The rocks were caught by child’s eye, and changed with the sunset into horns and antennae, goring and grinding, and going off. Bumped into the night. ________________________________________________________________________ You can find more of A. J. Huffman’s work here, here and here.
Flamingos frolic in the surfless still of the sea side morning’s pastoral. Limbs and feathers paint a fantastical fan, this stretching before the sun. The water dopples, dolloped with pink reflections. A mirror ed magic, reflexive of another dimension. Alien in pastel tones of aggressive softness, they adamantly defend their rights to this dance. _____________________________________________________________________ [...]
The lavender sky turns. Soundless. Its silvered breath falls, sliding slowly over veined silk. The tiny bud ruptures. Bending backwards (in time) it beads the ground with miniscule reflections, iridescent images bursting the same ideal: a perfect mirror of every dawn’s bloom. ____________________________________________________________________________________________ A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. [...]
“Darwin’s book was rather heavy, but by close application, the young student thought he learned what the scientist was ‘driving at.’”—Nephi Anderson, Dorian Elder Joseph F. Smith, Jr. knows the Ford Model T as thoroughly as he knows his scriptures, and he knows those better than any man in the Church. So, with the automobile [...]
Divorced from their meanings, some words have lovely sound. Poo, with its soft plosive puh, the same oo as in moon, a word poets are fond of. Chlamydia could be a beautiful vine with violet petals unfurling around the kitchen bay window. Balaclava might refer to the delicate, pale collar bones [...]
_________________________________________________ Dayna Patterson is Poetry Editor at Psaltery & Lyre. For more, and information about where else to find her work, go here. Photo by JRLibby, 2012 via Wikimedia Commons.
As I walk on a warm evening, an invisible strand of spider silk lands across my neck. Another snags my elbow. I brush at them, but they are tricky to unhook. Where is the spider who set this clever snare? I’m not near a tree or pole or any structure for that matter. This spider [...]
Innocence splintered when I watched the tree branch fall. Sleeping in tight corners, the wind, the rain, the mourning trees all spoke my name as they cried out. But in those sounds—the creaking, the whining and pounding, the whistling of the wind between leaves and branches— There was clarity, the possibility of death so that [...]
In the city, glass-skinned buildings like bitmapped mountains pulse with interior stars. Streets flow with headlights like lambent corpuscles navigating a maze of webbed capillaries. My neighborhood crawls with progeny enough to fascinate any ant farm gazer. My house clings to earth like mudded swallow’s nest, bright as bowerbird canopy strewn with colored nothings. My [...]
In Spring the gardener finds out death– What fruit tree limbs did not overwinter. Some stems twig and bud and bloom, Some stems splinter. I lost a limb some seasons back From my own flesh–my firstborn daughter. Time healed the break, but I still lack The apples of her laughter. __________________________________________________ Adam Greenwood lives with [...]