Submitted by Michael Mayhew on December 5, 2012
There is a peacock
on Public Radio
who pronounces poem
“Poyme.”
“It’s Po-Em!” I pipe,
“You pretentious pedant!”
Yet periodically some
Plodding podunk
Pronounces it
“Pome.”
I have no problem with that.
Chalk it up to
Petty partisanship.
Submitted by joshua mertz on December 5, 2012
Sometimes I feel like
A ventriloquist who is
Playing to the deaf
Submitted by joshua mertz on December 5, 2012
Submitted by Clayton Medeiros on December 5, 2012
Camp fire on the beach
Fishing rods bend to the surf
Gray mist everywhere
Submitted by Benjamin Gorman on December 5, 2012
The cows have arranged themselves
in a corner of the field
counterpoint to the uniform
heavy gray of sky above.
Bare trees
or nearly bare
flayed by the winds
bark darkened by nights of rain
stand solemn witness
over their legion dead—
they, prostrate supplicants,
die willingly, knowing their sacrifice
was well made: their tree yet stands,
drifts toward sated slumber.
So they release themselves
to merge with earth
as what they were
becomes what is and
yields itself again
to the tree.
The birds, observing,
flit among branches,
anxious; their knowing dimmed
by their speed of life.
But the cows know:
all is waiting.
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