Bipolar

Fearful whispers of imagining
follow us down collusive streets
where people strike us
like stilettos,
eager to collect flesh.
Trophies are dear
to blind wanderers
blown though a hurricane world,
who slink in populated corners,
furred against northern nights,
thonged against southern days
and never cry beware
of fearful imaginings.

Gary Beck

*

Maya, like blue jade

was born from wind, whistling
through deep green grass
and purple moss.
At her heart a flock
of singing birds
or rutting stags with horns
of oak armored in velvet plumage,
reaching out,
tethering earth to sky.
In her, the willow and alder
are in kinship with magical rivers
cloaked in the shadowy
white mist of rich smelling arbors
of ancient flowers where animals
shape-shift through ancestral doorways.
The red bear, the pale froth of the horse
and the slender wolf are in her eyes
speaking of otherworldly lovers
coupling in trysts
of transmigration to the clans
and houses of men.
Be at one with her.
Sip from her brew joining
past, present and future together.
Be swift as a hare
or a greyhound, a fish or otter.
Be wise as an eagle.
Gift yourself a star, a world,
a beach, a book of incantations
that you might joyously take delight
along the path of your way
for above is a crown of hidden oaks
where dark clouds gather
with the bitter knowledge
that comes from the flesh
of the wild plum. Maya emerges,
regaining her footing,
released from the concrete gardens
we put her to sleep in.

Scott Malby

*

Never to Meet Again

We pitch a tent, a skill we figure out together
laugh in moonlight dimmed by our gauze door
fidget from mosquito bites
drink from plastic
grab armfuls of each other.

By morning we leave
woods, stream and flowers
hanging gods, empty birds nests in black tree bones
fill the space behind us
with discarded cups, dregs of wine.

Feet one after another, hearts inside out
we sink in the soil, differently heavy
whistle wide-eyed to avoid words
as if they would make us believe our promises.

Jill Gabriel

*

Sonnet IV: Flowers Have No Soules

What is a flower, Beauty Creator,
And who so blessed to know its scent and art?
(Though soft a space for that which is greater,
Who played artist beyond the gard'ner's part.)
Its veins do run, but without draw or heart,
Where fragrant life would flow in every beat.
Is a rose but by its thorns set apart
When she to me, less spring, breathes just as sweet?
What lily is a soul without complete?
For lilac does not from Winter frost wake,
But faithfully, less faith, does a blooming repeat.
If walls of stone do not a prison make,
I pray Thee share in Thine wisdom's power,
Do then roots, not grace, compose a flower?

Brian D. Hohmeier

*

Isolde's Song

Through our long years of dreaming to be one
we grew toward an enigmatic light
that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun?
We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite
the lack of all sensation - all but one:                                      
we felt the night's deep chill, the air so bright
at dawn we quivered limply, overcome.

To touch was all we knew, and how to bask.
We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt
spring's urgency, midsummer's heat, fall's lash,
wild winter's ice and thaw and fervent melt.
We felt returning light and could not ask
its meaning, or if something was withheld
more glorious. To touch seemed life's great task.

At last the petal of me learned: unfold.
And you were there, surrounding me. We touched.
The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched,
and learned to cling and, finally, to hold.

Michael R. Burch

*