Last night I fell to dream
of Castle Combe,
Its shambling mists and tawny stream,
the holy pathos of its homes.
Wind-washed clouds, the lunar gleam
of cream-colored stone.
And there, somewhere between
drowsy dusk and day, I stood alone
In fevered dream,
in Cotswold cold,
Woke to air, moon-tide dimmed,
and the lulled hush of wool-
Soft hymns
with all hope gone.
Easy to envy
their erratic
exuberance
ascending with
scythe-like wings
in fevered flight,
rounding rooftops
and the crowns
of trees before
returning like
blind oracles
with a divine
purpose and
grim prophecies
to share. Their
delirious arrivals
and farewells
blend then blur
into fleur-de-lis
pivots and pirouettes,
chevron tails split
apart like lengthy
shears slicing through
charmed circles of
air moments before
their tiny throats
of glossy indigo
morph into embers
as daylight falls
upon the tongues
of tides just catching
the last wink of sun.
A resident of Connecticut, John is a graduate of Trinity College, Wesleyan University and the University of Connecticut. In the Lilac Hour, his first volume of poems, was published in 2020 by Antrim House, and it is available on Amazon. His poems have been published, or are forthcoming, in journals including Euphony, Moria, Penumbra, River Heron, Sheepshead, Third Wednesday, Amethyst Review, High Window, Poetica Review and the French Literary Review. John is also a two-time 2021 Pushcart Prize nominee.
struck
by that star
the one looking
through my window
its eye of silver
urging me
to visit venus
and swim
on the moon.
Catherine lives in Connecticut with her husband and fur babies. Though not scientifically proven, she likes to think that earning degrees in both English and Accounting confirms that both sides of her brain work. Her poetry has been featured in various journals and anthologies including Neverlasting, Cattails, Modern Haiku, Frogpond, bottle rockets, 50 Haikus, Three Line Poetry, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and wild voices: an anthology of short poetry and art by women. To see more of her ramblings follow her on Twitter @Catherin03.
and here I am
no longer a sign
of youth but of
time passing
wondering when
my breasts will
lose their fullness
and hang from my chest
like withered teardrops
or worn out sleeves
…no longer tempting
your hands and mouth…
each egg
counts down
my days
I see them
frogs hopping
trying to get free
running away
from a dying river.
Catherine lives in Connecticut with her husband and fur babies. Though not scientifically proven, she likes to think that earning degrees in both English and Accounting confirms that both sides of her brain work. Her poetry has been featured in various journals and anthologies including Neverlasting, Cattails, Modern Haiku, Frogpond, bottle rockets, 50 Haikus, Three Line Poetry, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and wild voices: an anthology of short poetry and art by women. To see more of her ramblings follow her on Twitter @Catherin03.
I talk to myself
when it’s quiet
but your voice
is persistent
whispering from
the mountains
about the touch
of the sea.
Catherine lives in Connecticut with her husband and fur babies. Though not scientifically proven, she likes to think that earning degrees in both English and Accounting confirms that both sides of her brain work. Her poetry has been featured in various journals and anthologies including Neverlasting, Cattails, Modern Haiku, Frogpond, bottle rockets, 50 Haikus, Three Line Poetry, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and wild voices: an anthology of short poetry and art by women. To see more of her ramblings follow her on Twitter @Catherin03.
Foxglove Journal 