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.

My Everyday World

Diligently
I fill each feeder
every morning before work
I no sooner turn my back
and, just as diligently
those pesky squirrels
are doing acrobatics on the feeders

They hang upside down
swinging from their back paws
and dumping the seed to the ground
for their partners in crime
awaiting below
to enjoy the ill-gotten booty

They cannot be dissuaded
from the tempting morsels
of sunflower seeds
They are too clever for me

I put up barriers
and I pound on windows
but all they do is look
back at me as if saying
Nah-nah-nah Nah-nah
it is the same every day

By Ann Christine Tabaka

grey squirrel eating food for birds from the feeder


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 by Photo17

Autumn is Drumming

Oak and hickory trees surround a clapboard house
and a mahogany porch capped by a pine rail.

Acorns beat and tap in late summer,
percussion plays day and night.
They whack, crack, cascade down the roof,
sail in the air, thwack the deck, clink on slate,
ricochet off clapboards,
land with a whump in moss.

It’s raining nuts.
Snare, bass and timpani
strike out a beat in 3 and 9 time.
They pummel the house, yard and driveway
making a feast for crows, squirrels and moles.

Not long ago, this rain song meant bounty.
People would gather and eat acorns,
now we step on them, crunch them
and resent their knocking on the roof

Season tapers, song fades.
Oak trees beat one last roll
to send the red throated hummers south,
trees go silent when they leave.

By Ingrid Bruck

oak tree by clapboard house


Ingrid Bruck writes nature inspired poetry and grows wildflowers. She’s a retired library director living in the Amish country of Pennsylvania that inhabits her writing. Her favorite forms are haiku, haibun, senryu, rengay and short poems. Some published work appears in Mataroyshka Poetry, Unbroken Journal, Halcyon Days, Quatrain.Fish, Under the Basho, The Song Is and Leaves of Ink. Visit her poetry website: ingridbruck.com. Photo by the author.

Home

The butcher bird pours
liquid ripple of song
into the blue sky.

The rosella dips his red head
at the stone bird-bath
and drinks in alert delight.

We sit on the verandah.
Your eyes smile.
I reach for your hand.

By Neil Creighton

eastern rosella is perched in a tree


Neil Creighton is an Australian poet whose work as a teacher of English and Drama brought him into close contact with thousands of young lives, most happy and triumphant but too many tragically filled with neglect. It also made him intensely aware of how opportunity is so unequally proportioned and his work reflects strong interest in social justice. Recent publications include Poetry Quarterly, Poeming Pigeon, Silver Birch Press, Rat’s Ass Review, Praxis Mag Online, Ekphrastic Review, Social Justice Poetry and Verse-Virtual. He blogs at windofflowers.blogspot.com.au

Photo of Eastern Rosella by Susan Flashman

Autumn Equinox

I love how nature speaks to me
with an orchestra of crickets
playing in the moonlight
an army of ants
preparing for the harvest
a lovely reminder
that the Autumn season is near

By Rebeca Perez

woman watching nature amid fallen leaves


Rebeca Perez author photoRebeca is a mother, wife, and poet. She loves being out in nature. In love with all things art-related, obsessed with birds and flowers. She loves to collaborate with other creatives and poets.

Visit Rebeca’s website: blendmylove.com

Photo by Ivan Mikhaylov