TBeaulieu

I’ve ended up closer to Death Valley than to
The cornucopia fields of San Joaquin
Even though I’ve said I’m halfway between them
I’m sliding down the sandy slopes eastward,
After two plus years in isolation, I’m in the desert
Where word-devils spin my poems up
Into the blinding sunlight which hurts my
Pale blue eyes that linger away from the blank page.
So much to write about – relief fund fraud, rents doubling
Legal loopholes that spiral out to lasso the edge-walkers
The opportunists, and survivors of poverty, laziness, bad luck, razors
Because if you understand the system there is more bounty
If you can’t climb up to the high road you don’t take it
I’m fortunate to be a spectator of this bottom feeding
And write about it, and whine about how the tiny tornadoes
Steal my words, up and away, even as they sparkle in the dust.

Dianne M. Buxton’s poetry can be seen in Poemicglobal, Caveat Lector, The Griffin, Sanskrit, and The Pathway To The Heart anthology . A graduate of the National Ballet School of Canada and an alumni of the Martha Graham School of Contemporary Dance in NYC, she retired from performance and teaching in the dance world and now writes.

Being walkers with the dawn and morning
Walkers with the sun and morning, 
We are not afraid of night, 
Nor days of gloom,
Nor darkness, 
Being walkers with the sun and morning. 

Langston Hughes was a poet, novelist, fiction writer, and playwright. He is known for his insightful, colorful portrayals of black life in America from the twenties through the sixties and was important in shaping the artistic contributions of the Harlem Renaissance.

I.

Winter? Spring? Who knows?
White buds from the plumtrees wing
And mingle with the snows.
No blue skies these flowers bring,
Yet their fragrance augurs Spring.

II.

Oh, were the white waves,
Far on the glimmering sea
That the moonshine laves,
Dream flowers drifting to me,—
I would cull them, love, for thee.

III.

Moon, somnolent, white,
Mirrored in a waveless sea,
What fickle mood of night
Urged thee from heaven to flee
And live in the dawnlit sea?

IV.

Like mist on the leas,
Fall gently, oh rain of Spring
On the orange trees
That to Ume’s casement cling—
Perchance, she’ll hear the love-bird sing.

V.

Though love has grown cold
The woods are bright with flowers,
Why not as of old
Go to the wildwood bowers
And dream of–bygone hours!

VI.

Tell, what name beseems
These vain and wandering days!
Like the bark of dreams
That from souls at daybreak strays
They are lost on trackless ways.

Carl Sadakichi Hartmann, born in the late 1860s in Japan, was a dramatist, fiction writer, and art critic. His poetry collections include Naked Ghosts: Four Poems (Fantasia, 1925), Tanka and Haiku: 14 Japanese Rhythms (G. Bruno, 1915), and My Rubaiyat (Mangan, 1913). He died in November 1944.

Fusion of hydrogen
breathing life
into the stars
burning brightly

Proton chain dangling
as the mighty ones
press helium into carbon

Nitrogen to oxygen
then iron halts it all
in a bang the dragon
brings death and life

Cyn Bermudez is a writer, poet, and artist living in California. She is the author of And the Moon Follows, Brothers, Graffiti Heart, and The Dragons Club (forthcoming). She writes in various genres: general, science fiction, fantasy, weird, horror, and more. She has short stories, poetry, and art published in various journals and anthologies. Cyn serves as the current president, program chair, and webmaster for the Writers of Kern, a chapter of the California Writers Club. She enjoys other creative outlets like photography, sketching, digital art, and painting. For more information, visit her website at www.cynbermudez.com.

Stay Connected! blog wordpress | instagram @cyncbermudez | twitter @cyncbermudez | editor Planisphere Quarterly | president Writers of Kern.