Keith Nunes

escapee

When I die my singular self will return
on the other side of the lake
and looking back I will see my wife
in the garden talking to the neighbour
about the weather
and I’ll feel like a prisoner
who escaped unnoticed.

Keith Nunes lives beside Lake Rotoma and together they do a great deal of reflecting.

Bronwyn Sharman

The Dig

Moments before I unearth,
from its cluttered pile, the hand trowel
I once placed somewhere inside my garden shed
with some past version of my fingers,
there forgotten by last season’s mind, and yet
(if I can find it) ready,
to assist the soft emergence of spring shoots – that’s when

the thought occurs to me,
this is an excavation
of my former self.

Bronwyn Sharman does not want you to know who she is or where she comes from, because she finds your fictional version of her more revealing.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Traveling

Spirit slips through cracks—
the open mouth of the universe,
the dancing limbs of wood
that bang in the wind,
trying to find a way in.

Cristina M. R. Norcross is the founding editor of Blue Heron Review and the author of 7 poetry collections, who likes to bend metal to her will, as a jewelry designer, and spends time being very quiet underneath a weeping willow tree.

Cristina M. R. Norcross

Carnival Ride

If I tilt my head,
feet swinging on a carnival ride,
I can catch a quick glimpse of the glow
softly resting on my hair,but it is only a swift, quick
recognition of what they see—
this invisible line
from lightbulb to lightbulb—
from evening moon glow
to sun-swallowed cloud light.

Cristina M. R. Norcross is the founding editor of Blue Heron Review and the author of 7 poetry collections, who likes to bend metal to her will, as a jewelry designer, and spends time being very quiet underneath a weeping willow tree.

Howie Good

Writer’s Block

Inside my head,
there is a great silence,

a refrigerated,
cellophane-wrapped

rose.

Howie Good was born like this, he had no choice,
he was born with the gift of a golden voice.

 

Howie Good

Changing of the Guard

I want to shout, “Hey mister!” and throw blood
at the wall and decorate my face with it, and if
there are guards in the room, they will just shrug
and shuffle away, and then the days will erupt
in love of country and the nights in dancing rain.

Howie Good can hear Hank Williams, coughing all night long.

 

J. R. Solonche

Winter Trees

I marvel
at how
they prepare,

at how they
lie down
while standing

as tall
as ever
in the ground,

(at how they
look like they
are standing

as tall as
ever while they
are lying down),

at how they
become seeds
of themselves again.

JR Solonche is author of Beautiful Day (Deerbrook Editions), Won’t Be Long (Deerbrook Editions), Heart’s Content (Five Oaks Press), and coauthor of Peach Girl: Poems for a Chinese Daughter (Grayson Books).