poetry

Moon Haiku by Joshua St. Claire

distant streetlight third-quarter moon 

so late 
it’s already tomorrow 
ALL CAPS MOON 

just black coffee 
that year I was
 the crescent moon 

just another cirrus day moon 

CTRL f the moon 

sfumato 
moonlight 
through the Atlantic mist 

after the last streetlight moon 


leaving it 
untitled 
the moon 

migraine 
curled up 
into a trapezoid of moonlight 

moon through altostratus 
a porchlight turns on 
at the end of the lane 

another haiku 
about nothing 
new moon night 

Joshua St. Claire

 (Image by DWB)


Cloud Haiku by Joshua St. Claire

(The next five days will be very 5-7-5 courtesy of an expert in the field, Joshua St. Claire. Now, these works may stretch the concept of the Haiku as some of us know it, but the Springs is all about new looks–LA)

the inevitability
of altostratus clouds 
robinsong  

what’s left of September Camus’s clouds 

first things 
this theatre 
of summer clouds 

racing me 
across the meadow 
cloudshadow 

clouds creeping 
over long mountain 
dame’s rocket 

starved asters 
cirrus clouds disappear 
into the deep east 

arcus cloud 
wind bending 
Queen Anne’s lace 

autumn clouds the scent of evening primroses 

iron clouds the color of cubicles 

snow clouds 
a banshee screaming 
through the gas meter 

the lavender shadows 
of the grey clouds on blue mountain
deadline day 

clouddark 
the black vulture’s silence 
fractalizes 

Josh St. Claire

(Image by DWB)

Saragun Verse: The Lament of the Failed Artist

(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(Artifacts of a past well remembered–both establishments these came from have been replaced by parking garages.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)

I Still Wither by Paul Tristram

(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

Look… They’ve Opened Her Curtains At Last by Paul Tristram

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

Waiting At The Turnstile by Paul Tristram

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

Inch… By… Excruciating… Inch… Keep… Moving… On by Paul Tristram

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

I Shall Never Return To Inconsequentiality by Paul Tristram

(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

What’s Wrong by Fabrice Poussin

(The Springs wishes to thank Fabrice for sharing his poetry with us this week. We look forward to his next time by–The Eds.)

Perhaps you resist what you can see so clearly

the words I am barely able to hold a secret

the moments I try to steal for a little glee.

Strange world we live in where love is taboo

that you cannot give everything to the one you love

without fear of a rejection that will vanish your heart.

You see, my dear, I too hold a heart in my chest

one that have been yours for more than a decade

I cannot quite see why it is so hard for you to welcome it.

I am but a little thing trapped in this world for a short while

brought to your realm in spite of myself by a strange power

I cannot fathom any other reason for my presence near you.

Today I see you from such a great distance, why

do you so remove all hope of a dream land without

the laughs, the gentle gifts, the lovely proximity.

It is a new year, perhaps an innate resolution

the space made of a void never to be filled

is it such pain for you to enjoy the future in peace?

Thus, I ask again, possibly of the universe;

what is so wrong with loving you when

I merely want to give you the peace of a loving heart?

Fabrice Poussin

If You Please by Fabrice Poussin

I have had enough of these miserable hours

I ask that you will end my misery at her feet,

so, at last she knows I was true.

Interminable hours have gone since I met you

unaware of the gift your brought at my door

one that grew while I remained naïve of its reach.

What more may I require in this age when

the years had swiftly vanished and I remain

standing beside you, invisible, almost unknown.

Now, I ask that you take this shiny blade and

drive it through my chest until I sigh once more

resting a weary heart in your hands for comfort.

Not sure of the way to express my desire

for you, I am merely hoping to sleep and

at last be given the dream of you for all time.

Fabrice Poussin