Poetry 2 Fall 2015

 

AFTER  THE  BURNING  OF  THE  CANE  FIELDS

  by John Grey

 

Late at night,

a blackened land

crackles with cooling.

 

I hear it from my bedroom,

watch scattered red glow

fade into embers.

 

Grey smoke drifts inland

as the air slowly

clears its throat.

 

An ocean breeze

mixes sugar and salt

in the nostrils.

 

Tomorrow,

a new season begins.

Tonight,

the old is cremated.

 

In the kitchen,

my father wipes a grubby, sweaty face

with the back of his hand

while his third beer

soothes the glowing coals

of his throat.

 

Outside,

scorched snakes litter the earth.

Stars persevere,

finally make something of the night sky.

 

I fall asleep eventually.

The soil never does.

 

Bio: John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and Louisiana Literature.

 

 
 
 
Digging Potatoes
 
       by Terri Hadley Ward
 
His knees scooped trenches in the soft brown earth
and he smiled at the sunlight caught
in the last summer leaves flying through the field.
"I love getting dirty," he proclaimed.
"This feels like where I belong."
Metal pitchfork teeth chomped mouthfuls
of soil he sifted like a prospector through his hands,
casting for treasure buried last spring.
In the trees that lined the river,
a woodpecker laughed at our work,
at the dirt ground deep 
into the knees of our jeans,
at the thunk of potatoes dropped 
into a red plastic bucket.
Perhaps his shiny black eye saw us fools,
laughing at the wind with our backs bent,
sweat pouring and breath heaving,
each turn of dirt offering the promise
of hope or disappointment.
From the circling blue, crows chanted their magic,
ancient shamans calling down wild blessings
on mother and child, as we buried our hands 
and our souls in the heart of Gaia,
 where everything is healed,
and the gold sunlight caught in the trees
seemed to hold us like a prayer,
echoing in the autumn wind,
this is where we belong.
 
 
Bio: Terri Hadley Ward is a writer and artist who gains creative inspiration from being in nature. Her poems have appeared in The Greensilk JournalThe MOON magazine, When Women Waken, and The Magnolia Review, with additional work forthcoming in When Women Waken. In addition to writing poetry, she nourishes her soul through yoga, meditation, and painting. She recently finished her first chapbook, Songs of the Wild She, and is currently at work on her first full-length book of poetry.
 
 
 
 
Between The Dimensions of Cheetah and Sloth
  
        by Kim Hazelwood
 

Change,

Change of heart,

Your mind.

Your hairstyle,

Subscriptions, predictions, descriptions-

Loose change, pocket change

The tinkling of coins in the big, beautiful bowl of your collective soul  kind of change.

 

Sometimes change happens so fast

Time itself is not really time

But is in fact a strange, new ride at The World’s  Faire  in some country

Few have ever heard of.

Sometimes change moves so slow that a turtle takes time out to levitate on a lily pad,

From the stalled slow motion collision of regrettable words.

 

Ah, but the Grace of Dreams

With songs of heartbeats  and hope slides in like pouring honey,

The apricot sunset you craved all your life to see

 A developing photograph

A pretty polaroid,  grand as love.

 

Between the dimensions of cheetah and sloth.

Masterpieces take time.

 

Sometimes change knocks on your door and asks for a small donation.

Sometimes the really nice guy in the busy line at the drive thru decides to

Buy dinner for the car behind him,

Sometimes change  comes when the Good Humor man or woman

Sells only organic ice cream now,

 

Or maybe a world devoid of battlefields,

Ringing in the raw reverie of real regards,

For the true hunger of humanity.

 

The Time’s they are a…re-arranging

All kinds of waiting periods.

Kids today don’t have to wait till Saturday morning for cartoons,

Instantaneous everything.

What in the world is the Dewey Decimal system ?

For they have in their palms, all the noggin food they could ever need.

 

The waiting is over,

Except for ourselves.

 

Change is  in  THE CLEAN AIR ACT OF 1970.

Breathe!

Change is marriage equality.

Isn’t this a no-brainer?

Change is waking up to the many uses of Mary Jane

Well, duh!

I Dream of

Big, blue bamboo farms,

Acres and acres of sustainability,

Oh, don’t get me started

On the slithering slaughter of Rainforests!

I could go and on,

Sean, Dawn, John, Mon!

 

 

Love that   Masterful   change   from brown/ gray to green.

Then later, from gold/red to white.

Oh, and then from white to green,

Oh, encore!

Waltz with me again!

 

 

Meanwhile,

During all the constancy of change

The Universe and I continue to go steady,

Where nothing’s going to dismantle or downsize,

Outgrow or outnumber

The inner workings

Of this great, big ole  waterwheel   heart.

 

Bio: Kim Hazelwood is the editor of this litzine, and the author of CoyoteBat! She continues to work on her first book of poetry..This poem was read at 100 Thousand Poets For Change, a worldwide event held locally in WInchester, Va. She is a member of The Shenandoah Poetry Alliance, and is honored to share the stage with so many extremely  talented poets.