Each Morning that May,
I sipped coffee on the cabin’s
screened porch and observed
a screech owl roosting calmly
in a worn cranny of an ancient oak
until one dawn she wasn’t there,
and in her absence, I knew
I had to leave my husband.
Sara Pirkle can often be found in her favorite coffeeshop in Tuscaloosa, playing board games with other University of Alabama professors. http://sarapirkle.com
Art for Art’s Sake
When Henri Matisse was an old man,
too feeble to handle a paintbrush any
longer or even get himself out of bed,
he rubbed some charcoal on the end
of a pointer stick and drew on the ceiling –
it had just seemed so chillingly empty.
Howie Good likes to stay up late.
The Night My Father Died
the moon of his face shone dirty yellow
but pretty, as it paled into a gray sky.
Erica Kent lives in Portland, Maine with her family and chunky bulldog.
Watching my distance
from the vehicle in front,
a police dog.
John Hawkhead is a writer whose short poems have been published all over the world.
I place Greek
stress in every
word, a tilting
stroke, an act
Many years ago as a child in Indiana with 20/20 vision, Hilary Sideris shot her neighbor with a BB gun.
The stalks shoot up first,
though you have done nothing
to deserve them, restarting
from last year’s leftovers,
fuzzy green lengths, extending
slender arms that end
in plate-sized leaves,
tiny buds clustering like tumors
along each stalk, ones that will grow
and burst into frilly magenta,
taking over the bed by the garage,
growing taller than you,
sending you searching for sticks
to prop them up, stretching
toward an almost-summer sky.
Jan Haag, a writer living in Sacramento, California, admires the art of pithy poems.
My idea of an ideal occupation
would be to watch over you
when the weather gets cold
to make sure
you don’t lose your mittens.
C. T. Holte grew up in Minnesota without color TV; has had gigs as teacher, editor, janitor, etc.; gets poems published occasionally; and got a cool chain saw for Christmas.
At Horseshoe Lake,
a pocket of snowmelt,
you swam in the rain,
and on the other shore
those hikers in their ponchos
leaned on walking sticks
to cold water.
Mike Cole lives and writes and waits on the arrival of poems in the mountains of Central California near Yosemite.