Green (digital version)

GR E E R N

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A WCC Poetry Club Anthology â˜ź Edited by Tom Zimmerman

Green is a publication of the WCC Poetry Club, Washtenaw Community College,

Ann Arbor, Michigan.

This issue was produced on a PC using Microsoft Publisher. Fonts used include Courier New and Garamond. Design and layout by Tom Zimmerman. Reproduced by the WCC Copy Center.

Copyright © 2014 The individual authors and artists.

Simon Mermelstein’s poem “Gaia Is a Cyborg Now” first appeared in his chapbook Zero One (Zetataurus Press, 2013).

The works herein have been chosen for their literary and artistic merit and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Washtenaw Community College, its Board of Trustees, its administration, or its faculty, staff, or students.

WCC Poetry Club Meetings are in the Writing Center, LA 355 Fridays @ 5 pm during Fall & Winter Fridays @ 1 pm during Spring/Summer All Welcome tzman@wccnet.edu http://wccpoetryclub.owrdpress.com

The Huron River Review

WCC’s Award-Winning Literary Magazine Seeks Poetry, Fiction, Nonfiction, Photography, & Artwork Open to Submissions September through January hrr@wccnet.edu http://thehuronriverreview.wordpress.com

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GREEN A WCC Poetry Club Anthology Edited by Tom Zimmerman Contents—Words Zoe Porter Radek Ozog Simon Mermelstein Bryan Wilson Alexandra Duranczyk Amy Rust Higgins Tom Zimmerman William Bullard Alissa Rheinheimer Mike McNally Sarah Levin Erica Morris Tom Cudney Jem Lewis Kristen Holt Diane M. Laboda Sheldon Ferguson

Apartment 1313A: The Man, The Rain I walk a green line Gaia Is a Cyborg Now Two Poems Two Poems Berry Picker Girls’ School Dark Mother Always The Long Echo A Meditation on Green: A Fragment GREEN Green The Crow and the Leaf The Archaeologist of Love Stop the Noise The Red Devi Elemental Lament Dun’ Stole My Soul Orbs of Mystery All Things Growing Spring Six Haiku

4 7 8 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 20 21 22 26 27 32 33 34 35 36 38 39 40

Contents—Images Zoe Porter Tom Zimmerman

Ayowole Oladeji Tom Zimmerman

Chit Chat (Surf Punk) Thayer Goosestep “The Virgin Mother” (detail), by Damien Hirst Garden Sentinel Tanza in a Tree Four Drawings Sunbathers Green Monster 3

5 6 6 9 19 22 28-31 37 Back cover

Zoe Porter Apartment 1313A: The Man, The Rain There’s a man that sleeps in my apartment mostly during the day but for a few quarter hours at night he opens refrigerator shuffles pots and pans to oven cooks food substitutes elicits rain from the sink and shower My dreams raindrops stories of tightening the toilet seat because the man shifted it loose with his weight I crawl down stare up between the shower and the toilet pliers in one hand screwdriver in the other turn the plastic screw for eternity Wake sometimes my fat eyes tell the story cleaning the man’s toothpaste off the mirror enjoying it sort of quietly to not disturb the sleeping man I shake my boots upside down free of spiders the soles clean of ants slip out the door lock it my eyes burn with spring I have things to do as they say things to do get in my car drive to take a walk in the rain I like how green the rain becomes tonight I will go back to my apartment not sure why free will I guess and thunder lightning

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Zoe Porter

Chit Chat (Surf Punk)

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Zoe Porter

Thayer

Tom Zimmerman

Goosestep 6

Radek Ozog I walk a green line I walk a green line only to stumble in the dirt. the green lines to show that you’re not drunk off life. and being drunk off life means that you’re going through life acting like a fool. with wise works I only paint paths of green.

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Simon Mermelstein Gaia Is a Cyborg Now A pulse beats beneath the street The rumble of subterranean steel Subways, steam tunnels, sewage systems Ginsu guardrails deep below Boston The core of this planet is iron, a magnet Electric, bipolar, with veins full of metal Gaia is a cyborg now Her tail is the cables that hug the ocean Her scars are ruins that would make Tyler Durden cry and when a mother's comfort or a lover's whisper leaps lightspeed across the globe she is howling at the moon She is choking on smokestacks and laughing on the fumes She is turning cars into coral reefs and floral motifs Compost post-modern apocalyptic rain-garden Flooded basements and I wonder where all that toxic waste went Katrina Fukushima Mount Rushmore Cheyenne Yucca and Hoover Goddamn Blast doors for cold wars and global warming And when transmission towers come crashing down she welcomes them with open arms, they are home now

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Tom Zimmerman

“The Virgin Mother� (detail), by Damien Hirst

Bryan Wilson Two Poems

Serpentine Lullaby I am coiled, calm, and carnivorous. A scaled worm with ribbon tongue, spiraling around the limbs of trees, pillars, ...you. The Sliding of armoured skin persuades— (hold still). Yet, still I pull myself around, crushing this body with my own. My hissing is a goodnight song, I’ll tuck you in. I shan’t be long.

A Quill That Cuts On the floor again, scribbling our stories for someone to see. Collective in one’s own scattered thoughts. They come rushing inwithout invitation sometimes, as others gracefully take their leave. Ours is a quieter kind, of an old art form. The scribes of modern day some might say. Although we may not be center stage, we’ll make our voices carry. For this, They’ll tell us that our aspirations are in vain—that “If you want the world to hear you, you’ve got to sing it out!” We’ll stick to silent symphonies composed of ink and love.

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Alexandra Duranczyk Two Poems

3 Year Drought You planted me; in the heat of the summer.

Roots malnourished; throughout the season of drought like promises.

Canals thin and vulnerable as veins; built where the water dissolved the foundation.

I was planted but I was not watered.

Souls the iridescent forms of our bodies.

We find shelter in molded forms of limbs— a life source within beating and functioning organs.

Finding refuge in hand-carved beings: softly sweeping in— at peace they settle.

While their lofty presence flutters, in and out; rooted breaths.

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Amy Rust Higgins Berry Picker Having found the ripest, brightest berry, should she hold it out to her downy-capped brother to pick from her palm or stuff it between her lips, crush the sweet, seeded flesh against her tongue before he sees?

She rises early, hungry for sun in her eyes, dew underfoot. To fill the glassed-in feeder is no chore but a secret summoning of scarlet birds that shake and shine in morning light like strawberries spilled at her feet.

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Amy Rust Higgins Girls’ School Picture Sappho, the lyre carved from tortoise shell on her lap, singing songs not in pieces, but whole.

Girls barefoot and bold as girls must be on an island that is all theirs surround her like a chain of daisies— laughing, half-listening.

She is their teacher after all, and will have more songs tomorrow, more dancing, more chances to spar and pierce her logic.

So it’s all right if one hears her lesson in the whispering grass, or if this dark-haired girl dreams on that blonde curl, or if the wind whips a verse away.

Later, back home in the choking heat of their villages, burdened by water jars then children, they will remember only fragments of lyrics.

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Tom Zimmerman Dark Mother Always The matted grass of spring, the smell of earth.

The rawness. Bald. The thing itself.

Poor bare forked animal, I live within, without, some rhythms so impalpable that sense and senses are hermetically sealed.

And these are days I need the birds: the crow and cardinal.

I’ve read that ancient Greeks named black and white at first.

And then came red.

For many generations, just these three: thus Homer’s “wine-dark sea.”

My mother loved the color blue.

My older sister, green.

My wife has always favored red.

This brings me back to matted grass: that pubic hair was under wraps too long.

And now we see why everyone’s so happy.

It can be complex, however.

For example, think: a mother blushes when her son comes home with moustache and a beard.

She cannot look him in the face.

The secrets of the life force, like the sun, the face of God, cannot be gazed at squarely.

Truth can never blind us, only vex us with its mystery.

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Tom Zimmerman The Long Echo Tree-shadows stretch, grow monstrous: like the years, like Peewee after any nap, like you back when the sex was hotter.

It’s all right. We’re still alive.

And look how goddamned wise.

The days and pages fill so fast, the past not past, not even passing.

Carousel or double helix, round and round and up and down: yes, that’s been us.

Right now, the sky is gray as temple hair, but I’ll just snip it off.

The sky, I mean.

Which means I’m God or simply nodding off again.

But God’s been sleeping in that tiny jewel inside our minds, curled up within that sweat lodge, smell of cedar breathing from our former selves.

There was a melody that’s now dissolved to rhythm.

I’m not sure which song is best.

And I’m not sure I’ve lived this right.

But there’s no crisis.

Just the same old questions, all the thunder in the cave until we rise on haunches, see the shadows’ play, and wonder.

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William Bullard A Meditation on Green: A Fragment In the summer, my backyard is a symphony of green. It is encased in green.

There is a green border around it so that it is very private. On one side, there is a row of pine trees. On the opposite side a densely wooded area creates a space in between my house and the next house. And, at the back of the yard is a high, dense hedge made of the small trees and high bushes. A green lawn creates the floor. Three trees of good size dominate the yard. All of this green greets me as I sit on my deck overlooking the yard. As I sit and gaze at all of the greenery and all of the various plants, bushes and trees that make up the greenery, I always feel inspired and quite often meditative.

Sometimes I just drink in the green, alternating between just surveying the yard and focusing on the trees, as if I am looking at works of art; sometimes I think deeply about the things that concern me; and sometimes I pass into a state of communion with the nature around me, and at the same time, the deeper parts of my unconscious.

Moreover, I often end my time with quiet chanting.

There are many constituents that contribute to my inspiration and entry into a meditation experience, whenever I sit on my deck and encounter the wonderful vision of green, and of the trees that inhabit my yard. For one thing, I immediately encounter a quaternity, when I sit and look at the three large trees that dominate my view. The quaternity that I experience is made up of the three trees and me; this relates to the Jungian concept of the four functions of the conscious mind. One function is the dominate function, and I represent that function. There are two more functions that can be visible or consciously accessible; and one function is hidden and not readily accessible to the conscious mind, and is connected to the deep unconscious. Two trees are visible to me as a sit on my deck, and there is one that that is mostly hidden from my view, although I can see a bit of it. As I sit on my deck, I am affected by the feeling of this quaternity. Jung said that one can come under the influence of an archetype in the concrete world, as well as be affected by them internally, when one enters a circumstance that contains an archetypal factor. Furthermore, I once had a dream in which the back yard in the dream represented the unconscious, and the door to the back yard was the portal to the unconscious. In the dream, I met my anima figure at the door. Thus, I go into a place, when I go into my back yard that represents a place where I can encounter the unconscious, and which actually can facilitate that experience. Beyond that, trees themselves are a powerful symbol.

As I gaze and focus on the trees that I encounter, I cannot help but be aware of their symbolic significance. One of the most famous places where a tree appears as a significant symbol is in the book of Genesis. A tree appears in the center of the 16

Garden of Eden, which is known as the Tree of Life. Adam and Eve are told, in the story, by God that they may eat freely fruit of the Tree of Life. In addition, in the tradition of Alchemy, the tree, called the Philosophic Tree, is a symbol for the Philosopher’s Stone, the goal of all the alchemical processes. Jungians indicate that all of these instances of the tree appearing as a symbol relate to the tree as a symbol of the Self, which is the archetype of the whole psyche, both conscious and unconscious, and thus includes the ego. The great Jungian process called Individuation, the achieving of wholeness, the great goal of all of the Hero Journey stories, includes the ego (conscious mind) achieving a full relationship with the Self; furthermore, Individuation means that the conscious mind manifests the whole potential of the psyche. A maple tree with an expanse of branches reaching out in a wide pattern, stands right in front of me, as I look out into my yard, and looks as if it is the Tree of Life. That makes the vision I see of my yard like a vision of Eden. This does have a strong effect on me. What is more, Jung indicates in his essay on fairy stories that the tree can be a symbol for the unconscious itself. In one story that Jung uses as an example, the magical story takes place when the hero of the climbs into the upper reaches of a great tree. These upper reaches symbolize the inner reaches of the unconscious psyche. But there is still more here, because it is the greenery itself, along with the trees that creates the full power of my vision.

Greenness is a very significant symbol. Jung says in one place, “Green is the color of the Holy Ghost, of life, procreation and resurrection.” Thus, green and greenness are closely related to the unconscious. It is, as Jung says, the color of life.

Green is one of the predominant colors of nature. A forest can be filled with many colors, from many flowers, for example; but everything will be framed with green. The Jungian and Alchemical scholar Edward Edinger says that greenness is an important color in alchemy. An alchemical text says, “God breathed into created things… a certain germination of greenness, by which all things should multiply… they called all things green, for to be green means to grow.” Edinger indicates that an alchemical text refers to green as the “benedicta veriditas,” which means the “blessed green,” and Jung indicates that the benedicta veriditas is a symbol for healing energy that is a part of the unconscious. From the way that Jung describes this, it is possible that this energy, for a man, may be related to the anima. Edinger talks about this as “the green one.” Thus, these references to greenness as being connected to the Holy Ghost and to healing energy in the unconscious firmly connect greenness to outer growth in nature, but also to inner growth and inner health. This is obvious to me, and I can know and feel this as I encounter the greenness that I see in my yard. There is always a sense of life and growing. And, as it is the way of the unconscious and the archetypes that inhabit it, if I encounter something in the outer world that is a symbol of something archetypal in my inner world, they will connect; and, thus, the outer will activate the inner, and 17

further inner growth can occur. This can occur even if one is not aware of what is going on, or even if one doesn’t know anything about a symbol; but I am aware, and I do know the symbol. That can make the experience more intense. Greenness itself and trees are symbols that are deeply intertwined with inner and outer elements. Greenness and trees are part of the earth, and earth is one of the four elements of creation that are a part of many traditions, including Alchemy. All of these constituents are a part of my experience, but there is still something else at play, in all of this, for me. This relates to the myth of Demeter and Persephone.

Demeter was the goddess of the harvest, or as Jungian scholar Gareth Hill indicates, the great goddess of nature. Persephone, the goddess of flowers, was Demeter’s daughter, and was also the daughter of Zeus. Persephone was abducted by Hades, the god of the underworld, who made her his queen. Because of this, Demeter, who was Zeus’s sister, was so consumed by grief that nothing would grow. This pushed Zeus to try to rescue Persephone, and return her to her mother. However, Hades tricked Persephone so that she had to live in the underworld for part of each year. The rest of each year she could live with her mother. Summer is part of the time during the year that the story says that Persephone lived in the upper (outer) world.

The story of Demeter and Persephone is related to the cycle of the seasons, and of the yearly rebirth of nature. Furthermore, Jung indicates that, for a man, Persephone is a symbol of the anima. I know that the psychological reality in this story touches my deep psyche as I am enveloped by greenness. I feel the aspect of rebirth and renewal keenly when I think that summer means that Persephone is living outside the underworld.

In her “Hymn to the Holy Ghost,” philosopher and mystic Hildegard of Bingen declares, “From you the clouds rain down, the heavens move, the stones have their moisture, the waters give forth streams, and the earth sweats out greenness.” When I sit on my deck surrounded by greenness, with my worldview dominated by three trees, I am embedded in the whole power and history of what greenness and trees symbolize. All of this is the life force and the life current. All of that is both within me and outside of me; and it is me. The earth sweats out greenness as the clouds rain down what is above. This is creation. Greenness is the result of the creative process, and that process happens within and outside humankind. And so, I know this as I watch the earth sweat out greenness.

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Tom Zimmerman

Garden Sentinel

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Alissa Rheinheimer GREEN . . .well? What came to mind first?

Was is those weird Harry Potter inspired jelly beans? (grass or booger if so?)

Or maybe all you could see was green. No objects, just a canvas of green. (before you told your brain to stop lagging and to do something with it, darn it) Could it be you saw money? How about Green Lantern? (green Lantern holding money??)

Or maybe you saw. . .

Asnakeleavesst.patrick’sdaygreenbeerafieldasolarpanelyourgrandma’sgreenshirt.

. . .So what does it say about you, that first thing you saw?

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Alissa Rheinheimer Green Branches entwining Like so many arms Green leaves, A canopy of waving hands— (Dark with shadows Of jealousy and sickness Light with sunshine Of growth and hope.)

This green canopy above me, These dark and light greens— Hands dappled With Shadow And Light, But all still entwined.

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Tom Zimmerman

Tanza in a Tree

Mike McNally The Crow and the Leaf Wind whistled through the dying leaves of the old tree, whispering eulogies. The leaves were withered, and they fell to the ground one by one. If one listened very hard, the grit of the hot, red sand could be heard against the crispy leaves.

The old tree lived in a valley of hot, red sand. She was the last of the trees there.

The valley was once filled with greenery, but the drought had caused the valley to become hot and unbearable for many trees. Those trees had wandered away to other valleys more quenched by rains and less scorched from the sun. But the old tree did not leave, for her seeds had been dropped by a line of ancient trees in that valley. It was her home.

With the choice of staying came the suffering of the sun.

“Oh sun, why do you scorch the valley and keep rain from flooding my roots and rinsing the dust from my bark?” asked the old tree. The sun did not reply, he only stared and scorched the valley even more.

The old tree stood in the valley. She would have shed tears, but she had no water in her roots and was dry. When her last leaves fell from her branches, she asked them a favor: “My sad, withered leaves, will you search for help? For if I do not get some water, I will die of thirst. Then the line of ancient trees will be broken and my seeds will not have a home.”

The leaves said yes, and searched for help. They rode on the wind and rustled over the grit of the hot, red sand for many miles. Many leaves spent so much energy searching that they crumbled and were lost in the particles of hot, red sand.

Eventually, there was only one leaf left and he was very tired. He was so tired that he lost control and was blown by the wind into a crevice in the rocky wall of the valley. He waited and despaired, thinking that he had let the old tree down.

However, good fortune was upon him when the crow came to him.

“Little leaf,” said the crow, “you seem tired and scared. You must also be lost, for you are a leaf, but I see no trees for many miles. The drought has chased out the trees of this valley and you must be alone. Are you stuck, or just resting in that crevice?”

The leaf was overjoyed that the crow had found him. “Crow, I am tired, scared, and stuck, but I am not alone. I am the last leaf of the old tree in this valley. She is close to death and sent all her leaves to search for help. But they are crumbled and lost in the particles of the hot, red sand. I am lucky, for I was about to crumble, but a fated gust of wind lodged me in the rocky wall for safekeeping. May you help the old tree?”

“Yes, I may help the old tree, for when I was young this valley was filled with greenery and provided many places of rest for me during thunderstorms.” As the crow 23

said this, he gingerly picked up the last leaf in his talons. The leaf told him where the old tree stood and he flew that way.

The crow and the leaf did not speak the entire trip, for they were both so worried for the sake of the old tree. The crow worked very hard, and sweat glistened on his black feathers. Every few miles, the crow would rest on a precipice of the rocky wall. When he rested, the crow would set the leaf down and lower his head so that drops of his sweat dripped down his beak and fell on the leaf to keep it from becoming too dry. The crow and the leaf became friends because of this special bond.

At last, the crow and the leaf made it to the old tree.

“Crow,” said the leaf, “land on one of her branches and she will know that you are here and are a friend.” The crow held the leaf in one talon now and landed on one of the old tree’s branches with the other. But the crow and the leaf were heartbroken when soon after the crow landed, the branch broke off. This was a sign that they were too late, and that the old tree had died. The crow landed softly near the old tree, quite alarmed for he did not expect the branch to snap from under him. He set the leaf down and puffed hard for he was ashamed that he had not gotten there in time.

“My old tree!” said the leaf, “I have let you down, and I am sorry. I am sad and have no energy left.”

“Little leaf,” said the crow in a somber tone, “do not despair, for it is my fault. If I had flown faster, we would have had a chance to save her.” But his friend did not reply, for he had no energy left and had crumbled into the hot, red sand.

Now the crow was alone and even more sad because he had lost his friend. He gazed at the sun and asked him, “Sun, why must you scorch the valley and kill the life in it?” The sun did not reply, he only stared and scorched the valley even more.

The crow was so sad that he shed tears around the tree. He began to fly and circled high above the tree as he cried, for he hoped his tears may bring life to the old tree. But it was no use, for the old tree did not respond to his falling tears. The crow grew tired and landed again, for he was out of tears to shed and knew it was of no use.

But then he felt a drop on his head and looked to the sky. He let out a happy call, for the sun had grown sad from seeing the crow’s despair, and the sun had started to cry. Now the sun wept, and many more drops fell from the sky. It was the first rainfall of the valley in many years, and the crow’s spirits were uplifted. He regained energy and flew high into the sky, circling above the old tree and encouraging her to drink the sun’s tears.

In time, valley began to flood and the hot, red sand could not be seen. The valley was now a shallow, flowing river. The old tree’s broken branch was floating on the water, but it was stuck behind a rock and stayed near. Then the crow flew down to the old tree and to his joy, she was alive again.

“Thank you, crow! I have new life now that my roots are flooded and the dust 24

has been rinsed off of my bark. Ride my broken branch that is stuck behind that rock, for I am certain you are too tired to fly. As you go down the river, you are sure to be delighted.”

The crow let out a happy call as he said goodbye to the old tree and stood on the broken branch. He flapped his wings to dislodge it from behind the rock, and then he rode it down the shallow, flowing river of the valley. Along the way, he was delighted to see that all the crumbled leaves of the old tree that were lost in the particles of the hot, red sand had sprouted into saplings. They all thanked him as he rode by on the broken branch.

Then the crow realized that his friend he had carried to the old tree must be a sapling also, and that put a happy thought in his head. The crow was happy and rested his eyes as he floated on the old tree’s broken branch. He was about to fall asleep when he felt the river’s current quicken and could hear a roaring of water. He knew it was a waterfall, and so he sprang from the broken branch and flew out over the deep canyon the shallow, flowing river spilled into. The crow flew through the mist of the waterfall many times in celebration of helping the old tree and his friend.

Then the crow departed and flew aimlessly for many miles. He came upon many other valleys. Some were filled with greenery and offered places of rest, but many others were suffering from drought. Whenever the crow entered a valley suffering from drought, the sun shed tears in honor of the crow and life was brought back to that valley. The crow did this for many years until life was returned to all the valleys with hot, red sand.

The crow was now old and always tired. He was also lonely because he had no family. The crow wanted to visit his friend, but he had visited so many valleys and flown so far that he forgot which valley was the valley of the old tree and his friend.

But then the crow remembered that the first valley of hot, red sand was the only one with a waterfall at the end of it. So the crow listened very hard for the roar of the waterfall, and after many days of flying he could finally hear it. His wings creaked and he was tired, but he let out a happy call and followed the noise of the roaring waterfall.

Now the crow could see the waterfall and he entered the valley. All of the saplings were now large trees that shaded the valley and its river. At last, the old and tired crow arrived where his friend stood near the old tree. The old tree had died by that time, but her seeds had continued the ancient line of trees. His friend was now a tall and mighty tree. He welcomed the old and tired crow with wind whistling through his branches. The wind whispered happiness, and the crow called his friend home.

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Mike McNally The Archaeologist of Love Her shining hair pours down to her delicate shoulders like the fresh waterfalls of a lost river.

I’m most certain it would have the aroma of exotic discovery and tantalize the burning in my heavy heart.

The veiled ocean in her eyes stretches so vastly that I can climb through and ride upon the daring waves in her dreams.

I would willingly spend my life lost at sea in her ocean eyes.

Her smile challenges the most wondrous parts of this world.

Not even sunlight breaking through the pines atop a misty hill shrouded in morning’s silver breath can rival the brilliance of her visage as she feels content in her being.

And not once have I held her hand, nor caressed her lips, nor grasped her shoulders, nor inhaled the discovery in her waterfall hair.

For if I did, my body would most certainly collapse and I would die right there, notable among even the best explorers of beauty and myself, the archaeologist of love.

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Sarah Levin Stop the Noise Scripted is all our conversation Predictable yakkety yak I have no patience for Can’t we all be silent Go about our days Memes are all we really need Dispense with the English classes Dispense with books, Let’s get back to symbols Why complicate things And we’re all sick of listening to each other’s blathering Repeated day after day Yes, we are all players On a stage Reading from a script We can only stop this nonsense By writing script no one can read

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Ayowole Oladeji Four Drawings

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Erica Morris The Red Outside on a broken deck.

Above and below all the skyscrapers.

Staring across at the ladder where the window washer fell.

Doesn’t he know when you go high in an elevator your ears pop?

Maybe not when you hear all the things around you, but real words.

Her stomach gets weak and all the noise surrounding them is lies.

When her fist is full of a limp cock but she’ll smile and say it doesn’t matter.

The feelings below are imaginary and what is left of her sanity is in a broken down station wagon outside of Texas.

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Tom Cudney Devi There is a little space, a secret, special, quiet place, sunny, green, shining grace, inside my heart, beneath my face.

Getting here is simple.

There never stood a gate, but misery and darkness have hidden it away.

Lie a bit and rest, dear, hush the noise today.

Give away your power, hatred, fear, and pain.

Submit him in surrender, and free us from desire.

Embrace Her warming lessons.

Blood flows freely in the fire.

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Jem Lewis Elemental Lament Though the breeze may be gentle soothing to the face roaring fires now unquenchable a new beginning’s destined place.

Though the road may be sturdy miles covered in the days of man straight path made curvy Life’s gregarious demand.

Though the tides make thee weary crushing waters ever high roles in life seen clearly when in turn each creature begins to die.

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Jem Lewis Dun’ Stole My Soul He dun' stole my soul in the wake of a chilled night.

I, filled with fright, offered up my inner light for a curse—the rich man's plight.

My soul, my soul, I dun' traded it for gold.

The truth—that sly old serpent never once told taking my most valuable treasure in a fashion so brazen, so bold: eye to eye he robbed me, overflowing my weary hand.

A convenient condemnation—terms no person would understand is the first retribution of his master plan.

O' my Lord, my Lord, please place judgement on the accord.

For even with newly acquired riches, I cannot afford to be daily defeated deep in the depths of his infernal ward.

He dun' stole my soul, he dun' stole my soul!

My attrition richly gifted by honest lies he told.

The heat of the moment, alas, too cold.

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Kristen Holt Orbs of Mystery There is nothing on the surface of my flesh that could show that my youth ever eludes me.

There is only the smoothness of my legs and the vivid vision of ink and the straightness of my teeth.

There is another layer of myself that no onlookers see— unless we should meet.

For, there is an orb of mystery beneath my skull that radiates life that is invisible to me.

I am learning how to live, I am learning how to exist, I am learning how to speak.

I am learning to defy your preconceived notions— that is the only escape that I can see.

When withered leaves pool together on the ground and they long to be green and still attached to the trees, My dreams of going into my own and exploring the unknown become life beyond sleep.

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Tom Zimmerman

Sunbathers

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Diane M. Laboda All Things Growing She tired of his song, his words, for they stuck upon the page— living and dying there in a hodgepodge without a compass.

Though his words were kind they carried thorns of hidden truth sure to prick and fester in contact with her pale skin.

She found her solace in what stayed green— all things growing in the space between his lines, the nuanced coral-bells that filled her quiet.

She gathered stems, collecting what might grow into a soft, sweet day that fills with her own imaginings, as she sits on the porch of her lover—who never came home.

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Diane M. Laboda Spring In the moment spring arrives killdeer look up and see more blue than they ever dreamed could fit in the sky.

They sing to each other in sun-filled trills, echoing the stretching poplars and swaying willows.

Each in turn wakens, greening slowly at first, high in branches or low in roots—full of pale promise.

In the moment spring arrives, and not before, I look up and feel the tepid breeze, still and ripe, settle in the space between notes, in the pause between breaths, in the silence between words, in the moment before leaf— and in the palm of my open hand.

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Sheldon Ferguson Six Haiku Squirrel sits up in evergreen oak eating an acorn *** Evergreen valleys flowery gardens, wooded forest echoing *** Slow moving murmuring lake under azure sky *** Digging, digging, digging is a squirrel hoping to find nut *** Squirrel tightrope walks across a telephone wire to silent tree *** Head bobbing up and down, lone Canada goose walks through grass

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A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. —Walt Whitman And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. —Sylvia Plath He saw the fuchsia in a drizzling noon, The elderflower at dusk like a risen moon And green fields greying on the windswept heights. —Seamus Heaney How much greener is paint than grass, especially in winter. —Elaine Equi I have sawed 2 x 6s, T-squared and leveled everything with three bubbles sealed in green glass, and now the sweat on my tongue tastes like what I am. —Yusef Komunyakaa In the green morning, before Love was destiny, The sun was king —Delmore Schwartz It is as if I could dip my hand down into time and scoop up blue and green lozenges of April heat —Anne Carson Love, meet me in the green glen —John Clare O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;

It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on —William Shakespeare The Color of the Grave is Green —Emily Dickinson The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age —Dylan Thomas The same bright eyes of green melting to blue —A.E. Stallings the grass excreting her green wax is love —Sonia Sanchez What appeared blue from afar, turns green. —Valzhyna Mort Where worried bodies of drowned men drift down in the green silence, Dropping from fingers of surf. —T.S. Eliot

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William Bullard Tom Cudney Alexandra Duranczyk Sheldon Ferguson Amy Rust Higgins Kristen Holt Diane M. Laboda Sarah Levin Jem Lewis Mike McNally Simon Mermelstein Erica Morris Ayowole Oladeji Radek Ozog Zoe Porter Alissa Rheinheimer Bryan Wilson Tom Zimmerman

WCC Poetry Club Washtenaw Community College Ann Arbor MI USA