Baba Yaga Tanka

changeable
as Baba Yaga, as apt
to bless or curse
any day now, my cabin
might arise on chicken legs

Autumn Noelle Hall, Green Mountain Falls, Colorado, USA

To read more mythic tanka from ATLAS POETICA, click here.

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by Kai Harper Leah

Spring Medley by Joan McNerney

Spring Medley
 
April quietly turns
emerald green.
 
Breezes shake apple
blossoms…an aromatic
blizzard.
 
Listen to this soft
symphony of raindrops.
 
After showers, gardens
of stars flower.
 
Evening is the dawn
of night time.
 
Meteors write poetry
across heaven.

Posted in Poetry. Tags: , . 4 Comments »

Heart of a Poet by Karen O’Leary

Heart of a Poet
 
The soul
spills on white sheets–
creative expression
born of compassion, honesty,
and dreams
 
Previously published in Sketchbook, 2009
 

Posted in Poetry. Tags: , . 26 Comments »

Poetry Class Field Trip: haiku and photographs by Ursula Moeller

We spent yesterday, Earth Day, at the Botanical Gardens, walking the maze on Museum Hill, and at the Museum of International Folk Art.

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blue-grey agave
thorned century plant
dies after blooming

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step by step by step
inward eyes; quiet mind
beware, Miinotaur

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words for the displaced
but
who speaks English?

Haiku by Shabbir Shaikh

Evenings walk

My shoes sing duet

With crickets

from Selu, Maharashtra

B, B, B…by Karla Linn Merrifield

 
B, B, B…

“There is no feeling more pleasant, no drug more addictive,
than setting foot on virgin soil.” – E.O. Wilson

In the alphabet of my Maritimes summer,
I’m preoccupied with B.

It’s the bunchberries’ fault.
Their scentless ivory blossoms

bewitch me with pale, cruciform petals
above a cross of leaves,

the cardinal points
of my estival compass

this journey north and east where
B leads not to C but to another:

the Bog. The bog’s beckoning
bunches-of-berries-to-be

in August seduce me to slog;
sink both feet into peat-moss,

a brown befuddlement up to my shins,
breathing bog, pure bog.

Breathing dwarf larch and orchids,
and lichen, odorless, clean.

I’m baffled I can step away, venture
beyond the subtle beauty of the bog, but

I do.
A bay beckons,

a blue bay
of blue whales.

The biggest beast this blue globe
has ever known knows me.

Baleine bleu beguiles
with the greatest breath.

***

the Bs of New Brunswick and Bay of Fundy
behind me. I make it to

the Bay of Gaspé;
I reach land’s end; I plunge—

because of the bunchberries,
the bog, the bay, the one true blue whale.

Liberty by Paul Éluard

Paul Éluard

Liberty
Translated by A. S. Kline © 2001

On my notebooks from school
On my desk and the trees
On the sand on the snow
I write your name

On every page read
On all the white sheets
Stone blood paper or ash
I write your name

On the golden images
On the soldier’s weapons
On the crowns of kings
I write your name

On the jungle the desert
The nests and the bushes
On the echo of childhood
I write your name

On the wonder of nights
On the white bread of days
On the seasons engaged
I write your name

On all my blue rags
On the pond mildewed sun
On the lake living moon
I write your name

On the fields the horizon
The wings of the birds
On the windmill of shadows
I write your name

On the foam of the clouds
On the sweat of the storm
On dark insipid rain
I write your name

On the glittering forms
On the bells of colour
On physical truth
I write your name

On the wakened paths
On the opened ways
On the scattered places
I write your name

On the lamp that gives light
On the lamp that is drowned
On my house reunited
I write your name

On the bisected fruit
Of my mirror and room
On my bed’s empty shell
I write your name

On my dog greedy tender
On his listening ears
On his awkward paws
I write your name

On the sill of my door
On familiar things
On the fire’s sacred stream
I write your name

On all flesh that’s in tune
On the brows of my friends
On each hand that extends
I write your name

On the glass of surprises
On lips that attend
High over the silence
I write your name

On my ravaged refuges
On my fallen lighthouses
On the walls of my boredom
I write your name

On passionless absence
On naked solitude
On the marches of death
I write your name

On health that’s regained
On danger that’s past
On hope without memories
I write your name

By the power of the word
I regain my life
I was born to know you
And to name you

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