Jacob JB

I see the receding
glacier on Lyman Lake, veins going back to the core.

Dark and mysterious veins in the hidden rock,
half what it used to be, year by year cleaving
the blue inner chamber away.

How much is a dollar worth?

— "Copper Falls" by Kai Carlson-Wee: muse.jhu.edu/pub/48/artic...

Far down valley the pale red fireweed blooms.
Tamaracks bend in the saddle of Buckskin,
the bracken keeps touching my hand.

Glaciers, avalanche shoots in the alder, deadfall building
the blueberry bush and the subterranean lung.
The clear unconditional light.

—Kai Carlson-Wee, The Missouri Review

The oldest living redwood falls.
Carburetor rusting on the concrete floor.

—Kai Carlson-Wee in The Missouri Review:
muse.jhu.edu/pub/48/artic...

A cello and fifteen human voices humming
can approximate the sound of a drone.
—Julia C Alter in
@theshorepoetry.bsky.social:

www.theshorepoetry.org/julia-c-alte...

Brian Teare Visit the post for more.

omg yes Brian Teare again yes theadroitjournal.org/issue-fifty-...

Still, I must tell you—
When I stepped over the rabbit, glass-eyed
and mangled in the tall grass, my mind
did not at first see its matted body
for what it was.

—Emily Harman in @theshorepoetry.bsky.social (excerpt)
www.theshorepoetry.org/emily-harman...

Read the magazine: www.thehaikufoundation.org/omeka/items/...

an ordinary life yet purple dahlias – Deborah A. Bennett, USA the moon and I shift workers – Stefanie Bucifal, Germany borderwallborderwallborderwall... the length of a dream – Chen-ou Liu, Canada rush hour starlings on each other's tails – Bryan Rickert, USA

four from issue 3 of Whiptail, a journal of the single line poem, via @haikufound.bsky.social

Read the rest here: readwildness.com/40/choudhary...

screenshot of the beginning of the poem, a bowl of blackberries: affixed to my lap in the doctor’s clinic, with a leaflet on organ donations, a kit, and a card of carmine numbers for an unnameable violence. Their soft bodies split between my lips, cellular and erotically inevitable. A clot, a cluster. A quiet mitosis. Grief or genesis, I couldn’t tell you.

Ali Choudhary in wildness in the December issue of wildness opening a damn poem

Behind the thin grey curtain,

who would want gloved hands touching their pain,
asking if it feels alright.

I can’t stop smiling, saying it tickles.

— Ali Choudhary in wildness
readwildness.com/40/choudhary...

Not sure about the ending, but I admire the ambition of its final thesis

The veritable night of wires and stars the moon is in the oak tree's crotch and sleepers in the windows cough athwart the round and pointed leaves and insects sting while on the grass the whitish moonlight tearfully assumes the attitudes of afternoon — But it is real where peaches hang recalling death's long promised symphony...

whose tuneful wood and stringish undergrowth are ghosts existing without being save to come with juice and pulp to assuage the hungers which the night reveals so that now at last the truth's aglow with devilish peace forestalling day which dawns tomorrow with dreadful reds the heart to predicate with mists that loved the ocean and the fields — Thus moonlight is the perfect human touch

Been reading lots of W.C.W. with a friend, but he wasn't here to read this one with me. Maybe you will. On @upenn.edu's Pennsound it's titled "Rigamarole." From Spring And All, via @wikicommons.bsky.social:

I like contemporary forms of rhyme—although I don’t seek them out—but with end-rhymed poetry my experience is the exact same: very distracting and unsatisfying.

Flowers by the Sea When over the flowery, sharp pasture's edge, unseen, the salt ocean lifts its form—chicory and daisies tied, released, seem hardly flowers alone but color and the movement—or the shape perhaps of restlessness, whereas the sea is circled and sways peacefully upon its plantlike stem

William Carlos Williams

the blue swallows the blue swallows (our thomas) Two additional poems are shown at the edges: Kelly Sauvage: dive bar corner seat saved for the sparrow Jay Friedenberg: day after day the cloud's fractal contours

our thomas in the first issue of Whiptail, 2021, a journal of the single line poem

It’s cute how people think Trumpists care how upcoming elections will go like they plan to keep having them

I love this idea.

Yokes I’m standing right behind the Great Eye of Everything, in its optic nerve spot So it has to make me up from my Surroundings, plus its best guess. Actually That spot is in the front, the little pinhole Whose light lands right on the nerve-root Unless I’m wrong again. A friend Is someone who, when you’re wrong, tells you There are more important things than being Right. I’m that upside-down light Never flipped back over in the brain Or the rain, wetting your wrists as you lift The turtle from the road, carry her To the safe grass, wet too, head hidden So even though you help her parry cars Turkey vultures plastic 6-pack rings she can’t See you, & won’t come out until you are gone

deeply honored to be included in the Michigan City Review of Books today!! here’s one of the poems, hope you enjoy it & the other two too :)

it's here! on the heels of our last big snow, enjoy some queer plant-based writing to keep yourself hale, hearty, and very gay!

we never kissed in the city
only in cattail wind
in the hush of fog-heavy reeds
where no one asked who’s who

Sarp Sozdinler in the new issue of @alocasiamag.bsky.social
alocasia.org

"tell me how to love / decay / how to love nature after its ruin / how to appreciate / ruin / tell me what it means to / love an invasive species / how to explain the beauty of kudzu"

—arushi (aera) rege :: “nuclear winter, burning planet”

alocasia.org/2025/10/20/a...

The beginning of section 3 of the poem, on page 66: I walk out from myself, among the stones of the field, each sending up its ghost-bloom into the starlight, to float out over the trees, seeking to be one with the unearthly fires kindling and dying in space — and falling back, knowing the sadness of the wish to alight back among the glitter of bruised ground,

Galway Kinnell, "The Path Among the Stones," from The Book of Nightmares (excerpt)

after all the singing faces, you with your mouths out of sight as i respond Where are your purposes / you have kept childhood in your hearts each day, / and the sky was blue the sea was a waste and you have come back again and again with the years you were able to come from a great distance Today my brothers were here; now at night there is you myself under the sheets But I grow old because I was too much a child

Larry Eigner

PREPUBESCENT WAVE OF SORROW Peel off the top layer of skin To make a burial shroud for your death The funeral happening somewhere Between the prepubescent wave of sorrow And an old bamboo forest Bluebirds fly peacefully overhead Drop shit rain over pathetic love

Christine Shan Shan Hou

(@2river.bsky.social)

Victoria Chan in The 2River View:

This, too,
another landmark of layers. Crumbling asphalt
blanketing nighthawks and primary colors.

—"Away in Washington, I See the Capitol and Think of You"

www.2river.org/2RView/30_1/...
@2river.bsky.social

Victoria Chan in The 2River View

How can I say I want I want I want without
a wasteland trailing behind me? I tell everyone
what I lack is not what I’m missing.

—"On Explaining Asexuality"

www.2river.org/2RView/30_1/...

four ancient poems about tea www.tranquiltuesdays.com/resource-lib...

Late on a frosty night, breaking cakes of fragrant tea.
Brewed to overflowing, the pale yellow froth

.

from A Song of Drinking Tea on the Departure of Zheng Rong
Jiaoran (Tang Dynasty 618-907 AD)

translated by Steve Owyang