After breakfast the moon hangs
almost near enough to touch.
I do not resist. Cutting across the lawn
I walk west past the row
of apple trees, climb the log fence,
crush soggy leaves deeper
into the pasture grass, duck under
the next fence. From here on
I choose my way carefully through sagebrush,
scuff my shoes against yellow rocks
until the edge of the [...]
There are whispers in the
Cedar—
out here, cold cuts breath
like bone;
birds crack twilight
effortless as manna.
In the morning I will
break camp with fog—
wander listless valleys
lucid as a salmon in rain.
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Bradley McIlwain is a Canadian-based writer and poet who lives and works in rural Ontario. His poems have been published in national and international print and online magazines. He [...]
Spring came Early – Winter stayed Late.
The Pumpkin Cat Savaged its Fate.
Now I See with the Robin’s Eye –
Now I Sing with the Robin’s Cry.
His Burial was in the Air.
His Body warm – I could not Bear –
Below the Soil to crush his Rest.
His Feathers breathe in last year’s Nest.
2 April 2008, Orem, Utah
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This is [...]
Because it is May, and the sun
Yawns over the mountain –
The birds turn into accountants –
Grass dews under the Day
Because it is Thine, and the trees
Grow next to the hedges –
The way connects to the edges
Of sky – And life is mine
Because it is Spring, and the air
Dawns out of the canyon –
The east reviews [...]
Mysterious March morning storm –
Not lonesome – desiccate, but warm.
A male duck lying in the leaves –
Not living – emerald, one grieves.
A branch serves as a sextant stave –
Piled stones on leaves appoint a grave –
Prompt hyacinths on higher hill
Could contemplate the silenced bill –
Nearby his counterpart – awake –
Who waits – not wallows [...]
You, but not you.
The earth braces itself against
my first spade full—ground softened by
my salt—unearthing roots like fingers
spread to sky, claiming a blessing
or, at least, an answer.
You are earth. You. But not
you—we never buried you, and
I never saw your face in death.
I’m alive, yet not alive.
I walk through shadowed valleys and
I find the Tree—not fruited, but [...]
There’s nothing like an apple
Not a thing
In summer, fall, millenium or spring
The crisp, collapsing clutter in the mouth
Wet sugar squirting east, west, north and south
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To read Mark’s other Spring Poetry Runoff Competition entries, go here and here.
*Competition entry*
I miss that time of year I know as Spring:
The rain-chaffed ions on the air, the air
Breathed by the shrew and hawk, the wheat and tare,
Stirred by the green-leafed lyre and the wing.
I miss the swift, infant quaking of the grass
In the first stumbling steps of cloud-licked wind,
The boastful lowing of the herd-lord sun,
The warbling [...]
Down to the boneyard went the child to play
Rake-a-long snake-a-long
Laughing all the day
Laughing in the ashes
Leaping on the stones
Hiding in the graveholes, building with the bones
Down to the stickyard came the sun to play
Break-a-long ache-a-long
Shining all the day
Shining on the ashes
Shouting on the stones
Peeking in the graveholes, waking up the bones
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Mark Penny lives in a [...]
Black branches sag
beneath fresh snow as white
as blown cherry blossoms.
Sun-bright ice drips
from stiff tree limbs
like flowing sap.
Bluebottle sky strings out
cloud ribbons as clean
as line-dried sheets.
Brisk breezes scatter
powder like petals
over laughing children.
Winter mimics spring today.
Willingly,
I play along.
(Previously published in the Davis County Clipper on March 25, 2010, and the Utah State Poetry Society 2010 issue of [...]