Nature Lines 
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Stargazing Silently we step out of the woods, entering the field. We are not the first ones here tonight. The field is a winking face with many eyes. The fireflies make room for us as our bare feet swish through the wet grass. Reaching the center of the field we lie on our backs and watch as shooting stars use the night sky as a canvas. They are crazy painters waving their brushes around. And when the streaks fade they dip their brushes and start again. Rebecca blay@pop.mindspring.com |
THE LIGHT THAT BINDS US Early light arrives on robin-winged melodies; the sweet smell of May-gray dew fresh on the sill; the rhythm of our breathing takes flight on the breeze, as we lie coiled like ribbons and roses on morning satin. Like the miracle of dawn, an ambient silence surrounds our caress; a sated quietude
in these ivory shadows. It is the light that binds us Ambrosiaa lilly@voicenet.com |
Elko January A sinkful of dirty dishes left soaking overnight, a thin sheen of new-formed ice glistening on the surface of the gray water bits of bloated squaw bread half-frozen on the plates. I force myself to plunge my hands into the subzero cold, pull up the plug and fill the dented tea kettle to the top and turn on the stove. The heater must've gone out again last night I could feel the frost on the carpet through my thin cloth slippers--Roy tried to wake me at four o'clock this morning to get me to help him with his chores but I pretended I was dead so he went out alone. The ice-covered porcelain hisses violent as I carefully pour scalding water into the sink-- dishes moan, threatening to crack but I don't care. The sky outside glares bloodshot back at me, across as field of white peaks and dead grass comically showcasing my tired old man yelling at cows. Holly Day yves@orbiter.com |
| Grey Clouds 7 May 1996 Stars again, Finally. I thought the clouds would keep the twilight to themselves. It has been a night upon night, Moonless nights, Clouds that stretch Horizon to horizon. From where they come to where they go. Grey upon grey, Nothing upon nothing, Into atmosphere, consuming light. But the starlight won in the end. There is a patience Which endures our earth. It ignores the parade of our heavens, And they wait. So many nights have come and gone. Chris Cobourn chris_cobourn@course.com |
| Regarding the Electromagnetic Spectrum It pervades, surrounds, penetrates, washes through us. On rare occasion it advises us of its presence, as it passes on into eternity. We squint, with eyes enfeebled, to dimly distinguish some small portion, and proudly pronounce it "Red, Yellow, and Blue!" With small hearts, we turn away quickly to celebrate, congratulating ourselves as if it were of our own manufacture. Ron Honn cafe@biggulp.callamer.com |
| Deer For nearly an hour in the early April dusk I watched thirteen deer slowly feed across winter wheat. You'd have thought them part of the sky, so bouyant they seemed, so delicately attached to earth, black hooves hardly bending the wheat. Every once in a while one would look to where I knelt in a corner of the L-shaped field, and stamp its foot, ears nervous over the dark eyes and delicate lines of nose and neck, or twitch its brilliant white tail. Though I'd neither moved nor coughed, something had drifted across the evening, that took them, unhurried, towards the field's edge and over its border of dry pennyroyal and briars, into the woods, where one by one in that place, their shyness vanished into the shyness among the trees. Harry Humes from The Bottomland (Arkansas) humes@kutztown.edu submitted by the author |
| July Squirrels living in the thick woodwork silent till the house begins its easy slide toward sleep Peepers on the first hot night the raw insistent twitch background for the books along the bed which won't be read held by tense electric hands hearing for hours the next car humming a vein of mountain road across the lake Studied like streetlight shadows disturbing and impossible to recall as the scents of lilacs until you're drunk again on heat lightning and colored air Karen Blomain from Borrowed Light (Nightshade Press) blomain@kutztown.edu submitted by the author |
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oniry it will snow the wrens will pause on the railings in the bright after-snow sun and fluff, the ice will glitter and drip, branches will barely sway , the cold will snap up from the floor and worry the heavy socks. it will snow and there will be silence, only one left and one right hand warming under the blanket, darting out to turn a page, lingering to rouse the fireflies in the ember bed. it will snow and in the blankness a couple of tracks, deep-shadowed tracks, one coming and one going. it will be perfect Carl Seiple seiple@kutztown.edu |
Twilight on the Tug River In the churning A broken tree For a moment William C. Burns, Jr. burnswcb@gvltec.gvltec.edu |
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Island froth lace damp between smooth aqua thighs quivering in dalliance's fingertip dance--trembling steps in tender creases, erotic, choreographic; light touches tracing the soft folds burnished by passion's slide and pull to a dazzling smoothness and a softly growling arching to the wet roughness slipping along the roundness lifted for her lapping lover's tasting of pungent desire, the hip's writhing shudders tremble the blackness behind her closed lids shaking from it a small bright light sliding in from the distance until the gasping thrusts break it open and pour the white heat over skin, covering her like her lover slipping deeply into the roiling surf rolling in crest after pounding crest pulling her thoughts out from under her floating touch drawn with the undertow into undulating green. Carl Seiple seiple@kutztown.edu |
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A small boy and the ants A small boy squats on the pavement eyeing the brown scurry, the small-grained mound. His regard attentive, coldly measuring disparities in size, in energy, in purpose. A heft of hips and a shuffle level the mound, filling the hole he himself could never enter. In the later land of dreams of days to come, from daydreams' greater heights, he will savor the slow heft of gold and crushing diplomatic shuffle, relish destruction's tumult and disruption's titillation learned from those brown smears broken, weakly waving. Carl Seiple seiple@kutztown.edu |
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