Poetry

Totem Bookends     – by Carol Nahachewsky

Some people are first struck
by the salt air.
But for me it was the trees.
Cedar. Pine. Arbutus. Fir.
Taller than anyone (or God) intended.
I’m grateful for the artists
who captured them.
The sunlight drifting through.
Shifting ancestral giants:
reaching totem bookends to the sky.

Cedar Song     – by Celia Carlson

Small and green, I emerge from the cedar
as a frog from the great flood. Bark

weeping bark
Photo by Kirilka Stavreva

spills from the dead stump, frothing
like spittle sealing frogs’ eggs together.

I hold my veined hands to the light
and lean into the first steps of my dance.

Oh earth, let me root here, even
if my dance is only the flickering of spores

in the spotted light between crumbling ancients
and juncos’ song. For me the rough sluicing

of outer skin for roof shakes; for me
the carving of woodflesh into aboriginal bums.

How humorous, how delightful that my seed
should root my spirit deep into this humus.

Mystic Vale  – automatic poems by Jessica Tremblay

***
water escapes my fingers
I wade deeper and deeper
hoping to see my lover’s face
reflected by moonlight
in the stream of Mystic Vale

***
the leaves show me a map
of where I shouldn’t go
bless the heart of things unknown!

I waited long enough
for the stream to touch
my lips

***
the wind said it all
it’s useless to explain
tomorrow I will return
in your dreams

***
birds change their course
when autumn comes
so I will change my mind
and turn towards land
back to the brook

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