North Garden Glassby Leah Hill
June sun squarely illuminates through unimpeded windowpane my view of Bellingham Bay. It’s shimmery like patience: haze before rain, wafting falafel spice melding with gosh and umm mumbling of main stage crowd, ready to mosh at Shakedown while next door we ping pinball, dollar to quarter and quarter to steel, flirtatious unsure bump of bodies Racketing new high scores. Coincidentally planet Mercury flung itself direct once more; in the heady clarity we breathe deep before the long leap off Taylor Dock, still dancing anywhere, day or dark because we like to and we can, forever licking cherry juice from our lips and hands. This life feels like spider plants gushing offspring, same shade of green I fill endless canvases with, magnifying electric blend of blue, speckled gold and love. Leah Hill is the winner of our second quarter 2019 Poem Booth contest. Congratulations Leah!
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There Are Horses in Heavenby Anita K. Boyle
This is a secret you mustn’t repeat: There are horses in heaven. They have been there always. Even while here, they are aware of there. Have you noticed how the horse sleeps upright and ready, and seems to be elsewhere? There are horses in heaven who feast upon the golden sheaves. They come to earth on the darkest nights: the flapping of wings hushed like owls’. They stay with us, as though held in a palm: think of a roughened hand curled around the reins. They sometimes grant us wishes. They relieve us of labor and sorrow. The horse was in heaven before Adam and Eve. When these firsts were evicted from the garden, a horse took them to another. The horse lives in heaven wherever she goes. This is confidential and true. The Words for Thingsby Sarah Brownsberger Life spelled out in bramble blossoms or waves of balsam, the spores of our wonder take name, sluff names much as the snake who while Gilgamesh bathed stole the elixir sluffs his skin, ever new; you know a color as cedar, amber, tea in sunlight, serum; but when your father dies you see that he was a good human being; human, he was. Sarah Brownsberger's poem is an honorable mention in our second quarter of 2019. Congratulations Sarah! Kerouac's Daughterby Diana Swan
Incandescent exteriors. Firefly gods & goddesses illuminating your portable universe. The endless plain. The yet to cover miles widen as the where-you`ve-been dissolves. Battalions of crickets & cicadas escalating to that din-gasping. After the storm that eerie end of the world stillness. All the radio stations blur into one-"the power & the glory of the walrus, the eggman, down in Monterey." Does one really need to be told this is a "scenic" route? What a gift our eyes are. Lightning doing cartwheels. Mountains turn into flatlands back to mountains. Then desert. The velvet greens & golds dancing to the ocean. It is said that North Carolina is the gateway to Atlantis. The open sky will be your blanket. The stars your nightlights as you pass windmills &hay bales. The cattle stare in unison as if choreographed-are they turning their heads at you or the freight train? Various languages of different influences whomever took from who was there before. Your songs WILL give birth to themselves. Welcome to America. Not so bad when everyone everywhere is asleep. Diana Swan's poem is an honorable mention in our second quarter of 2019. Congratulations Diana! |