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

Moonlight

The moon played peek-a-boo
Through the bare trees
While the owl’s mournful song
Carried far on a breeze

Dappled moonlight danced
On my window sill
Stars twinkled in and out
With their magical thrill

I was cozy and warm
As I lay snug in my bed
But I could not sleep
While the night filled my head

By Ann Christine Tabaka

bedroom in moonlight


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 moonlit room by Alexandr Vasilyev

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

Autumn Leaf

Browning—
veins collapse,
fractured colors of spine
turn yellow, brown,
holding dry, vacant spaces
where green once lived.
Tattered dark lungs split,
touching leaves with green,
leaves that beam youth and
blow about majestic in trees
that caress the sun
with mutual consent.
Fading and burnt—
tears tear holes on the surface,
to breathe.
The wind sends its air,
kissing where the sun strikes,
to put out fires.
With wind, there is grace
to fly, to move, to breathe
perchance to joy
as leaf
in decay.

By Caroline Kautsire


Caroline Kautsire is originally from Malawi, Africa, and she graduated from Brown University with an M.A. in English Literature and Language. She is an English instructor in Boston and is currently pursuing her M.F.A. in Creative Writing at Emerson College. Photo by the author.