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First we met
And the fire was ignited
Then we had a flaming affair
Which turned into love
But over time the fire burned lower
And we lost the hot spark of our love
The fire was dying, but you didn’t notice
And so — time without the flame of love
Can not last
So as the fire dies
So too does our love
Only embers remain
But if you add wood and blow on the embers
Maybe you can rekindle the fire
That burned so hot and brightly for us
Maybe you can rekindle our love lost

—Kelsie Gates

shaking stacks of mountains
exhume sleeping
secrets

I am small.
I am afraid.
I want to live another day.

my backstreet to bliss
now crippled
agitated
chunked

Why do I run to that dangerous place?

Secrets smolder like last night’s campfire.

—Anke Hodenpijl

The Cassells cellar
earthen-floored
must-scented
raven-aired

Grandma Annie Casssells
and ten-year-old me,
heave worn wooden doors

throw daylight underground
pick our way down brick slab steps
stand still
let our eyes adjust

She leads
Bound for wooden plank shelves
Jammed against the far wall.

She reaches
For a dusty jug
amongst canned pickles, peaches, beans

She pours
a half-pint jelly jar one-quarter full
pronounces “grape juice”

She savors
A long dark liquid sip
“Ahhhhh”

She passes
the almost-empty jar
to me

She cautions
“Just a little now.
It makes you feel all warm inside.”

She stretches
her eager knobby fingers for the rest
as the jar leaves my lips.

—Annis Cassells

I once lived at the top of a mountain
Above the fog which billowed and shifted beneath my feet
Like the gently lapping waves of a great, white sea.
Other peaks poked through that vast ocean –
Isolated islands.
And the sky above was very clear and bright.

Unseen people below me looked up
And saw nothing but a flat, grey ceiling –
A fitting cover for a dreary world
Full of busy-ness and duty and
Feet planted firmly on the ground.
And beneath that grey, the California seasons
Pass by unnoticed in monotonous sameness.

But on the mountaintop, I watched the cycle of life –
The sight of the first glowing, translucent leaves of spring.
The hot, heavy scent of sage and dusty summer oak.
The whisperings and rustling of dying leaves.
And the delicate caress of the first snowflake on my cheek.

Every season
I climbed to the highest peak
And sat alone above the world
Silent and at peace.

—Joan Kerr

Childish beliefs in fairy tales
Deaf ears and blind eyes;
Courted by a fraud:
Carried away by his lies.

Naïve trust of rogue
Who became so profane:
So cruel in pursuit of pleasure
A harbinger of pain.

Headlong into disaster
The foolish maid is lain.
The “happily ever after”
A sorrowful refrain.

Purity and trust betrayed
By the fists of rage:
Love turned to ashes
Only a stain of blood remains.

—Kathleen Ellis Faulkner