Hedge Rose

I went into the midsummer night
to print its dense simplicity
on my skin, an alleluia
from head to foot.
My voice deserted me,
the words dressed in silence.

Soon the night will close
over the moon-hour
and the little hedge rose
that will perish in the snow
with complete gravity
will bloom again.

By Meg Freer

Wild pink rose


Meg Freer grew up in Missoula, Montana, US, and now lives with her family in Kingston, Ontario, Canada, where she teaches piano and enjoys running and photography. She began writing poetry in 2015. Her photos and poems have won awards both in North America and overseas and have been published in chapbooks and in both print and online anthologies. In 2017 she won a fellowship and attended the Summer Literary Seminars in Tbilisi, Republic of Georgia. Journal entries and photos from Tbilisi may be found here.

Photo of wild rose in Yorkshire by Charlie Milsom

Song of the Goldenrod

In my dreams, some afternoons drift randomly
almost without notice
entangled in the filtered dapples of sunlight
flowing on a wooded path
subdued – even more than usual

Today is remarkable
twilight came early.

Faint nocturnal music
like the glisten of amethyst crystals,
is familiar. Welcome.

I step onto the first rung
of a weather-worn silvery-gray ladder
poised in the middle
of the woodland path.
With a heave of my body
I begin the upward climb into the cloudy mist
The earth disappears below me.
No end in sight. The ladder sways in wide arcs,
unattached to anything above me
I breathe deeply with the realization of imminent peril
Obscure. At the apex of
a septuagenarian decade –
my eyes grow dim in the mist.

Soft nocturnal music,
like the glisten of amethyst crystals,
is familiar. Welcome.

My memory is sharp
Oh! The fear of plunging.

I remember yesterday’s bright sunlight
Offered clear focus like a citrine stone
A contrast to murky prophecies
I hear in the changing ocean tides.
The lively sonata of midday skies
responds to the muted notes of night stars
time is temporal. Unmeasurable.
Our last summer dance is coming to a conclusion
I can feel the music as I twirl about amid the changing
landscape of late-blooming Goldenrod.
Saffron yellow blossoms spring from
Leaf-covered woody stems.
These wild perennials are higher than my head.
I reach out – touch
edges of long, slender leaves
velvety textures, delicate-scented buds.

I watch for the Solar Eclipse to begin at noon
over the meadow and along the churning streams.
Tiny slivers of golden sunshine shimmer over the fields of Goldenrod
in my small shard of Appalachian foothills.
An inner cry urges me –
“Dance again.”
“Dance again!”

By Lynda Lambert Sept. 17, 2017

field of blooming goldenrod


Lynda Lambert Author PhotoLynda McKinney Lambert lives in the rural Village of Wurtemburg in western Pennsylvania. She writes poetry and creative non-fiction essays. She retired from teaching as professor of fine arts and humanities at Geneva College, Beaver Falls, Pennsylvannia, USA. Lambert’s first book, Concerti: Psalms for the Pilgrimage was published by Kota Press. Her work appears in Spirit Fire Review; Indiana Voice Journal; Magnets & Ladders; Stylist; Breath & Shadow; Wordgathering; The Avocet; Proverse Hong Kong; Behind our Eyes: A Second Look – Anthology; and other literary journals and anthologies. She is also an actively exhibiting fiber artist. Major themes in her creative works are Nature; Mythology; Art and History.

Lynda McKinney lost most of her sight in 2007 due to Ischemic Optic Neuropathy. She creates her art work and writing projects via the use of technologies for the blind.

Visit her Blog: www.lyndalambert.com
View her Author’s Page: www.dldbooks.com/lyndalambert
Contact her: riverwoman@zoominternet.net

Our truest life is when we are in our dreams – awake.” Henry David Thoreau

Photo by Jason Ross of field of blooming goldenrod at Colored Sands Forest Preserve in northern Illinois

Jacaranda Tree

Lavender blossoms
filled with sweet suckle
that gleam sickly among window panes
and car windshields.

Your honey an obsessive poison for the bees.
Petals falling along
with the hot summer winds.
Branches drooping and descending
along with each sunset.

With the lavish sunset comes
the illumination of another chance to be reborn
between the branches.

By this time, something so beautiful
has gone unnoticed.
Now I can only take my share in
until you decide to grace us with your glowing beauty
and another chance to be ignored
next year.

By Connie Lee

blooming jacaranda tree in the park, Sydney, Australia


Lee-Connie_Author-PhotoJacaranda trees have been a part of my life since I was a baby. They bloom along with the kittens and birds of summer and die as the dark nights start coming sooner. I live an area that used to be totally desert land so while there is still dead grass and brown sand everywhere, this big tree has stayed alive for more than 50 years and continues to show that even in the toughest times and weather, it will grow.

Photo of Jacaranda Tree in a garden in Australia by Filip Fuxa

Lavender and the Light at Dusk

Closing In

The day gains speed. A bucketful of late afternoon
upends and spreads itself across the lawn. Things loom.
A ray surges through the darkest cloud
just to crash into my fence. It shatters, sends shards
of light in parachutes to seek refuge on lavender
already heavy with bees and white butterflies.
 

Skyfall

The sun can only hang on so long
by its fingertips. Like a kitten plunging
into a well, the sun goes down clawing
and clamoring, panicked. Gram by gram,
lux-by-lost-lux, it manages one small wonder
during the free fall: Clouds of lavender
rise in its stead. Like the cat who comes back
for another life.
 

Enough

The lavender is now sucked free and done
with its purpling anyway. Free falling with a swarm
of mosquitos, doing double shots of ankle blood, the sun
is drunk before dinner. Again. White butterflies are
bedded down, sleeping off the nectar orgy. Bumblebees
are grounded due to radar problems. Frogs rise to come
to chorus, croak opinions both loud and unkind
about all the characters in the garden. Lavender blushes,
grows heavier, groans and bears it.
 

Back Inside

The full moon shines through my screen door,
puts a patina on the bundle of lavender at work in the kitchen.
On the stone table with the plastic checkered cloth,
salted butter (beautifully formed but much too soft)
waits patiently for oven-hot bread due at midnight, prepares
to conjoin with the yeasty aroma that spews
from a steaming crust. Bite by bite, increments of scent
fill the house, explain ecstasy to the body. Who will drive
the stars and their babysitters home?

By Jacalyn Carley

painting using lavender

Original art by the author. She uses lavender at harvest season as a tool for painting. This is a larger work, with India ink and oil pastels.


Jacalyn Carley lives in Berlin. Her artistic background spans several decades as a choreographer, author of four books, and much teaching along the way. Her poetry can be found on Painters and Poets.com, Rat’s Ass Review.net, Ekphrastic.net and Silver Birch Press. She is On-site Director for Sarah Lawrence College’s study abroad program: Summer Arts in Berlin. Read more about her and her work at jacalyn-carley.com.

Wildflower Poetry

Prairie Fleabane

Early in the morning
the ancient sons appear
whiskers gray
stretching toward the day-star
caressing the cerulean welkin of hope.

Prairie Fleabane daisies
 

Wild Peavine

flourish, charm the winds
paint promise
with miniature pink,
amid the rubble neglected
in the old trailer park.

Pink Peavine blossoms
 

Sulphur Cinquefoil

Oh for the agony of titles,
I believe you deserve so significantly greater
I would call you ~ 5 Hearts of Golden Delight,
only beloved hopeless romantics
are appeased as weeds.

heart-shaped yellow cinquefoil flowers
 

Pink Bachelor Button

Classic blushing flowerets
swaying abreast each wing
nectar invites
a symphony
a ritornello of bees
to sing amidst your petals.

purple flower with bee attending

Wildflower poems and photos by Laura Stone