Going Nuts
by Sarah Gas Gupta
Hazel nuts, cob nuts
44444sweet filberts, hale nuts.
The hazel, tree of enchantment,
ancient symbol of wisdom, magic.
Tree of foresight, of prophecy.
Of water divination.
Your nuts fall in fiery autumn,
secretly buried by sharp-eyed squirrels,
their hidden, winter larder.
Tiny ‘hazel’ dormice search
this tasty, nutty treasure, ready for
their long, winter sleep.
In ancient woodland, along the hedgerows,
foragers search, bright-eyed,
for this nut of Wisdom, Love, Fertility.
Crunchy to mix with salads,
delicious, buttery spread,
on toast, muffins, crumpets.
Just remember, the hungry woodpecker
the wily squirrel
and the ‘hazel’ mouse.
Bio: Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK who has lived and taught in India,
Tanzania and UK. Her work has been published in over 25 countries from Australia to Kazakhstan. She began writing aged 80 years, after an accident resulted in her mobility being seriously limited. She has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Dwarf Star.
On The Atlantic
by M.C. Aster
Off the Outer Banks, the summer sea is
bathtub warm easing oneself into this
blue solution isn’t swimming at all; it’s
the ocean tasting you.
The warmth, the scent of seaweed and salt
is injecting subliminal messages into your
every pore, and a primordial call echoes
from some antique age, like a familiar song
that you dared to forget.
Succumbing to the amniotic fluid’s caresses
you glide past the meaningless eons and
into the planetary brew, wondering if
your hour is now to alchemize into
something unknown, something new.
June Bug Elegy
by M.C. Aster
Metallic armor gleaming in the sun, you’re
more B-52 than insect, engines roaring to
announce you're about to try a landing.
The scarab, your Egyptian kin, rolls marbles of
dung for a living; you’re here to look for any
lost peaches. But the tree’s been picked bare—
you rev for altitude like an old biplane with
a forever wonky motor.
By summer’s end, these wobbly surveys are
over and done; you’re just an emerald corpse
signaling a green SOS to the sky. And in
the flower beds, for years to come, your
shell's green shards will flicker here and
there—like a sprinkle of heavenly glitter.
Bio: M. C. Aster was born in Yugoslavia, a country that no longer exists. Aster's nature, folklore, and humanity-inspired poems appear in many publications: The Gateway Review, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Meat for Tea, Silkworm, Star82 Review, Kakalak Review, and Three Hearts: A Cephalopod Anthology. Aster's forever home is Southern California, where she fosters two endangered Mojave Desert tortoises.
A Punk’s Prank
by Kim Hazelwood
Mid-sixties, I’m thinking,
Our suburban street home,
Unassumingly blue with yellow rose bushes and changeless, sculptured hedges
And the Christmas lights, also blue, still strung in October,
Left awaiting the next hoofing with sleigh bells high on the eaves,
Harbored a kid caught up in the activities of a gang.
Poor Mr. Dutch,
Crotchety neighbor man across the street
With his snarling, red chow dogs
And his perfect everything.
Couldn’t stand it when someone he didn’t know
Parked in front of his house.
So, he stationed his car there frequently,
An obstacle for any shenanigans,
Frowned at the neighborhood kids
Even thinking of stepping onto his pristine lawn.
One of the kids,
Was it David May?
We all seemed to follow his organized orders.
Young May with the kinky, red, helmet head hair.
Sneaking,
Hunching, creeping.
Quick!
Hide so they can’t see us.
Fell in with the footpads
Of carjackers,
But we weren’t stealing.
We were affixing onto-
A big, steely, Bluemist Slate Bonneville.
The accommodating, shiny bumper
Became the new home
For a sticker that read:
Barry Goldwater for President
Wasn’t really used to being so devious,
(although, one time I did lift some cash from my sister’s date’s wallet)
Oh, man!
For the aftermath,
I daresay we couldn’t stay.
But I remember rushing away giggling,
Horse laughing, chortling
With the other neighborhood plotters,
Slipping home with our subterranean, offstage secret.
Over morning
Or overnight
Some length of time
When it felt so different back then,
I remember my parents remarking,
Something political,
Something incredulous.
Bio: Kim Hazelwood is the founder and editor of Green Silk. She is the author of three books, CoyoteBat!,
The Way You Just Shine and Jungle Light (2025). Her poetry has recently been published in Basilisk Tree and Macrame with a story forthcoming in Rundelania . Starting her third year as a contest judge for the Poetry Society of Virginia, she feels greatly honored.
