‘Peace Within A Nebula’ By Z.M. Wise

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Through telescope eyes,
the eagle flies.
Once it has landed,
its presence is surrounded by spatial skies.

So hard to look away,
the planetary bodies of night.
They stayed to absorb the
energies of faceless scientific circles.

Kneel before Neil.
A choir sings as dotted lights brighten.

In the stellar nursery,
dust collects.
Hydrogen laughs under constant freedom.
Helium heightens the auditory language.
Gas swims through the ether.

Communication has no barrier and
the silence of space translates clearer than
ice crystals that form in the process.

Collapse from gravity,
steal every bit of momentum.
Density attracting matter,
every artistic step matters.

Incessant internal wars within the
center, why can’t the populace find
peace within a nebula and leave all
preexisting Earth judgments behind?

A new world: founded on balance and
utopian prosperity,
where every day includes a night sky.

One astronaut’s gravitational pull is
another astronaut’s opposite magnetic push.
Under the guise of glass helmets,
they could be making any face,
thinking any thought.

Radiation from the ultraviolet,
sensing the birth of astronomical mutation.

Diffuse:
emission has visible light and
reflection rejects it.

Dark:
they do not provide illumination, but
bring on the infrared blackness of dust.

Supernova Remnant:
implode and explode the unwanted layers,
leaving behind the semblance of a descendant.

Planetary:
low mass star in the final stage,
living fewer years due to peer pressure.

Proplanetary:
temporary life, a short-lived episode,
some evolution, devolving from the skies.

964 CE: Abd al-Rahman a-Sufi saw one,
a little cloud, flirting with Andromeda.
Brothers Omicron Velorum and Brocchi’s Cluster.

July 4th, 1054: Nebula of the Crab,
seen by the masses of Arabic nations and China.

17th Century European division,
multiplying sights and never being able to
fully grasp concepts of the scholarly.

Fly with the Eagle.
Hunt with the Orion.
Marry the Rings.
Plant the Rosette.

Why can’t they find that unrelenting
peace within a nebula and leave all
judgmental doomsday quarrels behind?
Better to be diverse in the expanding universe.

 


Z.M. Wise is a proud Illinois native, poet, co-editor and poetry activist, writing since his first steps as a child. He has been a written-word poet for almost two decades and a spoken-word poet for four years. He was selected to be a performer in the Word Around Town Tour in 2013, a Houston citywide tour. He is co-owner and co-editor of Transcendent Zero Press, an independent publishing house for poetry that produces an international quarterly journal known as Harbinger Asylum. The journal was nominated Best Poetry Journal in 2013 at the National Poetry Awards. He has published four full length books of poetry, including: ‘Take Me Back, Kingswood Clock!’ (MavLit Press), ‘The Wandering Poet’ (Transcendent Zero Press), ‘Wolf: An Epic & Other Poems’ (Weasel Press), and ‘Cuentos de Amor’ (Red Ferret Press). Other than these four books, his poems have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies. The motto that keeps him going: POETRY LIVES! Mr. Wise will make sure to spread that message and the love of poetry, making sure it remains vibrant for the rest of his days and beyond. You can find him on Twitter @ZMWisePoet, on Tumblr, and Amazon.

 

Art Credit: Created with images form NASA and brushes by demosthenesvoice.

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‘The Doctrine Of Signatures’ By Elizabeth Rimmer

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By Swedish Botanist Carl Axel Magnus Lindman

 

Those white spots on the leaf are signs,
says William Cole, who dislikes astrology,
of a plant for the healing of lungs.
He sees signs everywhere. Red spots
on leaves of St. John’s wort, when held
against the sun, appear like pores,
and thus, the herb will heal the skin.
Tuberous roots of embarrassing shape
he tells us, are appropriately known
as pilewort. Those veins so prominent
on a plantain leaf mean health for heart
and blood. Yellow flowers clear jaundice.
Heart-shaped petals on rose or violet
will tell you what it’s good for.
No medicinal plant without its sign,
God-given, he says, unlike the foolish claims
of other doctors, missing the useful habit
of those who learn, to create a hook
for memory, for passing wisdom on.

 


Elizabeth Rimmer has published two poetry collections with Red Squirrel Press, Wherever We Live Now, and The Territory of Rain. Her third, Haggards, includes poems about herbs, wild landscapes, and ways of knowing as a response to social upheaval and regeneration and will be out in early 2018. She blogs at www.burnedthumb.co.uk.

‘This Must Be The Right Dimension’ By Z.M. Wise

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Artwork By Nicolas Raymond

Silken spreadsheets,
barren wasteland,
who are you?
Who can this possible being be,
Rilke in full-fledged uniform?

Chariot awaits your arrival.
The horses,
dehydrated by a mouth drought,
focus on the cubes of sweetness.

The New Year marches this way.
Granny smiths and honey of flesh,
Ah…sensual words tap dance on my neck.

Rest of the established acolytes
convulse sporadically, for it is
their time to protest the
Immaculate War on Education.

Peace be with you,
Son of Sons.

Kingdom of Oasis winery,
refined and reformed to
eligible consumers and hatchling couples.
One sip completes their
Festival of the New Dawn.

Floodlights!
Deadlights!
Lost in dancing clown dimensions!
Mourning till morning.
He has been knighted on this night.

Sirens in the War Room,
Communists blocked…
They installed a firewall to
keep from hidden track changes.

Need a helping hand?
Just you wait.
We have stopped guarding the ally’s gate.

Bring thy nourishment or
experience thy tickled pink laughter.
Colder than the moon,
held against a written will.
All he carries is his
black liquid and recharged quill.

Story of articulate life:
smart as whips,
dumb as they come.
Enter! Enter!
Teaspoon of civilization envies
improbable pasts.

 


Z.M. Wise is a proud Illinois native, poet, co-editor and poetry activist, writing since his first steps as a child. He has been a written-word poet for almost two decades and a spoken-word poet for four years. He was selected to be a performer in the Word Around Town Tour in 2013, a Houston citywide tour. He is co-owner and co-editor of Transcendent Zero Press, an independent publishing house for poetry that produces an international quarterly journal known as Harbinger Asylum. The journal was nominated Best Poetry Journal in 2013 at the National Poetry Awards. He has published four full length books of poetry, including: ‘Take Me Back, Kingswood Clock!’ (MavLit Press), ‘The Wandering Poet’ (Transcendent Zero Press), ‘Wolf: An Epic & Other Poems’ (Weasel Press), and ‘Cuentos de Amor’ (Red Ferret Press). Other than these four books, his poems have been published in various journals, magazines, and anthologies. The motto that keeps him going: POETRY LIVES! Mr. Wise will make sure to spread that message and the love of poetry, making sure it remains vibrant for the rest of his days and beyond. You can find him on Twitter @ZMWisePoet, on Tumblr, and Amazon.

Call For Bee Themed Submissions

Bees play an important role in our environment. That’s why we’ll be celebrating them during “Bee Week” this Summer.

We’re looking for poetry, artwork, photography, and essays that feature bees in any way.

Written submissions may be pasted in the body of the email or sent as an attachment. All images must be attached.

Don’t worry about file formats.

Deadline is: June 3o, 2018 (Don’t worry about your time zone either)

Send To: save.the.tierra@gmail.com – subject line “Bee Submission”

No payment. This journal supports @land_alliance, a crowdfunded project dedicated to nature.

You should hear from us by the end of July.

Any questions can be sent to the address above.

And don’t forget, we are open to general submissions year-round!

 

Kate Alsbury | Editor

Poetry By Linda M. Crate ‑ Vol. 2

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By Mikolás Ales

Observed By The Crow

trees
sung softly in the light
of sun,
and flowers pirouetting against a
breeze
open petals giving the most sweet
gift of fragrance
that washes away the dust of sleepiness;
a crow sits upon a tree
welcoming me into the wood,
and he watches me
like a feathery godparent ensuring that i do
not harm his wood or perhaps because
he found a friend in my form—
instead of cawing
found me nothing but silence as he watched
as if calculating my intentions,
but i always seek to leave the wood a better place than
i left it
just as i do in all areas of my life
including myself.

 

Falling Sunset

scriptured in the sky
a sunset of carnelian,
scarlet, gold, and rose
falls upon the wood
bathing her in light pure
and bright;
birds sing their songs and butterflies
dance across the flowers one
last time
before sleep takes them elsewhere—
a soft whisper
dancing through the water and the wind as
the wilds mellow
softly against the corridor of waning light
whose last song is fierce as
fire against the sky.


Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has three published chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press – June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon – January 2014), and If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016). Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015. The second novel of this series Dragons & Magic was published in October 2015. The third of the seven book series Centaurs & Magic was published November 2016. Her novel Corvids & Magic was published March 2017. Her novel Phoenix Tears is forthcoming.

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Poetry By Linda M. Crate ‑ Vol. 1

Sakai_Hoitsu_-_SNOW,_MOON_AND_FLOWERS_-_Google_Art_Project

“Snow, Moon, And Flowers” By Sakai Hoitsu (1820)

 

A Moon Sung Moment

the moon sang a perfect moment
into being
silver white light against
the dew drops
of night
whose sequined heads
glittered
against a backdrop of blue-black littered
with the lanterned songs of stars—
no sound or psalm of any
creature
living or death
just a song of silence beautiful and not ominous
in any way
falling upon the land
a soft wind without voice blowing through all the grasses
short and tall
of the field and of the yard
without discrimination.

 

Psalming Of A Star

a blue star
danced against the darker blue
of sky
in a winter’s night
full of silence, cold, and feathery
wings of snow;
but insisted upon always remaining
visible to keep the moon
company—
a perfect psalm of tranquility and serenity
splashed against the landscape of
a rural city
without the puncturing wound of sirens.

 


Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has three published chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press – June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon – January 2014), and If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016). Her fantasy novel Blood & Magic was published in March 2015. The second novel of this series Dragons & Magic was published in October 2015. The third of the seven book series Centaurs & Magic was published November 2016. Her novel Corvids & Magic was published March 2017. Her novel Phoenix Tears is forthcoming.

Poetry By Joseph Ellison Brockway ‑ Vol. 2

surreal and abstract digital art snowflake illustration

‘Nothing Stays White’ By Kate Alsbury

 

Snow Crystals

Snow crystals gathering dirt
on the sidewalk underneath the lamp post—
illumination from above,
the snow’s nimbus.

The gathered crystals were once proof that nature is perfect.
The luster of shimmering hexagons gone.
Now plowed to the side—
discarded dull dross,
what will become of them?

I think about the day they fell, when they softly floated
from the great expanse above—
appearing from nowhere,
and how happy the children were when they chased the flakes,
when they stuck out their tongue to taste the flakes,
the crystalline flakes.

Dirty, discarded, lumped
at the base of a lamppost on the corner—
existing in perpetuity,
who will remember the sullied flakes?

 

Our Ashdust World

The tree tops are no more.
Volcano lava cleanses, like spilt blood, the sins of the world—
the seasons, the oceans, the trees, science—
scorched to black ashdust,
lumps of black islands floating down anguishriver.

The world is in mourning,
veiled by an opaque shroud of white-working-class . . .
their coveted treasure was not in heaven.

If nothing else is to remain,
long live the queen.

 


Joseph Ellison Brockway is a poet, translator, and Spanish professor working on a Ph.D. in Studies of Literature and Translation. He likes to experiment with language and ideas that explore human psyche, existence, and collective myth. He is currently translating Island: Mythical Coffer by Spanish surrealist Eugenio Fernández Granell, and his writings and poetry have recently been published in LeHigh Valley Vanguard, The Rising Phoenix Review, Dirty Chai, Full of Crow, Reunion: The Dallas Review, and Surreal Poetics. Joseph can be found on Twitter at @JosephEBrockway.