Luis Campos
SHIT HAPPENS
80 to 85
years from now,
give or take...
35 to 40 thousand
warnings...
20 to 25 degrees
Fahrenheit warmer...
135 to 140 abandoned
coastal cities...
295 to 300 million
refugees...
370 to 375 million
starving people...
7.75 to 8 billion
passengers aboard
THE Titanic.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Monday, September 17, 2012
Petrouchka Alexieva
Peach Trees
On both sides of a country road
Peach trees are covered with blossoms;Little pink stars are spinning down
Dancing and gilding the ground.
Making scented beautiful blanket.
The branches shimmer up in the air
The breeze is shaking silver dust.
Blossoms are heavy with honey nectar,
Bees are running into the golden centers
Cheering, gathering it very fast.
Birds are busy attracting partners,
Singing songs of passion and love
Than jumping into the glossy petals
Taking their morning cheerful bath.
Hummingbirds are twitting around.
I grabbed a brush to paint the picture
Just right there in a morning zephyr
Taking colors from Mother Nature
Writing songs from the singing trees
Admiring such blissful perfection.
Did I succeed?
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Ed Rosenthal AKA The Lost Hiker
Saturday Morning
The dawn moon told the boy
I’ll stay behind you.
Go looking for the canyon
of purple stones along the arroyo.
The one that lifted you
by your boots.
With the moon behind him,
he followed the road
over the purple monoliths.
Out the broad mouth the trail spilled
into a place too wide
for the boy.
He turned to ask her
Why am I here?
This is not my Trail
of sheep bones and talc.
Go back again to
the pink spilling out from the feet
of your canyon.
Then choose again.
He did, but the trails
turned like rivulets on
a basin of swirled batter.
One was as good as another.
He stepped out towards awnings
of white cloud.
To a wide maze of hills
where a hundred trails
meandered aimlessly.
He looked up from the trap
to find the moon
indifferent.
Saturday Morning
The dawn moon told the boy
Go looking for the canyon
of purple stones along the arroyo.
The one that lifted you
by your boots.
With the moon behind him,
he followed the road
over the purple monoliths.
Out the broad mouth the trail spilled
into a place too wide
for the boy.
He turned to ask her
Why am I here?
This is not my Trail
of sheep bones and talc.
Go back again to
the pink spilling out from the feet
of your canyon.
Then choose again.
He did, but the trails
turned like rivulets on
a basin of swirled batter.
One was as good as another.
He stepped out towards awnings
of white cloud.
To a wide maze of hills
where a hundred trails
meandered aimlessly.
He looked up from the trap
to find the moon
indifferent.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Petrouchka Alexieva
Painted Dreams
I love the Mojave Desert
With the Joshua trees
And its timeless rocks
With painted dreams.
Old people say:
“The world began with the rhythm of drums
And the ancient dance under the stars.
If you’d like to read the painted dreams,
Dance with us under the trees.”
I step and swirl; my heart is a drum.
I dance, and dance…
I’m a little part of this ancient time,
Of the dreams today,
And the dreams of tomorrow
-- All at once.
I dance, and dance…under the stars.
The moon gets tired and goes to sleep
The drums get quiet and run away
And only I and the painted dreams
Will meet the day in the Mojave Desert.
Painted Dreams
I love the Mojave Desert
With the Joshua trees
And its timeless rocks
With painted dreams.
Old people say:
“The world began with the rhythm of drums
And the ancient dance under the stars.
If you’d like to read the painted dreams,
Dance with us under the trees.”
I step and swirl; my heart is a drum.
I dance, and dance…
I’m a little part of this ancient time,
Of the dreams today,
And the dreams of tomorrow
-- All at once.
I dance, and dance…under the stars.
The moon gets tired and goes to sleep
The drums get quiet and run away
And only I and the painted dreams
Will meet the day in the Mojave Desert.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Audrey Allen
Petal-Shaped
Emblazed petals. She grew from the cement, charcoal gray. She watched them all walk over her each day. Her blossoms and drips of dew, slightly fragrant, yet no one ever bent over to smell her.
She had one sallow green leaf attached to her narrow stem – pale lemon yellow in the moonlight.
Living curbside next to a bar, bending her tiny petals back and forth in the gentle wind. She drank drops of whiskey, smoked discarded cigarettes in the whirl ofmidnight traffic.
She always waited for the big black tar tires to drive over her, crushing her tiny plant skeleton. With enough time, she knows it will happen. She has no chance.
Still she grows, clinging onto the cement, a few specks of dirt.
The familiar feel of the street, people chattering on the sidewalk around her. She can see up the women’s skirts, the slick black slack leg of the men. Sometimes the bar door swings open just long enough and she can look inside at the dark velvet, mahogany booths. Beautiful, drunk women snapping their teeth over ice cubes socked in gin… men on their arms as they click by on teetering high heels.
And then....
A heavy blonde, calves bulging in silver stilettos, stepped on her tiny flower head, crushing her.
A single drop of warm dew, petal-shaped, left on the sidewalk.
Petal-Shaped
Emblazed petals. She grew from the cement, charcoal gray. She watched them all walk over her each day. Her blossoms and drips of dew, slightly fragrant, yet no one ever bent over to smell her.
She had one sallow green leaf attached to her narrow stem – pale lemon yellow in the moonlight.
Living curbside next to a bar, bending her tiny petals back and forth in the gentle wind. She drank drops of whiskey, smoked discarded cigarettes in the whirl of
She always waited for the big black tar tires to drive over her, crushing her tiny plant skeleton. With enough time, she knows it will happen. She has no chance.
Still she grows, clinging onto the cement, a few specks of dirt.
The familiar feel of the street, people chattering on the sidewalk around her. She can see up the women’s skirts, the slick black slack leg of the men. Sometimes the bar door swings open just long enough and she can look inside at the dark velvet, mahogany booths. Beautiful, drunk women snapping their teeth over ice cubes socked in gin… men on their arms as they click by on teetering high heels.
And then....
A heavy blonde, calves bulging in silver stilettos, stepped on her tiny flower head, crushing her.
A single drop of warm dew, petal-shaped, left on the sidewalk.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Don Kingfisher Campbell
Joshua Tree Trip
smiles in the car
two hours later arrive
petroglyphs on rocks
balance ourselves beside
boulders that dwarf us
we stroll hand-in-hand
past the many arms
of Joshua, single-fingered
Yucca, sit on stone “benches”
view Coachella Valley vista
Palm Springs tiny buildings
haze over Salton Sea
San Andreas Fault
pose with peaks
climb edges, bark
at the bluest sky
while nature’s personalities
show in formation
volcanic birthplace
rising and defeated limbs
perform poetry to space
Buddha-like mountains
silent sentinels patiently
outlast manmade windmills
Joshua Tree Trip
smiles in the car
two hours later arrive
petroglyphs on rocks
balance ourselves beside
boulders that dwarf us
we stroll hand-in-hand
past the many arms
of Joshua, single-fingered
Yucca, sit on stone “benches”
view Coachella Valley vista
Palm Springs tiny buildings
haze over Salton Sea
San Andreas Fault
pose with peaks
climb edges, bark
at the bluest sky
while nature’s personalities
show in formation
volcanic birthplace
rising and defeated limbs
perform poetry to space
Buddha-like mountains
silent sentinels patiently
outlast manmade windmills
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Alison McKenzie
Autumn 2011
Crisp wind tugs at tenacious anchors;
... The dregs of chlorophyll
Faded to golds, reds, and rust.
They cling with anticipation;
A fated, final dance
Teases on the flutter,
Waxes, wanes.
Piles of the exhausted
Stir in death’s slumber,
Their applause hushed
By their climactic conclusions.
Soon I will gather
The delicate cadavers
For burial,
But for now, I recline -
Suffused in the earthen tones
Of their scent receding.
Autumn 2011
Crisp wind tugs at tenacious anchors;
... The dregs of chlorophyll
Faded to golds, reds, and rust.
They cling with anticipation;
A fated, final dance
Teases on the flutter,
Waxes, wanes.
Piles of the exhausted
Stir in death’s slumber,
Their applause hushed
By their climactic conclusions.
Soon I will gather
The delicate cadavers
For burial,
But for now, I recline -
Suffused in the earthen tones
Of their scent receding.
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