Mouthful

Some words are bigger than others.
They take up more air, give more lip,
use many more of the mouth’s muscles.
They take longer to say, often unpronounceable,
with unexpected twists, hidden syllables,
extra letters tucked away in some dark corner.
The type of word favoured in spelling bees,
the students stumbling over their tongues;
as if they’ve been given a trick question.

The kind of words rarely used, being difficult,
the foreign speaker wondering ‘why and how’,
my thesaurus baffled, the dictionary mum,
proving some things are better left unsaid,
how some truths are best unspoken.

By Bruce McRae

To find out more about Bruce, click here!

Georgetown, Colorado

The gold-red omens of the frost
Still spin and scrape across the asphalt streets
And come to rest against the playground walls.

The copper light of afternoon
Transforms the town and sets aglow
A yellow house (still hidden from the road).

The flickering aspens line the path,
Where evening slides into an autumn world.

By Jan Whitt

Slow Clap

One hand clapping sounds
the one man band then
the crowd’s crescendo
into one celebratory moment.

By Chris Butler

Hanging Rock

I play a game with the moon. Like the game where you say a word over and over until it loses its meaning, I look at the rising moon again and again until it too becomes nonsense. A thing that hangs there in space, unattached to this world. Painted on a canvas sky, it would make more sense, but a floating rock? And when I remember that we too are hanging rock, the game is over.

By Phillip Barron

Woods Song

In the morning I walk in my pajamas to the perimeter of the woods.
No one hears these birds but me. Singing. Calling.
I stand still. Take it in. My birds. God's birds.

Remember the notes and trills. Stay this moment. Remember.

In the evening I walk the path to the creek. Down hill through the
weeds and poison ivy. Canopy overhead. Fewer songs.
Trees whisper. Squirrels still. I try to hear the deer.

Remember the forest sounds at end of day. Breathe it.
Remember.

At night I sit on the porch. Frog calls at the creek give a bass note to the quiet. Cicadas sing.
The owl may hunt tonight. She'll wake me. I'll know when she eats.

Too soft the passing of time. Too short to waste this glory. Remember.

In the dark I rest inside. I hear what I am tuned to hear. The folds of sleepy air
curl around and rock all but the night hunters. I hear the owl, then nothing.

By Janice A. Farringer

To find out more about Janice, click here!