Dog Days

     by Kaily Dorfman

 

They cut the grass too close again. Two snakes on the path,

not touching; we went around instead. The aftermath

of July is always August, the taste smoky, more sticky than sweet.

No woodferns here, and no wild clover. Only my hands and the heat

and these fat old cicadas, a damaged circuit in the brutal oak tree.

The way that dog howled all night. Yes, I liked pretending to be holy:

blue cotton eyes, blue cotton dress, cheap Spanish cabernet,

and I still get tender in the kitchen. No, I don’t want you to stay.

 

Bio: Kaily Dorfman was born and raised in Santa Cruz, California, and completed her MFA in poetry at UC Irvine and her PhD in creative writing and literary arts at the University of Denver. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and the Best New Poets anthology, and is published or forthcoming at journals including New England Review, The Wallace Stevens Journal, Painted Bride Quarterly, The New Criterion, and Summerset Review.

 

 

THE GARDENER

   by Kenneth Pobo

 

It’s too cold to work in the garden today-- 

much still needs to be done. 

Some say that “The garden is such a peaceful place.” 

Peaceful?  A garden is a severe taskmaster,

grumpy, vulnerable but demanding. 

 

To be a gardener means you’re fine

with losing control. 

Too much rain?  Seeds wash out. 

 

Too much heat?  Watch the withering. 

For all that, there’s the moment

when a banana cream shasta daisy

 

returns after a bad winter. 

Or the first rose of the year. 

Or a new marigold as the first leaves fall. 

 

Bio: Kenneth Pobo is the author of thirty-three chapbooks and fifteen full-length collections.  Recent books include Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press), At The Window, Silence (Fernwood Press) and Raylene And Skip (Wolfson Press). His work has appeared in Asheville Poetry Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Amsterdam Quarterly, Nimrod, Mudfish, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere. 

 

Cycle

     by Lynn White

 

I felt such bright energy flowing

I couldn’t wait to move with it

and be transplanted and reborn

at the time when all of nature

was recreating itself and starting afresh,

I too would feel the new buds open

bursting and shooting into a new life.

 

I would open up my blowsy petals 

and let my heart show through

pulsing,

exuberant,

ready

to turn towards the summer sun,

not believing it would destroy

my bloom,

make my petals fade and fall

when the shock of the new wore off

and the fresh green shoots grew brown,

preparing for the season of wrinkles

which always follows.

 

I am only one part of nature’s cycle

where nothing will change,

except that summer will have gone,

winter will surely follow fall

and spring will be a long way away.

 

Bio:Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award.

 https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

River Remembers

        by Barbara Brooks

 

This river remembers what I do not.

It remembers running clear,

abundant with fish.

I see only the tossed garbage,

a sheen of oil, no fish

swimming in the current.

 

This river remembers times of peace,

truth in the world. I hear only gunfire,

lies spoken by those who pretend

to lead.

 

This river remembers running though

pine forests and glens. I see it running past

condos and concrete playgrounds.

 

This river remembers your friendship;

I do not.