Dear Granddaughter, he said
If I had only known.
I didn’t understand.
That, because of me,
You would never see
Land shining, water streaming,
Sunflowers baking, water birds soaring.

Yes, please, please forgive me
Had I known, had I cared,
For more than my greed
And self-important busyness of my life
I would have seen the beauty
But now it is lost
To you, this 30 years later.

Granddaughter, thanks to my greed,
No graceful landing of great blue herons
Or incredible common egrets, exuding peace.
Not seeing the delight in your eyes
At snowy plovers racing through ribbons of creek.
I did not know that these taught vibrant life.
This is what I mourn for your loss.

Please forgive me, can you forgive me?
For what I have given you, Grandaughter,
Are cemented boxes, blindly blinking windows
Vehicles smoking and choking,
Along more miles of black tarmack
With no place to view that brings peace to your heart,
Stilling you within the exquisiteness of wetlands.

How can I tell you my regret?
Had I known that there would be no more
No wetland for hundreds of miles
No feathered wonders of our seaside to land,
To nest, to treat our eyes to beauty,
This cycle of life I stole away from all the grandchildren…
Can you ever forgive me for what you will never know?

–Sharon Soeller
————

Plath Moon, Bukowski Night

i rush out the door
to buy my Wednesday lottery ticket
taking my white, goth dress
to drop at the dry cleaners. Haven’t
showered yet, but it’s Venice
after all & tonight
i’m happy to be alive.

In the sky, i see the full moon.
She glowers at me, a constant
stare i can’t shake. Deep lines
track her face & i know then
time is running out. The dead
yawn from their graves as i continue
on my errands.

On the way back, i decide
to stop at Small World Books
& look for the latest
Bukowski collection, poems
still attached to his fingernails
growing on his dead body.
What will Sylvia say, i ponder
when i abandon her for him?

The moon, mean with loneliness
stalks me from vendor to vendor
then vanishes as i breeze past
the Cat in the Hat selling
singular wireless phones,
past Zoltar, the Gypsy Fortune Teller,
& into Small World Books where
i make my lovely purchase.
Ahh, new & hard just like
i like it! It’s a salty night
& i’m ready for more grit.

i almost exclaim out loud
to the homeless man i pass
“Look! The latest Bukowski!”
but instead i simply hand him
a dollar bill & walk away, his words
“I love you!” left behind me.
They all love me, these homeless guys
but that’s another poem
for another day & here’s a toast
to Sylvia’s moon & Bukowski’s night
to resurrect once again.

–krista schwimmer

————

Oil Babble

such importance on words
people in public life
digitalized forever

can’t take ‘em back
but you can twist ‘em
in a circle the other way
infinity …two loops linking
ah such is the way
of politician lawyers
and real estate land cancer
that splices the tongue
of a black crow
once green wetlands
creosote mud flats
drying in a desert sun
while the wind
winds through
barren toxic shores
and the last tree
struggles…
to grow
in man’s mire

–Shanna Baldwin Moore

————

The Lords of the Earth

By Jim Smith

The Lords of the Earth
recline in their private jets,
luxuriate on their yachts
with smiles on their faces
as they count their billions
of dollars and people
who do their bidding
in every country and workplace
and fight among themselves
for status and privilege.

Globalization
the world under their thumb
one word, one look from a Lord
can end the lives of millions
deprived of medicine
deprived of land
deprived of homes
deprived of food
deprived of hope
they wither and die

The Lords of the Earth
invisible to us
pull the strings
of their prime ministers,
presidents and premiers.
As we settle in for a night of TV.
Eyes and mouths open
we take our numbing drugs
and mumble about ball games
and Hollywood stars.

One day
we ordinary people
we who love the earth
and each other
will break into their fortresses
and drag their desiccated bodies
into the sunny day
where they will disintegrate
to the cheers of billions
of their slaves.

————-

Onymous #7
Spell Against Enchantment

By francEyE

We call science science because it works, and we
Call magic magic because it only works when
We believe in it. I do believe in science,
And I believe in magic too, but not in all
Magic, and I definitely do not believe
in your magic, whoever you are are, if you are
Using it upon me. Whoever you are, you
Cannot hurt me with your spells or even
Affect me at all. Magic, in fact, sent to me
Will return to its maker; I am a magic
Mirror. Sometimes I see my strong bright animus
Shining, sending all harm home again to be loved.

————-

The Poem Takes A Hundred Years To Come

By Philomene Long

The poem takes
A hundred years
To come

And then it blooms
At night

The branch almost breaks
Under her weight

She is old
She can bear the loneliness

Although she invented angels
She was driven out of heaven

Are you astonished
By her white mouth?

She will tell you
It is blood
That blood is
The silent country

Its orchards ablaze
With the bleeding

———–

Low tide at dawn

Mixtures of moisture and twilight.
Long pools of water
Flowing variable streams.
In a quiet offshore breeze.

Washed over silt.
Glassy layers
Coated patterned sands.
Gravity’s creation with matter.

Clouds mirrored in liquid crimson.
Broken shells of ancient life.
Arranged fractal and glimmering death.
Set by the water’s grace.

The mystery of now slain by the past.
Tears returned to the source.
Hushed inner dialogues silent.
Merged water and sky.

Seeing the blindness.
Driven into going.
Filled with knowing not knowing.
On footprints washed away.

–Ray Steding

————-

Made Up Joe

not to me joe not to me

Night in Venice Beach