Poetry

By Bill Wilson

Snow up north, 
rain down south,  
while here at home   
layers converge. 
Warm air slides over cold,  
day slips away  
into night as fronts collide  
and mingle in the dark. 

Morning. 
Bejeweled flora   
garbed in rigid gelid glaze, 
paths to feeders frozen smooth, 
sloped terrain a one-way glide. 
A gilded sun tiptoes over the ridge 
revealing a muted crystal sweep. 

Night. 
January’s Wolf Moon, 
canine blood spirits darkness away 
while winter hills wink  
in fragile glints and tinsels. 
Lunar perigee chills hoary souls   
as coyote choir natters 
approval to its celestial cousin. 

By Nathan Smith

Sometimes you just need to stand in the rain, 
let the moonbeams shine on your skin like starlight, 
feel the water drip down the brim of your nose onto your lips, 
breathe in the night air and petrichor, 
taste the rain on your lips 
to remind you 
that you are alive. 
Air is swirling in your lungs, 
blood is pumping through your veins, 
you are alive once again. 
Never forget it, for someday you won’t be. 
Feel the rain on your skin 
like fingertips, far too cold to be living, 
the pitter-patter of the drops hitting the earth. 
Hear its pulse, like a tiny heart beating, 
beating for a life yet to be lived. 
Tomorrow the rain will bring flowers, 
tomorrow the sun will dry the tears, 
but for now it is raining. 
For now, no one can see that you are crying. 
No one knows you are alone in the rain, 
drowning, but not from the water, 
shivering, but not from the cold, 
and falling because sometimes 
the winds aren’t strong enough to blow away the past. 
Sometimes you have to be your own thunderstorm. 
Let the thunder roar from your throat 
let the lightning flash in your heart 
let the rain pour from your eyes 
but never forget how strong you are 
for when the sun finally returns, you will be a rainbow. 

By Janis Trubic

The moon, new, lost, drowned in a night devoured by thunder. 
Frightened, vanishing stars simply give up. 
Now the end is at hand. 
Lightning promises that quick verdict, 
one that is overturned. 
Kindred spirits answer, 
boldly defiant, jubilant, sparkling.  
Fireflies. Lightning bugs. Night angels. 
Impossibly, happily aglow at death's door. 
Alone, bewitched, I witness this miracle, 
knowing that when my time comes, 
I will close my eyes 
and see fireflies 
dancing me to God. 

By Max Jensen

The moon is calling 
On the phone  

It speaks brightly  
Once a month 

It speaks dimly 
During the day 

The moon is calling 
On the phone  
 
It summons its crabs 
But not to eat 

They ask questions: 
How are you? and 
How are you? 

The moon is calling 
On the phone  

Calls you alone  
On couch or shore 

Your shirt is off 
And your chest is bright  
Your shirt back on  
And your heart grows dim 

The moon is calling 
On the phone 

By Max Jensen

This is the kind of thing I like to hang up. 
This kind of thing I never want to hang again. 

Somewhere near Detroit, lakes remain from glaciers. 
Above the negative hills, magic valleys of concrete. 

This little emotion, I feel it there in my breast. 
This new, unsettled man, walking strange and fast. 

The store offers so many ways  
to mark and release and confine. 
I am one of the many goals 
my mind has set for me. 

I'd reduce myself to work and preference 
if they could learn to trim their nails. 

Another passing diamond eating away the apple. 
Life and winter mist arrive like bored customers. 

May the comedian speak this Thursday into a Friday. 
The sandwich that I do not eat will not be me tonight. 

By Kris Indermaur

You bought a mahogany coffin years before your death.  
Did you anticipate the four strokes that would end your life?   
   
You paid for your plot on the grassy hill  
almost a decade before you could no longer 
put names to the faces you saw 
and you couldn’t drink water or eat.   

You bought a white marbled headstone to be placed  
near your baby brother, but not your parents. 
In fact, most of your family is buried nearby except for them.  
I wish I had asked you about that.     

You picked out your favorite black suit to be buried in.  
I had never seen you in it before.   
It was better than your Sunday’s best for church.   

They came for your body at dawn.  
You were still warm at four in the morning  
as if you would jump up and give us relief.   

Now at six A.M., you are stone cold.  
My mother never left your side.   
She wanted to make sure everyone followed your wishes.  
  
I should have known you would die soon  
and now I have the ghost of a dead man 
hanging over my head.