I've got to get back to the tall timber soon,​ Back where the big firs saw at the sky.​ Back where I rise to the cries of a loon,​ Back where the osprey and eagles still fly.​ The city and its woes scare me to death,​ The squalor and stench burns in my eyes.​ My heart is pounding I can't catch my breath,​ To tell you the truth, I'm sick of the lies.​ ​ The bells and whistles, the honking of horns,​ The screech of tires the curse and the yell.​ I need to wake up to clear, quiet morns,​ To be stuck in this city's like living in hell.​ I'm gagging on a swill, mistaken for air,​ And I can't trust a soul that I see.​ I'd just as soon lie in a rattlesnake's lair,​ I can't stay in the city, I need to be free I need to have my campfire at night,​ I've got to be able to count my stars.​ I'm blinded by the glare of the city's light,​ I'm froze like a deer in eyes of their cars.​ I've got to get back amid valley and peak,​ I need a good lashing from the wind and rain.​ I crave the culture of a babbling creek,​ I've got to get back to my mountains again.​ ​ I've not seen a smile since I looked in the mirror,​ Their taut furrowed gaunt faces tell of their fears.​ They scurry like mice, amid the din and the furor,​ And they've all got cell phones stuck in their ears.​ I gave it my best,​ I failed your test,​ Now, I need some rest,​ I need a good lashing from the wind and rain,​ I've got to get back to my mountains again. -- Michael Barker Right Click Image Save:

Sharing a carrot is our unspeaking -

If you cannot laugh, lower your eyes as this day dies-- crawl with the sun's light out a window towards night. The day delivers too much sun to see this particular piece of earth, produces so many sounds the mind jumps onto dream-stage. My eyes open to a dark window and begin to question the morning. Clock tells me it's that time to begin a day of trying to do what has never been done so well before. --Tim Van Ert Right Click Image Save Download PDF to Print

We marveled at the blue door, Her painting Hung on westward wall. Again I meet this painting Strong pure airy Hung on another nail, Another wall, House of another friend. Years later mulling blue doors old friends Look down at the rug beneath my feet see my own blue door Latched in wool and whimsy lay four blue doors of various tint Turquoise Federal blue a blue that could see forever! A marvelous seascape hue Opening from my own house to my own heady beach. -- Wanda Larson Right Click Image Save Download PDF to Print

A dream dress gives trouble

In a brief span of time the seasons change, and I walk into the middle of October. I love the smell of a fall morning, the wet, thick air against my face. I gaze at my Mulberry tree. Its red and orange leaves pretend to have no trouble letting go. I wish I could let go. I brush the fog from my eyes and turn off the world. This is my special space, where anything can happen and usually does. Like having sweet memories of things that never took place I escape deep within and move through the shadows of my inner world. My wound is like a blister on my soul, and complete healing never occurs . I mourn the loss of my mother here. I reach through time and space and reshape the truth until it feels comfortable. Inside this moment, I inhale her memory and brace myself. I am exquisitely alive here. So is she --Jill Davis Right Click Image Save: Download PDF to Print

Today is the fog that veils the sea –

Green seizes spring like prey,

Cold is blue, lonely and sad.

When I was small

Clear is a diamond