The Tea Cup Hills

The Tea Cup Hills steam up,
the mist swirling above endless green.

I walk the quiet trails forever thinking
of the bodies piling up in the cities below.

by Billy Roche

Tea Poems

I.
The seats are strangely cool
            tonight; the tea is not:
it’s yellow-green mass
           coddled in white clay.
New sounds splash on the air,
            and still there’s quiet inside.

II.
Alone, I watch my step walking
a familiar street in San Rafael.

The air tonight is oolong tea—
glowing lights wrap me up,
and tangled blankets shape the horizon.

The stars of evening shine and I
see them, knowing a moment’s peace.

By Jacob Riyeff

June Bugs

Rough branches carry the sweet burden

of plums and the holes

that June bugs leave.

I press my nails deep into purple flesh,

and juice flows


from wrist to elbow.

By Jessica Wiseman Lawrence

Helping a Blind Lady

"Sometimes I want to sit down
and never get up," she confided,
tapping her cane as we crossed

the street, her Shepherd
towing us on its leash,
the light ready to go red.

“But then I have to pee,
and I'm thankful I can
make it to the bathroom."

By Donal Mahoney

The House At Mutton Hollow

My eighty-three year old father
ascribes to the sort of contentment
that can only be derived from a door
with a hook & eye clasp.
Good, solid doors pock-marked
near the knob, further up
where the corner meets the jamb.
Brass or pewter amulets,
the least harbingers
against the unknown
but for his pets
equal to Fort Knox.

By William G. Davies Jr.

Jumper Cable Theory

Follow these directions carefully.
Park a booster car close to your dead car.
Connect positive to positive,
negative to ground.
Too many negatives will cause damage.
Start the booster car and let it run.

Listen carefully to its words.
If they speak to you
maybe there will be enough spark
to get you started.
If not, you will want to find
other poems.

By Tom Russell

Buy Me a Drink

There’s a bus
that drives past
this disgusting hotel
in Colorado where all
the bar staff know
not to sell us drinks.
They know where we are going,
like make up stories about
where we came from.
None of them are true
and none of them are nice;
not exactly lying
but close enough.

By Jessica Halsey