Good Morning From Bear Creek (E. Trinity Alps)

Valley Bottom. Kingfisher
chides me

for being Human

The waterfall bird
schist blue grey flies

right past
my nose

Leopard lily’s wild
orange tresses pulled back,

gaze adoringly into cascades
of high country

white music
the stream stones, labradorite
and turquoise-like
veins of light-
infused vertical striations
of blue luminescence

It is
a good morning.

By Chris Anderl

waterfall light in dark forest

I’m mostly a West Coast mountains and streams wilderness poet (to use the classical Chinese distinction between ‘wild’ and ‘country and garden’ variety Nature poetry.) I’ve done graduate work in Chinese philosophy, religion, and poetry with a focus on ecological dimensions, written a couple books (see, and produce instructional materials in the energy arts of Qigong. The early Daoists and nature writers of China have provided some energetic framework for my contemporary Northern California interpretive syntheses.

Photo of cascading creek by Matthew Tilghman

The Sweet Scent

Vivid memories
Of days long past
Senses do not forget
The sweet smell
Of lilacs in full bloom
Warm spring days
Amethyst jewels sparkle
Atop jade green leaves
Surrounded by vibrancy and joy
My father’s favorite flower
Forever in my heart

By Ann Christine Tabaka

woman near  blossoming  lilac

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 lilac by Galyna Tymonko


People from another planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy
the whole time to have such things about us. —Iris Murdoch

Hello again, sweet morning primrose
at the parking lot, dew drops in rice grass,
I am in love, I am with you, day
flower, deep blue morning
glory, goldenrod, globe mallow, mullein.

From somewhere people in expensive suits
intrude, how they negotiate how far
we can within reason poison each other
for profit, allocating blame elsewhere.

Asters, let me stay focused, fireweed, fuchsia,
goldeneye, small red morning glory, open
chalice of joy, and a tiny yellow flower
whose name I do not know, eight sunray petals,
close to the ground, while I feel tender

Some bloom only a day and don’t worry
about clichés or repetition or how to market
themselves, or for that matter how
they would affect the world economy
and whether anyone notices them or not.

Cosmos, mountain parsley, desert honey
summer concentrate in marigold, orange
yellow peas, wild carrot, bear grass, white stars.

Sometimes it is hard to breathe as I try
to balance your joy with that unyielding
other world of tension, suspicion, and greed,
with war around the corner even as I live
so far undamaged.

Silverleaf nightshade, milkweed, field
mustard, penstemon, Indian paintbrush,
moss on north faced rocks, and fern,
crimson, magenta, dayflower blue, keep me
a while in your wild cradle of joy.

By Beate Sigriddaughter

wildflowers growing along path

Beate Sigriddaughter,, is poet laureate of Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment). She has two poetry collections forthcoming in 2018 and 2019. “Wildflowers” tied for grand prize in the 2017 *Desert Exposure *writing contest and was first published in its October 2017 issue. Photo by the author.

My Lavender Clouds: Purple Asters

For the month of September every year my land is graced with sprays of purple asters. This delicate color comes before the burst of autumnal gold and orange of the sugar maples and poplar trees in our forest. These tiny asters are all over my land, and I have to be extra careful to not weed them out of my flower beds in late spring. They are volunteers. Wild, wistful and so welcome.
Large bush of purple asters

Living in Vermont up high – 1800 feet – offers sweeping views of the Green Mountains and the 35 acre emerald green field in front of our house. There is fog cupping the valleys early mornings and coral clouds at sunset. These vistas are a perfect backdrop to my flower gardens that are dense with flowers in the summer. They grow close and crowded. I like it that way − less to weed and prop up. They do it themselves by twisting and twining together in my flower beds. Most of the flowers I don’t know their names. They’ve been given to me by gardeners that divide up the roots of their flowers and thin out their beds. I do neither, preferring my land to have its way and grow thick and lush.

And those asters. I did not plant them. They are a gift of the wild, along with the tiny white and purple violets and yellow trout lilies dotting my “lawn” in early spring. I say lawn but it is really a bit of grass with a hell of a lot of clover and moss and wild flowers intermingled. I especially like the delicate trout lily with its bobbing yellow dangle – a miniature lily. Another wild flower that is a summer visitor is the tall yellow lupine that I leave in groups and carefully mow around. And the beauties of all wild Vermont flowers, the stately orange day lily that I have many circles of. In another ten years on my property, I won’t have any more grass to mow. The wild flowers will have taken over. I hope so.

For now, I’ve got my lavender clouds of asters everywhere on my land. The nights are frosted and the days crisp with the smell of apples in the air. Many of these apple trees all through Vermont are nearly wild too. Years ago they were planted, some a hundred years or more. Now the deer and raccoon and woodchucks can gorge themselves. Every other year, we all get to have a bumper crop of apples. But every year I get to love my delicate purple asters.

Auhtor PhotoDian Parker is a freelance writer for a number of New England publications, including Art New England, the White River Herald, OpEd News, and many others. She is the gallery director for White River Gallery in Vermont and an oil painter. Parker has written about porcupines, old growth trees, architecture, artists, inventors, and immortality. She lives in the backwoods of Vermont at 1800 feet; snowshoeing and working on a short story collection. Photo by the author of flowers from her garden.

View her work at the links below:
Porcupine Courtship: A Raucous Affair
Stones in Translation
Five Paintings
Back of Beyond
The Art of Falling

Ghost Orchid

Those few weeks of summer
after the sphinx moth strokes you with its tongue,
your slender white petals float from thin stems,
drifting in air, no leaves for a partner,
while your dark roots, barely visible, cling
to cypress, pop ash, or pond apple trees,
never touching ground, never appearing
connected to the earth.

By Robin Wright

White Ghost Orchid flower

Robin Wright lives in Southern Indiana. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming in Muddy River Poetry Review, Indiana Voice Journal, Street Light Press, Eunoia Review, Peacock Journal, Unbroken Journal, (b)OINK zine, Rat’s Ass Review, and others. Two of her poems were published in the University of Southern Indiana’s 50th anniversary anthology, Time Present, Time Past. She has also co-written two novels with Maryanne Burkhard under the name B. W. Wrighthard, Ghost Orchid and A Needle and a Haystack. Available on Amazon.

Ghost Orchid (Dendrophylax lindenii) by Mick Fournier, Pompano Beach, Florida, Wikipedia Creative Commons.