by Steve Luttrell

the man
on the bridge
(alone)
standing.

neither here
nor there.

by Steve Luttrell

Mind’s
necessary
movement

memory’s
dislodged
fragments

what
comes up
comes up

by Steve Luttrell

The tides
to bring
the news
of oceans.
Where the weather
takes the shape
of change.

by Lucien Stryk

Ancient recorder: mind leaps
through centuries of pain,
beyond war, peace, genocide,
even love.  Circles like swallows
over and beyond the madness.

Skims through ash of shifting
empires.  Sifts through a flush
of flowers.  Chips through layers
of ages.  Panhandling thoughts
over a rainbow carpet into

moon-buttered gutters of time.
Leaps like a trick of light
on a burst of dandelion fluff,
scattering seeds over boulders
and thistles.  Latching on

creeping mimosa snagging
a tree.  Drifts by songs of deep-
throated fluting birds caught
in the terror threatening their
world, with blunderers conducting

battle hymns in suits and ties,
spit polished with a prayer, that
bandaid for the soul.  Wind turns
the pages — eighty-four years
fold into this moment.  Rummage

to make sense of it.  With all
the tricks the years have played
on me, I see more clearly now
with my one eye.  Shake rain from
my umbrella.  Tomorrow’s promise, sun.