway to the breath of the wind
Testing the strength of their limbs
Birds dance , singing hyms's
Flowers stretch their petals high
Towards the light so bright

All the while a man tends his cattle
In a mountain pass
Full of beautiful green grass.
Locus amoenus is Latin for "beautiful place" I hoped to capture a scene of a beautiful place in a pastoral way. I hope you all enjoy.
M Ward Jun 2018
The air was crisp and faintly green
The wind was light, the scene serene.
I gazed upon a sprawling field,
As viridescent waves revealed
A lone black cat, soldiering on.
His eyes as verdant as the lawn.

He strode with purpose, without pause.
He writes his tale with the path he draws.
Black dagger, shimmering bright,
Piercing the grass, a shard of night.

Where was he going with such haste?
What delights of life would he taste?
It did not matter to him nor I,
But he knew a freedom that could not die.

I daydream often of that field,
And of the life that it might yield.
To trot assuredly through lush domain,
The burden of choice all that remains.
To feel the wind upon one’s face,
The grass and sun, a warm embrace.

The black cat’s life proffers this wisdom,
The path is forward that leads to freedom.
tïrïngõ Mar 2018
I wonder what the rabbit sees
when she passes through my backyard
garden. Catholic eyes that have canonized
nature’s wild mane
of vulcan brush and misty rain
does she think my sunflowers are just as beautiful?

and the rolling prairies of my
domesticated bend of the turnpike
are they just like the valleys she has
foraged through, beside the
shivering streams and
creepycrawling things, I
wonder if my nature is enough for her own

is the ant hill in my backyard garden still
sweet as the labor of the mountainspine
makes you sweat, admire the
dappled blueberries and
dark deer droppings
side by side, I once ate the deer’s own by accident and
I couldn’t tell the difference

but she is still just a rabbit and
has only seen the grocer’s slivered aisle of the world, she
hasn’t heard the wolf cry to the
violette moon
(god’s own thumbnail, mama used to say), or
smelled the dogwood in April
heard the mourning-song of the morning humpback while
the plowman’s humble dinner stays
salted by his moiled earthsoiled toilsweat
cried in the summershine of noontime Arizona rising and
laughed into the Amazon’s hair
stood tall on the moors, stood tall and faced the
edge of the world
kicked up the fertile dust of the African enterprise or
powdered her frosted nose alongside crystalline Mongols, no
she is just a rabbit, and I want to tell her all the secrets
Gaea has yet to murmur, low
but she is just a rabbit, and she sees my backyard garden
this wide world
and that is enough, for her own
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