Some poems

Golden Rod September 

Masses of golden rods

Sunshine yellow along

roadsides, clearings

wherever spruce, pine

and birch have left some 

space, and even here in

the city where garden

or concrete do not reign.

(Elizabeth Kouhi)

We fold our hands

And close our faces

But underneath….

Just think of summer sands

(Karl Wendt)

 yesterday an old wind

today a cold stillness

an old mountain ash dies

(Karl Wendt)

Waiting

The pond has dropped a foot over the summer;

Now you couldn’t pole a punt across it now.

New-risen loamy flats and yellowing lilies’

Braided root, thick a a leg, are dying

In fierce September sun; dark trunks of trees

that drowned and fell and sank

after beaver damned the trickling creek

turn pale as dust.

The radiant storms of words

and images cri-crossing air and settling

in devices electron-thin can’t reach

into valleys tucked under rocky ridges

of the Shield. Hours here

dissolve the city’s crust of irritants

and distractions: your ambition’s focused

as a frog’s, waiting for the bright fly.

(John Donlan)

Early Morning Mist

Amber fields scuttle away

and crouch in tall mist.

Trees angular

 as a runic alphabet

line the roadside,

their naked

limbs reach

into nothing.

I’m driving myself…where?

One touch

                        one touch

(Rona Shaffran)