Category: Issue 13.1

We asked for your input and you sure gave it to us. Within a short time period you shared more than 200 responses to our photo prompt. It really was a flurry of words. Thanks.

small town one red light Valentine’s Day

after the solstice waiting for the light to change  

war memorial the unhistoric fights I fought

winter chill wearing her grandson’s coat at the graveside       (originally appeared in “Scent of Rain,” the 2011 Southern California

winter stars . . . the name of my father of my father’s father  

highway markers how quickly the future blurs into the past

biopsy i am my heartbeat

cold moon . . . my mother goes to voicemail

our memories of him so very different swirling snowflakes

frozen lake — her intentions not so transparent

winter dream— the pond’s breath trapped in ice

shorter days . . . wizened grapes cling to the vine       (Originally published in A Hundred Gourds, June 2012)

Monday Morning Coffee Break (Addis Ababa, Ethiopia) A barefoot man with ropes slung over his shoulders and a long-handled axe in his belt scoots up a eucalypt, tearing

two baristas deconstruct their boyfriends all night rain

cold winter rain the swollen creek also rushing home

leaf in the wind . . . for one breath I imagine an end like this

reminding myself this isn’t the first sunrise she didn’t see — just the first we saw without her

Kesennuma among the sunlit wrecks the sounds of gulls       (originally from the 17th International “Kusamakura” Haiku Competition

outgoing tide the old sailor’s gaze moves inward

bitter wind the smell of honey in the empty hive

wild strands blown from an empty nest I grow my hair long again

November walk — settling for what’s left of the bittersweet       (2nd Place Winner of the 2012 Robert Frost International Poetry Contest)

barely longer than a cardinal’s call . . . winter haiku

butterfly under her skin the ink takes shape

spring winds — knowing just how to touch you

unable to help myself rip tide

day moon — the poem sounded better last night       (originally published in ko 27.4, autumn-winter 2012)

autumn mist as far as roads will reach

morning walk — wrapped and unwrapped by the fog

at the deep end of the sky prairie  

late afternoon each tombstone in its neighbor’s shadow

the creek where she was baptized sun after rain

season opener I wheel my father into the shade

baseball in the distance a metronome keeping the slow time of summer

still some swagger in his white linen trousers the summer wind

no fences . . . the spirit of a wild horse in the gusting wind

old carousel horse a gleam of wildness in the painted eye

grass blades edged with frost his apology

snowflakes all the places she was childless

gathering dark-red roses I trim the thorns cutting off regrets before a petal falls

still life class she pours her heart into the skeleton

clinging to work clinging to home cicadas

unexpectedly warm I take off my summer jacket feeling as if I were back in Saigon

ghetto building in every window the rest of the world

ghetto building in every window the rest of the world

Old men in a park bitching about the world. A little kid beside dances to no music.  

city loneliness a sparrow drops into its shadow

in this white hour between deep night and dawn even the wren stares

planting delphiniums in dark soil — the taste of rain water

foot massage the creek gurgles between my toes

this April morning even the fly primps and preens

what the crows are doing louder and more important

our marriage or what’s left of it . . . fireflies

spring blues– the flower notes in my tea

prom night a petal clings to the strawberry

moonlight— trying not to analyze the kiss