Low Tide at Squalicum

Poetry

Dayna Patterson


Ripe blackberries on thorny bushes skirt
the path we take to Squalicum Harbor.
My daughter gathers purple shells
as if she were a hungry seagull ...


About Nudity

Poetry

Matthew Leist


beneath the sheets
I slept naked as a child
often clothed with nothing but a smile
maybe some dirt the grass stains...


Lovebugs

Poetry

Dayna Patterson


Late April, and its lovebug season.
Their small bodies rain softly

on my windshield, the smaller male
and the larger female, joined
at the genitals for up to three days

of coital bliss. Human

copulation is quick in comparison.
I imagine making excuses for a couple

whose mating session is in progress.
The Robinsons are indisposed. They

won't be at the beach house after all.
Or maybe we, like the lovebugs, ...


The History of Words

Poetry

Alexander Freeman


His father could cuss,
lips curled into a fold.
His words spilling out
beneath his beard to
shimmer in the air
like moon beams.
When the boy was

alone under the pear
tree his young hands
would slip into the
grass and he would
whisper those words...


I Want to Believe

Poetry

Dee Dee Chapman


this is just like that x-files episode
you know,
the one where Mulder has faith
the one where Scully is skeptical?

You know, the one where he asks her to do the autopsy,
and she asks, "And what are you gonna do?"
and he exits on an intriguing one-liner?...


Even in that place-------------

Poetry

Theresa Williams


|
|
|

...


The Dirt King

Poetry

Harvey Schwartz


“It’s a lot easier to use chemicals,” a friend says. I know he’s right, as I rip through weeds with my ice ax, whose pick is a whirling dervish in my organic garden.

With regal clang, a dirge to weeds, he is immune to the avalanching armies of dullness that darken the sky, poised like sharp arrows with feathery tails, aimed at me...


Grown Woman

Poetry

Leah Hill


she is lithe, voiced and dreamy. intention is mirrored in motion is mirrored in muscles is mirrored in mantras, and so on, and so she moves. she admires...


compost, recursion

Poetry

Leah Hill


in the fall we ‘barrow all the bitter orbs we couldn’t eat
from treeshade to crowned king, wide-mouthed woman,
our hand-me-down compost heap: an old fridgadaire on its side,
resplendent haven of pill bugs, fruit flies and prophetic worms.

a sharp ear might discern the busy gurgle behind the pestbuzz,
but to plumb the dirt’s depths is to interrupt the hot heat
churning the uncounted pounds of speckled ground apples,
the hot heat that melts them to a fertile puddle we will depend upon...


RIP Current

Poetry

Matthew Leist


Suffer aquatic ache, can’t fly here
amongst dirt dwellers, it’s too dry here.
Self obsession smogs the horizon,
so there may as well be no sky here.

Faces to numbers, numbers to slots;
plastic only, flesh need not apply here.
Fish mouth empty words in massive schools,
consensus says yes we can die here.

The question is the ending ...


Gingerly

Poetry

Rosa Tobin


Growing up,
pinwheel Wheat Fields spun
and light pollution danced
naked, golden-
my home...
...