Issue 1

"Archway" by: Janette Schafer

"Kelowna Desert" by: Justin Robinson

Spring Blues

By: Martina Gallegos

Spring, season of rebirth and colorful gardens

that call birds, butterflies, and hummingbirds

to feed from pollen and fresh food they find

in every plant, tree, and flower.

I hear birds singing their happy songs

at every hour of the day, from dawn to dusk,

as I go about my daily routine, not knowing

what tomorrow will bring because the world

is now in dire chaos.

Spring, season of many symphonies

finches, sparrows, and doves create,

to make life more bearable

among the noises of death around,

so we salute this happy season.

The kitten that naps on the windowsill

and bathes with the warmth of spring sun,

is oblivious to the dangers

that threaten humanity

and dreams happy dreams.

The two lovebirds caged away outside

because they’re not allowed to roam inside,

attempt to fall in love and create a family

that they hope will survive

this new spring solitude.

Northwest Spring Haiku

By: Carl Palmer

cloudless May sunshine

feigns summer through warmed glass panes

of windows shut tight

shorts worn with sweatshirts

our uniform of the day

Seattle springtime

lilac shrub’s contrast

forsythia’s yellow blaze

nature’s color clash

Above Land

By: Janette Schafer

four-legged

mother mammals

struggle, sink in

mucky clay

a single bee,

large, fat

flecked with pollen,

drunk on honey-mead

curls into a discarded bottle

folds and folds again

until he disappears—

extinguished flesh

mottled wings

flakes of decay

in an unkind wind

Toasty Feet

By: Tiffany Lindfield

Freezing, inside and out, in need of thawing out.

There’s a fire burning

Steady, simmering like hot pot soup. And she

Wishes she was like those trees swaying in front of her.

Used to all the elements—rain, sleet, snow and lack of shine.

No need of coats, mittens, scarf, rainboots or top hats;

Roots nuzzled deep to the ground.

They say Earth is real hot (cozy) in the center.

And maybe that’s why they can stand like that,

With toasty feet—roots.

Without nar’ a shiver in this wet, winter storm,

She thought and said aloud.

“Those damn tree roots ain’t warm,” he blurted,

And went on,

“Them trees just dormant for the winter.

You sit out here long enough, and you’ll figure out

How to semi-die, too. Intentional, temporary suicide,”

He went on.

"Autumn's Calling" by: Chris Copley

Falling, Fall, Fallen

By: Jered X

She tripped past me in those stiletto heels, skidding on the damp kaleidoscope of leaves. I jumped to save her but went down hard.

Love is the color of sunsets and endings

Falling, fall, fallen... Into his arms and then both of us jumping on the pile of rain soaked, sunset colored leaves.

I felt a stab in my chest, but perhaps it was just her stiletto heels lost in the pile of leaves.

I remember a road trip at dawn in autumnal mists

Going down hard when I tried to save her

In the color of sunsets and endings

Falling, fall, fallen... Into his arms in the grey blue blur of an esumi painting.

Drowning in the water meadows

In the damp kaleidoscope of leaves

Oh how I long for that day in autumn to come again

You know the one, the first day that you can literally smell the crisp air as it nips at your nose.

The day when you are drowning in the grey blue blur of water meadows

And you are falling, fall, fallen

Rain soaked in autumnal mists and memory.

"White Path" by: Chris Copley

Childhood’s End

By: Jered X

Footprints in the snow, going their separate ways, leaving a party

By morning, the snow would be smooth, and either person frozen and tipped over, like glassy victims of Vesuvius.

But for now, they walked on their separate paths, thinking their thoughts, feeling too light, warm and free from all the drink and conversation.

I lay on my back making snow angels, catching snowflakes on the tip of my tongue.

Thinking that maybe it was snow saved from a childhood Arrowhead trip.

Snow like a memory in my palm.

I watched the past in the present mingling with sweat

Something wet dropped from my eyes remembering us,

Three sisters in galoshes stopping under a canopy of pine needles to collect it in our pails.

Now we were no more connected than footprints in the snow,

Going our separate ways

Frozen as the glassy victims of Vesuvius.

Memory melted in my palm.

Frozen as the blanket of white crystals that has put the earth to sleep.

When the last winter's fall has done, I will walk barefoot to feel the new grass underneath

I will say "it's time to wake!"

But my sisters are cold as snow angels,

Silent as glassy victims of Vesuvius.

They will not wake.