Scott Thomas Outlar

Strip the Gilded     Urgency in your (impulsive)                          methods of transgression                     (faltering/declined transactions)          see just how                 flying off the (cuffed) handle           leaves us backwards                         from where we started   Aggression in your (silent)                            lack of observations                     (obstinate/scaredy-cat stubbornness)             careful not to cut                  too deep in (captured) organs               though there’s no threat of such                          if you forget to finger keys   There is a world           (life is full                   & more wealthy               than simple riches                         will ever offer)        that exists outside                       … Continue reading Scott Thomas Outlar

Marilyn Speak

High Five!Pen       PaperCup of teaSit         WaitListen!  Look!Here she isThis wild, silky othernessQuick!Write it down. written for my first Stanza meeting! Haiku her baby asleep a new mother hugs the silence   ———- sleepless forming the words I didn’t say   ———- an old sixpence 1955 11-plus and a chipped bone   ———- laughter rolling gently down the hill   ———- deep in the temple a seated Buddha scent of jasmine   ———– cigarette lit a painted statue sits down Marilyn Speak is a 75 year-old Grandma, who has written occasional verse over the years, and has now fallen in love with the … Continue reading Marilyn Speak

Christine Valters Paintner

Crossing the Divide She walks, as if from a dream, into your life, ribboned hair unraveling, brown eyes like cups of tea, come to whisper a secret into your trembling ear. You try hard not to listen, clinging to your calendar, your achievements,  your loneliness, until the silver ache  of it all spreads through your limbs and she holds out her hand across the ravine, and you see how the chasm is not empty, but filled with a rushing river, and you can swim until you become fish and flow, until you are the ancient stream emerging from stone, until … Continue reading Christine Valters Paintner

Teresa Mclean

Burning the Directories On a pyre, kindled from general rubbish, I am burning old phone books. The Thompson goes on first, a little local conflagration, a hundred burning names, five hundred. Five white ones go on next, opened flat, middle pages crumpled so the flames catch. The names blacken and curl, a thousand names, a hundred thousand.   Seven yellow ones go on next, burning stars float up on the smoke, pages flick over in the firestorm. I watch the names vanish, the baker, the hotelier, the musician, the shoe seller. Seven tribes of names, a thousand thousand names, seven … Continue reading Teresa Mclean

Attracta Fahy

The first of Attracta’s fine poems are taken from her forthcoming publication, Dinner in the Field. Hy Brasil   Out of nowhere you appear in fog, every seven years vague outlines  tease faint horizon,  visible for one day, then you vanish back to myth.    I’m moored, enchanted, longing this fabled Island erased from nautical charts. Here on the mainland we are unforgiving, over indulge, ignore the beauty.   I’m anchored, in love, tied like a boat  to your image.   It’s said a wise old man lives in you,  holds gold, silver, jade. In stone castle, a magician moves objects by … Continue reading Attracta Fahy

Tracee Clapper

Thoughts that come while lying on the ground I. From a pine scented,  needle-soft forest bed a bald eagle’s whistle draws  my eyes skyward, to paint-speckled clouds.  II. In rainwet soil, we bury seeds to sprout and plant bones for their last sleep. The difference between life and death is six inches or six feet.   Things that make me feel better A palm on my forehead stroking brow to crown, my hands cupped around a hot mug of honey-kissed tea, the suffused glow that is light and dark just after a storm before a rainbow; the ocean lapping  at … Continue reading Tracee Clapper

Kate Ennals

Mother’s Day   After a scuffle, I emerge into morning. As I struggle to wake, I can see that it’s stormy. I draw back the curtain: Raindrops abseil down the glass Diminishing as they slither and pass A security light flashes. The Eucalyptus tree stands tall, Casts windswept shadows on my bedroom wall, A slide show, of sorts. I pull the duvet up to my neck, stretch my legs, Wallow in the cosy warmth of bed. I savor the silence and empty stillness Shortly to be diffused with the morning chorus. It is already beginning: Hot water pipes start to … Continue reading Kate Ennals