(Today we welcome Diane Webster, a poet you will seeing more of on this site in the future, as in this Thursday!-LA )
On the lake’s shore
the bare tree looks like
a naked woman — her hair
tangles around her head
as wind shifts east to north,
back again in circling
rage of imprecise journey.
Her arms flail
dance moves forgotten
after execution, after elbows
jab the wind for space.
Diane Webster
storm rising wavelengths of white ibis
pulsar the tern’s wings in the Atlantic sun
zarzaparilla
brown pelicans trace
the Folium of Descartes
where the waves are the end of the beginning
neither shadow
nor reflection
sanderlings
my best days behind me the waves of the Atlantic
her wings
a laughing gull spreads
the stratocumulus sky
sea dune
pennywort stolons stitching together
the earth
a quarter moon in the seaspray lavender dusk
starstrand
the new vowels
the Atlantic teaches me
Joshua St. Claire
deep spring
the elm chooses
the crow
pineshadow
over the chicory field
mackerel clouds
storm-broken hemlock
the lanternfly’s proboscis deeper
into the blood
spruce in cone
the lengthening blueness
of its shadow
white clover
expanding to the forest’s edge
crowcaw
maple leaves
skittering across asphalt
autumn’s voice
a yellow oak leaf
flittering into the cold
last monarch
quidnuncs
the starlings light
on a bare hickory
the mountain ends the forest ends winter rain
winter stream
a birch tree falls
into another self
ice-glazed pine
those years
I held myself in stasis
a single sycamore
in the center of the woods
first lightning
Joshua St. Claire
white oncidium
the sun splitting
into her infinities
graduation day
sunlight lingering
in dusk clouds
a billion suns glistering
in the parking lot
nameless galaxies
last sun
the scent of oleander
in luminous pools
the wingspan of a white ibis sun
sunburst
through the stratocumulus
Adam’s needle
from the throat of the robin sun
iron sun
a vulture unmoving
in the heat
the sun disk behind shifting the stratocumulus clover meadow
storm over
shards of sun shatter
from the sycamore
the sun’s scarlet
dips behind the distant hills
first cigarette
Joshua St. Claire
(Image by DWB)
(Dedicated to the useless gentrificationers of genuine pain)
Nobody wants to admit it
But we are ashamed of our past
‘I did not grow up poor in deep shit
And my fun parents made me laugh’
My happy childhood is the death of me
How dare my parents mock my artistry
Goddam daddy who didn’t drink
And mom who didn’t fuck the town
What was I supposed to think
When they failed to let me down
My happy childhood is the death of me
How dare my parents mock my artistry
Gramps didn’t stick his hands down my pants
Ain’t no hood profit in picket fence life
Credible people don’t stand a chance
Only the damned know how to bleed right
My happy childhood is the death of me
How dare my parents mock my artistry
(Artifacts of a past well remembered–both establishments these came from have been replaced by parking garages. The fuckers.)
(This is a neighbor whom I call “Da Blues.” He is a gregarious Russian Blue, his owner is very nice–but, for the love of God–do not dress your pets!)
(Pieces of the Twin Towers at The Evergreen Park 9-11 Memorial, Bremerton, WA)
(Note: This concludes our run of poetry by Paul Tristram. We hope to see more from him soon!–LA)
… when those mental Gallows shade the morning
greyer than the factory smoke of unfulfilled lives.
I saw an old man, shaking and sobbing
at the side of the street, one wrinkled hand
outstretched, downwards, at a Guillotine angle
… at the fresh, emotional roadkill there
“I told you that your ‘Heart’ would lead you here.”
Having a ‘Hole In Your Bucket’ is bad luck,
but, what’s more important is the… ‘Timing’.
“There’s only the ‘Cold Side’ of the Bed left!”
she screamed hysterically, again and again…
until everyone present ‘Frowned’ far too much,
and left her, to go and Learn how to better Manage
how to face their own internal Winter months alone.
You’re never selfish for Suffering,
unless you’re sharing it, trading ‘Ice’ for ‘Heat’
and draining the ‘Colour’ from another’s Welcome.
I never ‘Accept’ anything ‘Unpleasant’
… instead, I ‘Tolerate’ … like a Convict,
biding-his-time for the very first chance of Escape.
© Paul Tristram 2026
It was that ‘Wobble’
in her cagey voice
which first attracted
my attention…
then, I noticed
the depth of her
brilliant green eyes.
“The ‘Streets’ take
more than they give
… but, you’ve
retained a fraction
back beyond Reach,”
I smiled, connecting.
She focus-studied
my friendly face…
“You’re Switzerland,
no Judgement Gavel
… Shelly told me
about your ‘Gifts’…
and, I’ve come
here to Barter some
Empathy for Stories.”
© Paul Tristram 2026
I was not (Purposefully) ignoring you
… merely contemplating
Delacroix’s movement of colour.
That ‘Tree’, over to the left,
reminds me of the Grief
that elderly people keep to themselves.
I want an entire day without questions
… to breathe poetic music,
instead of spleen, out of my pores.
You’re lucky we can’t connect fully
… I’d destroy you with a gear-change,
before I’d even realised what I’d done.
We’ve lost the Red Telephone Boxes
… and the Urban Seagulls
have ‘Gang-Territoried’
the Sunday afternoon Park Duck Pond.
I can taste the word ‘Change’
… and it’s not like ‘old pennies’…
more uncomfortable like tiny ‘springs’.
Remember the last time we parted?
… the road got clumsy and heavier…
until the Rains of Fate
brought you back around into my Life.
© Paul Tristram 2026
Do not join the hordes
of those Dead
long before
they actually Die.
Even when Life
boxes you in stationary
keep moving forward
with your Mind.
And when Hope
seems Pointless
or Evasive…
that’s when, in fact,
you need it Most.
Although Today
is dark and sinking…
drowning-man Cling
onto the Magic
possible in Tomorrow.
© Paul Tristram 2026
(Note: this week we are happy to introduce our readers to Paul Tristram. He will be the star of the show through Friday–LA)
I do like the ‘Rain’
accompanying
the brisk walk
away from
long overdue,
inevitable
‘Goodbyes’…
it’s almost as
if the Heavens
are applauding
your… ‘Decision’.
‘Solitude’ a little,
before the road
forward…
the words ‘Solo’
and ‘Successful’
hold hands
inside my self
-satisfied smile…
Ghosts remain
invisible to
those not Haunted.
© Paul Tristram 2026
