Pablo Contemplates the Paradox of the Harvest Moon
by Jason Ryberg
Hey you.
Yes, you.
Tell me how it is
that the moon
can be both
rose and blue,
this strangely luminescent
night-blooming fruit,
suspended so serenely, there,
in the sweaty, swampy,
nearly-liquid
midnight air,
there, just above
the darkly churning
blue-green
broccoli-stalk
horizon of trees.
And, what with
the ghostly tangerine glow
of streetlamps
and the invisible ocean
of oregano, mimosa and mint,
basil, lemon and hyacinth,
and of course
all these dangerously tart
and ripe tomatoes
lolling about
the scene …
well, the world tonight,
must truly be
a veritable
vegetable garden
of urgent
and earthy
delights.
Bio: Jason Ryberg is the author of twenty-two collections of poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and countless love letters (never sent). He is currently an artist-in-residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community and is an editor and designer at Spartan Books. His work has appeared in As it Ought to Be, Up the Staircase Quarterly, Thimble Literary Magazine, I-70 Review, Main Street Rag, The Arkansas Review and various other journals and anthologies. His latest collection of poems is “Bullet Holes in the Mailbox (Cigarette Burns in the Sheets) (Back of the Class Press, 2024).” He lives somewhere in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, with a rooster named Little Red and a Billy-goat named Giuseppe.
The Lover of Groves
by Ben Nardolilli
Not a lover in the grove with other lovers
Or a lover looking for a lover,
Please don’t confuse me with that crowd
Don’t think I’m lost either, meant to be
Out on the plain by myself,
Fondling wheat instead of groping leaves
Because I want to be here in the shade,
While reaching out to stroke
Trunks and branches until I get splinters
A minor price for this joy, relaxing on roots
And enjoying the silence,
Excuse me as I fondle the dappled light
Ben Nardolilli is a MFA candidate at Long Island University, originally from Virginia. He writes poetry, prose, and the occasional political flotsam and jetsam. In his spare time, he likes to go to a law firm and edit documents related to asbestos litigation. Occasionally they pay him for this. Follow his publishing journey at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.
THE POTTERS OF BURKINA FASO
by Anne Whitehouse
The potters of Burkina Faso
shape their large pots by hand,
pounding the clay against a stone,
shaping it against the soles of their feet.
In the north, the potters
mix shards of potsherds
into their clay to give it temper.
They squat or sit on the ground,
taking refuge in the shade,
with a bowl of water next to them
to combine the slip.
Bio: Anne Whitehouse’s poems, “A Fire in Winter;” “The Raccoon;” “Late Summer, Block Island;” and “Bridge over the Nosterkill” have previously been published in Green Silk Journal. www.annewhitehouse.com
Slick
by DS Maolalai
driving to blessington
this afternoon lunchtime.
through thickening snow
on the ground and the thaw
all around me – wet lumps
on the verge where it's piled
between lanes like potatoes.
the occasional drift
coming slick and straight down
from a branch to the roof
of my vehicle – a furious fist
banging heavy and final:
someone yelling: “wake up”
and “you’re blocking my driveway”.
Bio: DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as "a cosmopolitan poet" and another as "prolific, bordering on incontinent". His work has been nominated thirteen times for BOTN, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and released in three collections; "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016), "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)
Born Today
by Kim Hazelwood
This morning,
In the quiet sky earliness of gold well founded
Bid fair in an affinity of gentle magnificence,
Bestirred by summer sounds in the rolling out of the easy and the tranquil,
Summoning the field workers of life free fostered,
In the shuffles of chirps, near breakfasts of worms,
I heard what sounded like a mewing kitten.
Where goes that little sweet in the thick of a summery sunup?
So secretive among the Green Velvet boxwoods,
Crafty within the Privet hedges bungalow.
Of course, it was really a catbird,
Everyone knew what it was but me, born today.
This little singer, this little bittersweet sounding singer!
Bio: Kim Hazelwood is the founder and poetry editor of The Green Silk Journal, online since 2005. She was honored to be a contest judge for The Poetry Society of Virginia in 2024-25 and recently had poems published in Macrame and Basilisk Tree. Her second book of poetry, Jungle Light is available now. She greatly enjoys playing music with her husband, painting and spending precious time with her granddaughter. Life is good in the Shenandoah Valley.
