Old Man

Old Man

by Tyna Burford

His cup is empty, its coffee stains

a slight eccentric comfort,

the pattern of its stoneware cracks

familiar as his old and weathered hands.

He rests his head against the diner’s booth,

with elbows splayed upon the nicked and

polished table, mottled skin as thin and

papery as parchment and old lace.

His bones are just a short misstep

away from splintering, his muscles

sag from overwork and overage and

lonely reminiscing.

He dozes, mumbles incoherently, folds

his arms across his one-time steely

chest and hugs his body to himself

with sweet but fading memories of

blossoms on the bent magnolia tree

that brushed her laugh-lined face,

her veined and speckled fingers

combing through her wispy hair.

The old man wakes and sees the sun-

streaked clouds beyond the windowpane.

“More coffee, please, just one more cup.

I have so much to do.”

Scars

by Tyna Burford

We built our village underneath

the sun-struck limbs of apple,

pear, and cherry trees.

Teepees made of gunny sacks

dusted with the sweet-sour scent of

grain made up our warrior homes

and saved us from our enemy,

(those cannon bursts of falling apples

and softened dark red cherries).

We thanked the great high spirits for corn husks and deer meat,

(lettuce leaves and sliced bologna).

With paper tubes for

scouting,

we scaled the gnarled trees

‘til branches thinned,

our scratched and skinny legs

a colorful mosaic of

jagged, shallow scars.

I want to climb a tree again,

gather summer’s scars

reminding me of

honeyed days and perfumed

nights, of whispered

boasts of battles

yet to win in orchards

fragrant with the sweat and

tears of childhood dreams.

Unskilled

by Susan Samuels Drake

Anyone

who has maintained a successful garden

knows

anyone

who says farm workers are unskilled

lies.

Another Harvest

Coachella, California—May, 1968

by Susan Samuels Drake

Another grape harvest,

another strike.

Desert lands inherited from the moon,

ranges draped in several shades

blue

purple

mauve

Yet across the valley

as the sun ripens,

camel-colored.

An occasional palm tree stands impertinent.

Wearisome sage brush and tumbleweed

become a luxury of turquoise-grey laciness.

The ocotillo,

sparsely clad,

a lookout for tiny birds

scanning skies for breakfast.

Still, rock lovers could lose their fascination—

too much of too little.

Then the eye catches the deep green vineyards.

Grape growers have wrought a miracle

with waters stolen from the north

to convert desert into verdant fertility.

Morning Oasis

by Susan Samuels Drake

High above La Paz’ purring creek

in macho splendor

rise mammoth tors

their jaggedness

stitched with rusty lichen.

Each morning that he’s at La Paz

César escapes his bodyguards—

except the dogs—

climbs the dawn

into nearly vertical hills,

temple of stone.

Each step lifts him

away from demands

lets his heart soar

like the gliding hawks overhead.

Here he sorts matters of the heart

messages from his Maker

drinks courage

generates strength.

Ardennes

by Rick Shephard

Dark forests

Snow covered and bloody

So he lies

As he bleeds into despair

Slit in the throat

By raw metal and thunder

He lies on his side

Pointing, reaching

For his fellow brothers in arms

That they make take away his suffering

Darkness sets in

And the lonely cold

Pacifies the pains.

Our Work

by Gammiejoon

The secret,

The sacred,

The sublime,

The Source. . .

Drink freely,

Oh, drink fully,

Now.

Then may you plant your seeds

And wait and watch the birth,

Tend the sprouts,

Smile on the fields

Of your work, of your self,

Your life, your daily toil

And rain your love upon it all

Forever, rain your love on all.

Little Bird Limerick

by Sabrina Olmos

There was a bird learning to fly,

Wishing to fly so very high,

So he leapt from his nest,

Wind under his chest,

And soared off into the sky.

A Poem

by Britany Spencer

A poem

is between

a sentence

and

a song

A Crowded Bed

by Tyna Burford

I slip into my bed and close my eyes

and lay my hand on him and him with sighs

and on her, too, dear Charlotte, with sister Emily.

I wake and speak a word to Mr. Bradbury,

who weeps as he recites his own sweet poetry.

I sleep again and see the raven, shining black

and will myself to wake and not look back.

I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Poe!

Bob Frost and I can’t sleep right now, you know,

for we have miles and miles and miles to go.

A sleepy river steamboat lightly calls,

the rhythm of its churning paddle falls

on memories of Tom’s and Huck’s retreat,

but Dylan Thomas pokes me, strokes my feet.

Wake up! Come drink with me, my brandy’s sweet.

Oh, Shakespeare, Homer, Dickens, please!

I cannot move with any ease.

I lie unwashed, uncombed, unfed,

How rouse this body from my bed?

You hold me prisoner ‘til I’ve read

Each wondrous word, the prose, the verse,

Your language flows, sweet or terse.

Oh, yes, I now with gracious giants lie

Promiscuous, my ever fickle eye,

for I must have you all before I die.

Yes, I must have you all before I die!

by Howard Schrager

Eagle of light

I seek in the heights;

Toward your beam

Now I reach,

As you stream

From the east.

E’s in the elbow

I bend when I eat;

E’s doubly there

In my knees and my feet;

E’s in my eyes,

E’s in my head,

E’s in my dreams

When I sleep in my bed.

by Howard Schrager

X beginning a word

Is exceedingly rare,

Xylophone and x-ray

To name just a pair.

Next let me explain

For example you see

Excessive excuses to His Excellency.

A very fine place to put this cross

Is at the end of such words

As ax, ox, and fox.

The True Santa

by Anonymous

Santa got lost in a snow-storm Christmas-eve.

All the little children went to find him,

Looking for Rudolph, with his nose so bright.

And down a path of hoof prints appeared a little light,

And from out of a blue sky, there were Santa’s reindeer

Eating pumpkin pie; and jolly old Santa and Rudolph,

Drinking corn rye.

So now you know the story of why Santa is so jolly,