The first spring day is blissful serenity
Fresh water from the mountains
Brought down unto me
After a winter that has played an ape
Until all was so very pale
That I can now hardly recall it
A neon of birds wreathed
In a wispy saxophone solo
That could put babies into an oak and honey sleep
Once beckoned by the nearly silent embrace
Of a stiffly starched dream chamber
Where even books of poetry
Become the apples of Eden
Painted in strokes I no longer remembered
And each more puzzling than the last.
More from Issue #2
Talk a New Language by Ken L. Jones
The light and color of the blossoming trees Is chrome and orange Pale stars of fruit in explosions of color And while a fragmentary nightingale sings Sounding over and over like an…
The NEW by Dave Gregg
Softly she dabs at crimson stars her hand towel bright with glow you never say where you find them but keep a tidy sky
Beyond Velvet by Ken L. Jones
The day breaks beautifully in the piety of weary boulders As I am summoned by the fields to sojourn in the ancient there Amidst the meadows of purple flowers at the height…
Blues Noise by Dave Gregg
When the blues are played dirty (as must be) and they ricochet off the brick walls and echo over the levee linger long enough to join chorus of field hollers so long…