by Carl Little

There it is again, dark thought,
this time as you read about earthquakes
in Arkansas. At some point
the mind shows you the world

flying apart for whatever reason:
monster asteroid, too much gas
fracked. You suddenly
understand the end times

that woman from the woods
mentions in passing
at the post office, as if they were
as important as lobby hours,

the rising price of postage —
thy kingdom come and
someone’s will be done.
Which reminds you:

your worldly goods will go
to your children, that
next generation everyone
says will pay dearly

for our excesses and sins.
Maybe they can secure
the planet as it makes its way
around the sun, which

spreads a glow this morning
over spruce and snow,
cold north solid yet
ready to melt for spring,

disaster barely averted again.

by Bobby Breen

i.
Vast this sky shield, bright as a husky’s eyes full
of unhurried, mountain-high, heaven clouds.
I stop awhile on Pleasant Hill, all about me
farm fields that display hay rolls in rows.  A man
meadow-sitting in a chair with his extended

spirited string pinched between his fingers and thumb
attached to a soul-high-flying kite.
I hope this High Summer day allows you to
drift detached from all you tackle every day.
A female companion stands at the ready.

I imagine, set with a pair of kite wings
ascending, witnessing such bravery.
After soaring you bundle up your
flying freedom kit with fit leather gloves,
your durable hands wheel you to your stationed car.

ii.
I drift off to Christina’s World, her
figure horizontal, grounded in an amber field.
Knuckles tufted in the soft grass, she
draws paralyzed legs, inches up the steep hill,
her eyes front-on the many-room prize.

The laddered home suggests a farm in
desperate need of repair. A single dress
flying on a clothes line shows a modest life.
Posts poor of their chicken wire stand tall.
Her dream world holds up hope for us all.

She reaches the farmhouse on the hill.
Wyeth observes her dress-dust-trails
all about the house. Did she ever want

to climb the rungs to snatch an ancient myth,
say, a silver apple from a full moon night?

Does she long to touch stars? Are they like old friends?
Her steadfast integrity reached by few,
she fastens on to self-worth. Passes on charity.
I draw courage from her stoic image
as if I could live a moment in her muscle torment.
Healed, with new titanium hips, I hurry to
catch the incoming tide, and like a child in the womb,
swim free of pain. Friends sunbathe on shore rocks.
A seal pup surfaces to scan land visitors.
Dare I ever leave the grain of a gifted day.

by Craig Sipe

Something about a Q
in any word wonders
what it’s about

Quandary at the bend
qualm in a hunch
or quince in your pie
It’s always
the quarterback’s fault
for the quirk

And after the squall
we all have doubts
— squash or gourd —
you never know
what the squid inks up
in the quiet of the quilt,
the quixotic scribble
of the sheet

Squander is a good
word too
It sounds like something
it has to do
and it rhymes
with Ponder which
has no Q.