While I’ll take life in any season, the transition from summer to fall is bumpy for me. This year, the melancholy I often feel during these pre-winter months has been accented by various family crises. Still, as the song goes, How can I keep from singing? Continue reading Autumn 2014 haiku chain by Patricia K.
I don’t know the names—
No very names.
Oh, chapparal. Oh, sage.
Oh, cactus, tumbleweed.
Oh, coiled up shaker of a shaman’s bones.
Oh, crook-limbed walker on the knuckled sands.
Oh, day-lived blossom, thirsting in its death.
Oh, winged portent of the flight of breath.
In a sun
That beats its laundry past the need of clean.
I am the rag-post.
Croak the long story of my ignorance.
Mark Penny has poetry on WIZ and Everyday Mormon Writer and in Sunstone and Dialogue, and fiction on Everyday Mormon Writer and Lowly Seraphim. He was winner of the Wilderness Interface Zone 2012 Spring Poetry Runoff Admin Award, a finalist in the Everyday Mormon Writer Four Centuries of Mormon Stories Contest, and a semi-finalist in the 2014 Mormon Lit Blitz. He hopes the trend will bounce.
Current projects include a poetry collection, a Mormon spec fic collection, a dozen or so novels, a collaboration that will blow your spirit right out of your brain, and a unified theory of narrative.
Photo: Desert Sandwort via Wikimedia Commons courtesy of BLM Nevada, 2013.
The universe is
A winter of stars
Illuminate the world
Full of danger
Fields in length
By 1,500,000 miles
Enough for us
For now, maybe
Before one hits
We live and die
Hearing the stories
Of our ancestors
Similar tribes before
Us and we wander
Days and nights
Find more by Bob Gill here.
Photo of Alpha Capricorni via Wikimedia Commons.
Just a moment
Full of happiness
Just an instant
You may have missed
Compared to drought
Of life pours over you
In a torrent
And may have been
To bubble forth
Bob Gill resides in Berkeley, California.
Photo of the Strokkur Geyser in Iceland by Andreas Tille via Wikimedia Commons.
Phallic shafts shock nocturnal
waters, wave fingers like fireworks,
flags of welcome, of final embrace
to small fish daring to flutter about
these make-shift flowers.
They are their own
entertainment, brilliantly blowing,
blooming in belligerent pantomime
of lighted breath. This crown
ring of kings rejoice in banishment,
openly celebrating their midnight world.
Photo by Nick Hobgood via Wikimedia Commons, 2005.
is a delayed growl standing several
steps behind the starring flash. Backup-
singing, supportive round of applause. Darker
partner waiting in invisible wings. Eruptive
echo marks the distance to point
of contact, countdown after-strike.
Photo by the U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration via Wikimedia Commons, 2005.
The garden sogs under persistent downpour. Green
grows with a sickly gray clinging like shadows,
cloud contamination. In a quiet corner, lone
hibiscus stretches petals toward sky, embraces
drops battering against brilliance. Resilient
as the solar power color emulates, it remains open,
a burst of warming reassurance that the sky cannot fall
after “Age of Abundance,” by Osnat Tzadok
Flares of imaginary fire burn across forest’s crown.
Light and leaves come alive, collectively breathe
in mirrored mist, rising like smoke from absent flame.
My eyes begin to water in belief. This is the image
of sulfured Hell. I pray for the salvation of sun-
A.J. Huffman has published seven solo chapbooks and one joint chapbook through various small presses. Her eighth solo chapbook, Drippings from a Painted Mind, won the 2013 Two Wolves Chapbook Contest. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and her poetry, fiction, and haiku have appeared in hundreds of national and international journals, including Labletter, The James Dickey Review, Bone Orchard, EgoPHobia, Kritya, and Offerta Speciale, in which her work appeared in both English and Italian translation. She is also the founding editor of Kind of a Hurricane Press.
Photo by Albert Herring via Wikimedia Commons: “89 Mesa Fire, 5/6/10.” Tzadok’s landscape can be seen here.
hang in clusters on delicate vines. The plants
are caged, potted in the driveway. All summer
they have drowned in rain and hose water until flowers
became hard green cysts that grew, ripened and split
wide open. I salvage what I can into folded shirt-basket
though I know no one will eat them. Most have fallen
onto rocks below, dots of bloody pulp punctuate stone.
Photo by Nate Dworsky.
Who gives away their weeping
cherry tree, my husband wants to know. Mature,
in bloom. He says it deserves
a fighting chance. He will prepare
the ground, dig the hole by hand,
home burial or new beginning, we won’t
know for months. Once
the blossoms fall to the ground, pink
petals could mean something
other than what they seem,
if we want to search for metaphor.
The baby robin in a box yesterday
was pointless, he says. Cycle of life
stuff. Evolution. Food chain. Hawk
treat. They will give it
a nice size root ball, the orphaners.
It’s not like a breathing thing.
It won’t even know it has been taken
from the ground, not like a flower
in a glass of water, naked stem dangling,
suspended in prisms, shriveling, severed
from nutrient supply. The mother
robin is searching for her baby
that was taken home with the babysitter.
She comes with worms,
chewed and ready to regurgitate
into an open beak that is not there.
Photo by Nate Dworsky.