Early in the morning
the ancient sons appear
stretching toward the day-star
caressing the cerulean welkin of hope.
flourish, charm the winds
with miniature pink,
amid the rubble neglected
in the old trailer park.
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.
Pink Bachelor Button
Classic blushing flowerets
swaying abreast each wing
a ritornello of bees
to sing amidst your petals.
Wildflower poems and photos by Laura Stone
Some summer days it would be right there, hanging in air like the call of the
unseen cicada, and for a moment, nothing else existed but that aroma.
It reaches back to a song—less concerned with harmony, than with rhythm. It
leads us deeper into the wood.
And for a moment, we believe there is also a path for us, out from our own
cracked surfaces, where we can explode upward—dancing as we dissolve in the air.
By Duke Trott
Duke Trott’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in American Athenaeum, Artful Comics, Better Than Starbucks, The Hawai’i Review, and Occulum. He is currently a graduate candidate in Emerson College’s creative writing MFA program.
Petrichor is a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather. (Oxford English Dictionary)
When we emerge from the woods
Into the open sun-soaked field
Both sides of the path
Are lined with dense thickets
We lift our granddaughter
Out of the stroller
And the three of us get to work
Seeking out the blackest, softest
Knobbly little packages
Of sweetness and inner light
And popping them into our mouths.
Oh, is it not a wondrous world?
On these outings
The little girl’s attention span
Determines our schedule and itinerary
So we wait for her to decide
When to move on
And continue picking and eating
For several more minutes
Until she figures
She’s been pricked and poked enough
And it’s time to go.
As we are leaving
She picks a few more berries
This time green ones
That she can hold in her hand
As we walk.
She is a collector
Of all manner of outdoor treasure –
Seeds, leaves, wildflowers
Feathers, acorns, rocks –
And a handful of small hard unripe blackberries
Is quite a prize.
May it always be so.
By Buff Whitman-Bradley
Buff Whitman-Bradley’s poetry has been published in many print and online journals including Atlanta Review, Bryant Literary Review, Concho River Review, Crannog, december, Hawai’i Review, Pinyon, Rockhurst Review, Solstice, Third Wednesday, Watershed Review, and others. He has written several books of poems, including When Compasses Grow Old, To Get Our Bearings in this Wheeling World, and Cancer Cantata. He was the producer of the Courage to Resist Audio Project and co-producer of two documentary films, Outside In and Por Que Venimos. He lives in northern California with his wife Cynthia.
Photo of girl picking berries by maximkabb.
The dawn wakes to memories
of barefoot summers on cool green grass.
Swirling patterns in the coffee,
premonitions of days to come.
Visions rising from the fragrant steam,
filling the room with warm contentment.
Outside my window, the soft amber light of morning
filtered through trees imparts a dreamy
feeling, bestowing the day with hope.
A soft breeze stirs over the gardens as the
wildflowers raise their smiling faces to be kissed
by pollinators busy making morning rounds.
Shadows grow short as the day grows long.
I am drawn back to my coffee as I contemplate
peaceful moments, deep seated with the wish
of eternal summer.
By Ann Christine Tabaka
Ann 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 window by Vadim Georgiev
The moon is shining above
Its view is clear, the
night is blazing.
Something like a dream, lifting
us toward the stars.
We walk like ghosts between
sizzling lights in the sky.
Years of drought had
not yet come,
and turned these mountains
Streams would wash
along the slopes,
Every blinking star becomes
a diamond on the water.
Quietly we stood on shore,
the dark pool of sky
of ravaged earth
from when the rainfalls quit.
Distant memories, fogged
then changed, emerging
into fairy tales.
The moon is shining above
Its view is clear, but
the earth has aged.
Summers cradled to our breasts
will burn like coal to emptiness.
By Mitchel Montagna
Mitchel Montagna is a corporate communications writer for a large professional services firm. He has also worked as a radio news reporter and a special education teacher. He is married and lives in New Jersey.
Photo of Catskill Mountains as seen from Slide Mountain by aoldman