by B.J. Buckley

“Be as a ringing glass until, ringing, you shatter.” – Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus

Wind scatters fat snowflakes over the barley stubble,

late crop of stars.

by Maria Giura

I.

Beneath the tabernacle

in St. James Church,

a marble Last Supper.

Shocked faces,

flailing arms,

by Julie L. Moore

~ Nehemiah 6: 10-1

You know what you need to do:

Listen to the man.

I admire your dedication, but Shemaiah’s

not the only one who’s prophesied

by Alfonso Sito Sasieta

I look up to my grandfather

plainly clad in black pants

black shirt & white collar

looking trustworthy, in large part

due to the eyes he was wearing

by Alfonso Sito Sasieta

after Eddie Palmieri

My hermeneutics are consistently poor

& whether I am reading the Word

or dowsing my head below

a faucet of Palmieri, I always

forget the point is to rinse away

by Susan Delaney Spear

I’ve never met the man inside the coffin,

never shook his hand or clinked a glass

across a table. Yet here I am, bending

into ritual…

by Victoria Crawford

Clouds encircle our mountain, Doi Suthep,

where sunset streamers glow the sky

like spokes around

by Jeremy Szuder

When calm becomes the way in

by stepping away from bounded bodies,

when each pin pricked sound becomes

by Jeremy Szuder

There is a great hunt

happening.

by Fabrice Poussin

There was no desire to walk the realm

safe inside the warm prison of the dream.

by Ed Meek

The chinook was a lullaby

Sung by the trees—

The lithe sequoias swaying overhead.

by Fiona Vigo Marshall

How can I tell the blue mystique of orchids,

The way they breathe, their luminous-numinous

Cut out from living sky, pulsating blue light.

by Ed Meek

Some say “he passed”

as if he just went by

a minute ago.

by Diana Raab

I’ve pondered lately.

Will my mother cry or clap at my passing?

Will she ride her horse into the chapel

by Jacqueline Wallen

It starts as a stock dysfunction myth

A diseased hero looking for a royal cure

by Fiona Vigo Marshall

We came down the steps, Jacob’s ladder,

From cliff-top to harbour,

Full of chatter and human turmoil:

by Fabrice Poussin

The sight may recall a photograph turned to gold

when they used to hold hands into safety

dancing a slalom to the other world

by Kate Maxwell

We found a yellow paged

‘Famous Five’ edition

behind the boxes of missing

pieces puzzles,

by L. Ward Abel

When 

the last frost comes to rest 

on survivors, and powder-yellow 

branches wait for the rattles 

by Jeff Burt

It’s a body of water without name, a short run,

not a wide creek or small river though about the size,

not a pond or a lake because the water

migrates from one elevation slowly downhill then disappears,