by Kim Hazelwood
Waiting for You
Just You and Me.
Circles on our hands
Walking on ancient sands
Of the God and Goddess ….beach.
I’ve always loved summer
But never so much as this.
A wedding, reuniting our lost, old souls,
With life finally fitting our love like gloves,
Songs for the myriad of senses, lit up and dancing,
A thousand candles with heart flames, smoking!
The quadrophonic katydids,
The lingering locusts of August,
The humming percussion
In a sizzling hush,
In the operatic chorus of noisy characters.
Reaching the reedy climax
And then exhaling into infinity
Vibrating tiny castenets.
In early June, the everywhere blooms
Breath taking, heart breaking colors
Vining their way to the soul of all seasons.
You walk outside to an oven,
And abandon ideas about baking cornbread,
Another ovation of the
In the early
Evenings of the dream of July
With a sleepy sizzle I found little lamplight flitters
Bouncing in the darkest shadows of my backyard,
A Distant stereo softens jazz and I see
Starlight in my cool, blue night scarf
Found among the forgotten flowers
Cornering a continent of soul searching.
A reverence unseen before seeps
Deep within the Nectar of Night.
Sweet frogs serenade your solitude
Telling you all you need to know about
The lullaby of leisure.
With a sweetness you couldn’t possibly imagine
A host, a whole party of tender thoughts,
Coming your way.
Bio: Kim Hazelwood is the editor of this litzine. Recent publications include: Peace is Bliss from When Women Awaken, War issue.She and her husband have snuggled up in the Shenandoah Mountains, with their daughter and two cats and one dog.
The Flower Garden
by James G Piatt
Summer was heralded in by golden trumpet vines harmonizing with a metallic violin solo played by a cricket dressed in a black tuxedo. A flurry of colorful flowers dancing a ballet in the apricot tinted hours of the morning covered the garden. The underbody of the earth still moist from spring’s hoary breath, felt the balmy winds caressing its loamy skin as it exposed its face to the warmth of the summer day.
Garish birds fluttering in the breeze, warbling melodious tunes descended upon the Sycamore trees, landing on twisted limbs reaching for sky. A lone toad scrambled from beneath a rock, glanced furtively at the morning brightness then headed back to its dark safety under a stone bordering the pond.
The orange glow of the morning’s sun faded into the past leaving me with only the bright silent hour. I suddenly became mindful of the beauty of the garden; red, yellow, white, and pink roses resting snuggly in soft soil emitted beautiful scents into the atmosphere with outrageous abandon. Blue and pink Irises sent out welcoming signs of summer to the wandering bees, and aromatic herbs wafted omens of spiced repasts.
When I entered the garden bed, my steps vanished into the soft warm earth, and, I felt the temperate breeze carving new memories into my mind: The soft buzzing of the laborious drones echoed in my ears and I realized its meaning, for I am not immune to the significance of labor.
In a place that exists deep in my soul I know my years of labor are becoming thin, however, I will continue to enjoy the pleasures of working in my garden until there is no breath left in my being.
Bio: James, a retired professor and octogenerian, is a pushcart and best of web nominee, and his poems were chosen for The 100 Best Poems of 2015 & 2014 Anthologies. He has published 3 collections of poetry, “The Silent Pond” (2012), “Ancient Rhythms,” (2014), and “LIGHT,” (2016), 3 novels, 35 short stories, and over 895 poems. He earned his BS and MA from California State Polytechnic University, and his doctorate from BYU. His books are available on Amazon, and Barnes and Noble.
by Jack Harvey
nymph of the Arctic Sea;
under the ice she swam,
half scales, half woman,
under the Bering Strait;
her hair was green.
The gulls looked yellow,
flying over the sea;
yellow in the dark sky.
no waves are under the
tiny sea-girl framed
in the foggy grip
of the Arctic:
her coral mouth,
her naked arm
white as pearl.
queen of the Arctic Sea,
two teats like opening flowers,
a waist of scales;
lie still as shells,
like a bird gliding,
from depth to depth
from cliff to cliff,
in the endless night.
queen of the northern sea:
your hair was green,
red your soundless lips;
you carried me
to the bitter end;
at the bottom
of the dark sea,
half demon, half woman,
to your cold heart.
Bio: Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, Mind In Motion, Slow Dancer, The Antioch Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition, The University of Texas Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, The Piedmont Journal of Poetry and a number of other on-line and in print poetry magazines over the years, many of which are probably kaput by now, given the high mortality rate of poetry magazines. The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, N.Y. He was born and worked in upstate New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired. He once owned a cat that could whistle "Sweet Adeline," use a knife and fork and killed a postman.