Land of Awakening

Whirling memories,
going to winter sleep.
Paved leaves
stroking
the grass still green.

Pity that on the surface
can only be seen
bare,
swinging branches,
chilled and awaiting –
for the rays of life.

Rays –
to the land of awakening:
fields of grain,
smell of meadows
and in the Summer Dream
of memorised faces.

And in the summer?
Awakened by the May sun
old oaks and birches,
– like every day –
will be able to look at themselves
in the Green Pond.

By Eliza Segiet
Translated by Artur Komoter

the author in a meadow of flowers


Eliza Segiet is a Jagiellonian University graduate with a Master’s Degree in Philosophy. She completed postgraduate studies in Cultural Knowledge, Philosophy, Penal Fiscal and Economic Law, and Creative Writing at Jagiellonian University, as well as Film and Television Production in Łódź, Poland. She is the author of six poetry collections including Cloudiness (2016) and Thought Mirages (2017).

Photo supplied by the author.

Song of the Titmouse

Light shined, and the world revolved perfectly. All seemed to be in its rightful place. A breeze drifted by, playfully picking up spray from a brook. It lifted drops off of the brilliant blue surface. The water, swift and clear, carved grooves in its muddy banks. A soothing warmth beamed down from sun, and encouraged an easy repose. Grass responded, growing at its greenest beneath trees that reached out with strong, unwavering boughs. Everything was radiant and alive. On one branch, a titmouse sang; the world seemed brighter for it.

Light gleamed, though shadows darkened. Elms and oaks bent in submission to a howling, restless wind. It swept through, lifting water up in sheets from a nearby river. Careless and confused, the current surged on in chase of a destination ever far and out of sight. In a bordering field, weeds grew in with grass, replacing flowers. Tall trees stood strong, while brambles curled about their trunks. A titmouse sang, the sound clear despite the relentless wind. Nature was heartened, and journeyed on.

Light shone out through a thick haze, tiring in its resistance against the gloom. Wet on wet, a steady downpour beat upon the surface of a stream. Unclear of where it headed, the waters simply moved of habit. Old mudbanks loomed far above what had become a steady trickle. The gale surged on, air thick with frigid water. It was impossible to tell which water was of the creek and which was of the sky. It made no difference anyhow. The icy blasts continued their barrage, leaving grass and weeds flattened as one. All remaining flowers died, too delicate for such a strain. The last and strongest branches cracked on trees with sturdy trunks. With tones of hope and determination, a titmouse spun a tune above the din. From this, creation took great strength, and still endured.

Darkness seeped into the cracks, sensing victory at hand. Air spiraled in a wind of biting cold, with no restraint. Where water had once rushed, snow and ice battered down on an empty channel. Weeds had choked out all the grass. Hollow pillars, once having reached for the sky, stood creaking, simply there. A voice called out; a single, lonely, beautiful note that wavered on the wind. It waned, and began to crack.

The call was gone, and the last of the light let go.

By Sophia Anne Charles

small grey bird perched on branch


Sophia Anne Charles is a talented, emerging writer of nature-oriented poetry and thoughtful, short fiction. Her focus is the intersection of nature, the human spirit and life’s often-lost simple observations. She resides in Gaithersburg, MD, USA.

Photo of Tufted Titmouse by Brian Lasenby

Nature’s Footsteps

I am darkness and light
I encompass all
the raging storm
and the cool summer breeze
are my brother and my sister

The moon is my warrior
he safeguards my honor
nature kissed my forehead with a star
the songs of the forest birds
escort the morning in for me

At my feet lay tranquil pastures
green ferns wave their sentiments
as the evening sun walks by
and we stroll hand-in-hand
into the night

By Ann Christine Tabaka

a meadow at sunset


Tabaka Author PhotoAnn Christine Tabaka was born and lives in Delaware. She is a published poet, an artist, a chemist, and a personal trainer. She loves gardening, cooking, and the ocean. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her poems have been published in numerous national and international poetry journals, reviews, and anthologies. Chris has been selected as the resident Haiku poet for Stanzaic Stylings.

Photo of meadow by loganban

Sunset Rising

In those days we thought
If we watched the sunset
Upside down long enough
It would become a sunrise
Like a frown into a smile
Like when early dusk spills red
Into blue water and spreads
Soft purple across the sky
In long pale brush strokes
From imaginary paint brushes
Heavily laden with anticipation
And quiet hope for a new day.

By CJ Clark

girl on the beach at sunset with her hands raised


CJ Clark is an artist, fiction author and poet. Recent poetry publications include Verse-Virtual poetry journal, I Have a Name (3 poems)- Creative Talents Unleashed and Harbinger Asylum – Needles Clacking.

Photo by Ruslan Merzliakov

Pieces of Tranquility

Piece by piece my kids
Add in soft colors, fresh air,
Sounds of carefree bliss.

Lights in the windows
Touch the field humming for joy
With a horse’s kiss.

Each unique shape fits
Into a scene where dreams and
Realism thrive.

Not just a puzzle
But a reminder to feel
Each moment of life.

cottage puzzle scene


Heather Gelb grew up hiking through the Colorado Rocky Mountains. She feels most fulfilled leaping from hilltop to hilltop, as she writes in her recently published memoir about her spiritual and physical journey from the heart of Africa to the heart of Israel, Hilltop to Hilltop. Her poetry has been published in such diverse works as Poetica Publishing, Stepping Stones, Jellyfish Whispers, Deronda Review, Green Panda Press, and Dead Snakes.

Photo by the author of a recent puzzle project completed by her children.