Life is but, a merry go round and round and round it goes, will it ever stop? Who can know, but as we go it surely is not slow, as we tread through the winter snow. For I have come to see life on earth as but an afternoon show.
— Brian K. Mino / Grayling, Michigan
A hidden yellowjacket nest,
an ankle-twisting curb, those
hungry mosquitoes lurking
in the shade of the maple tree,
a practical joke at your expense,
that word that always used to be
at your fingertips – a threat
in every corner, except in bed
with the covers pulled up. Once
you’ve brushed away the spiders.
Steve Williams/ Munith, Michigan
We know it’s there
beyond the fringe of trees
We hear it lap the shore
lick grains of sand erasing
Wracks pile against rocks
white with gull guano
Each wave rinses clean
each bird replenishes
Mary Jo Stich / Denmark, Wisconsin
Formed in the cauldron of life
out of limestone, soda, and sand,
at our best, we are pieces of glass.
Far more useful than diamonds
which flash in the light, are the windows
and lenses that clarify sight.
While mirrors are attractive, and at first
glance us please, they can distort
and may often deceive.
There’s no higher calling, than, when held
in good hands, you brighten the vision
and help understand.
So if you open a wall, magnify small, bring
something far up closer, you make good use
of the time you possess,
And so does the person who finds you,
who chooses to leave this world wiser,
and thus might forever be blessed.
Steve Williams / Munith, Michigan
I HEAR HAWKS
before I see them
scree scree at regular intervals,
doppler waves sounding the distance
flattened wings circle thermals overhead,
or the chorus of shrilly scolding bird flocks
chasing until it drops its young prey,
or squawking chickens when they see a shadow
of this predator too late to flee,
or the soft unexpected thwup on fence
when it lands, as stunned as I am,
a heart leaping arm’s length away,
eyes devouring me where I stand.
Nancy Shattuck / Farmington Hills, Michigan
Between the yardstick and the mile
The Rumor animates fields of Anemones.
It feeds the fish that drinks the rain.
It turns the plumes of broad winged hawks,
Huffs into sails of lonely ships.
It warms the tomb with candle flame
And further than this star.
All things breath in its trace,
Taste with its tongue,
Belie the exigence of form.
And in a book I read,
The wounded heart was freed
Upon a day when the rain fell up.
Can one dream of what can never be?
Is it outside of human possibility?
Words and words thrown at the corner
Where no one stands.
– Ken Wilding / Spring Lake, Michigan
Walking Through The Hollow
No birds call, no crickets sing
No wind blows through no trees
No words echo, no flowers spring
No self has no value here
No heart beats, no pains sting
No way up to no way down
No way left for my being
No way right, no way wrong
No way out of no seeing
No feet on no ground
No me to know the meaning.
Ben Snider / Arcadia, Michigan