Tuesday, 31 May 2011

Monday, 30 May 2011

On each darkened vine
New little green hands wave in the wind.


Nathalie Boisard-Beudin

Sunday, 29 May 2011

I want to tell you how your presence
reminds me of carnivals
and communion at once,
but the words stay lodged
in my throat.


Elizabeth Polkinghorn

Saturday, 28 May 2011

stellate yellow leaves plastered to concrete
a sodden grey feather on the staircase
After the storm.


Laura Elizabeth Woollett

Friday, 27 May 2011

he balances words carefully
in the space between them
she focusses on his deliberate fingers
not on her reflection in his eyes


James Newton

Thursday, 26 May 2011

Three Great Things About Today's Ride (thoughts on cycling)

Filigree of oak against the pale blue sky
A passing train tempting me into a sprint
The half-grown moon looking over my shoulder


Mrs. Micawber
Mr. Micawber's Recipe for Happiness

Wednesday, 25 May 2011

The raccoons
sorting through the garbage cans,

pause only for the moon.


Carson Pierpont

Tuesday, 24 May 2011

Open the door to the balcony.
I want to smell the leaves
Desperately sticking to the windows
In the boiling storm.


Alan Zhukovski

Monday, 23 May 2011

Above a tub of soil my hand holds
a small mound of lettuce seeds,
long and slender, light and dark.
How many salads in my hand?


Josephine Faith Gibbs

Sunday, 22 May 2011

they lay together
whispering in the grass

my face was covered
by berry stains


m.s. mallorn
one star awake

Saturday, 21 May 2011

pop rocks and children, sizzling, sparkling, and popping, giggles and laughter


Terri Stewart

Friday, 20 May 2011

Thursday, 19 May 2011

Moon of Mine

Oh moon of mine, creamy as
Vintage roses, newborn lambs;
Nearer earth tonight than at any time
In four hundred years
I could pluck you and tuck you
Up my sleeve


The Poet Treehouse

Wednesday, 18 May 2011

Skinny Parking

See the soccer mom
park her Durango
in the narrow spot?
She’s squeezing
into skin-tight jeans.


Laurie Kolp

Tuesday, 17 May 2011

between a cricket’s


Craig W. Steele

Monday, 16 May 2011

well when
this dream started
I thought I guess
that all the chemicals and machines
would become plants and animals


Melissa Allen
Red Dragonfly

Sunday, 15 May 2011

milk climbs its way through my coffee
like hoarfrost on windows
little fingers reaching out


Corey Hutchins

Saturday, 14 May 2011

The victim’s bald head
broke like an egg squeezed
between a child’s fingers.


Amit Parmessur
The Rainbow Rose

Friday, 13 May 2011

Wednesday, 11 May 2011

I catch a glimpse of myself
in another time, perhaps,

broken, recovering
on a curb.


Isabela Oliveira
stone and bits of sky

Tuesday, 10 May 2011

It is good to hear
The trilling scale of birdsong
Drowning the
Drone of
The freeway


Gemma's Earth Gems

Monday, 9 May 2011

five small poems

just there
your scent
i am undone


speak to me
only vowels


your steady gaze
thick in the
between us


the back of my hand
your lips flower


sweet like


Crow Files

Sunday, 8 May 2011

Unrolling the cuffs of my jeans
before putting them in the washing
machine, dozens of bits of forest
tumble out, scatter on the floor,
stowaway souvenirs of our walk
in the woods.


Elizabeth Polkinghorn

Saturday, 7 May 2011

Standing under a tree of cherry blossom, I am a child playing at being a bride.


Tammy Hanna
The Heartful Blogger

Friday, 6 May 2011

Two macaws
fly in tandem
blue red blue red
wingtip to wingtip
wheeling and dipping
with the currents.


Margo Roby

Thursday, 5 May 2011


Deafening silence
Eyes alight in the darkness
Clocks dripping like taps


Anthony Ward

Wednesday, 4 May 2011

Catching the light
his silver hair,
forming smooth wings
either side of his head,
shines; I’m reminded
of white swans
on a sunlit river.


Rosemary Nissen-Wade
Stones for the River

Tuesday, 3 May 2011

Enter ragged outdoor smell
recess scent
pollen sweat chlorophyll aromatherapy
spring balm bottled,
poured from pores.


Lesley Neel Clinton

Monday, 2 May 2011

Wings of the hummingbird
Whistle unearthly songs
To the sky.


Neil Ellman

Sunday, 1 May 2011


How small we are
Shades of turquoise
We get close enough
To break off pieces
That melt in our mouth


Lynda Bruce