From the archives – Tomorrow Will Be Cold by S. Thomas Summers

Tomorrow Will Be Cold

At least, that’s what the weatherman said.
The temperature will drop like a brick hurled
off a mountain’s peak, like a falcon that’s tucked
its wings close, diving to nab a rabbit that darts

about the forest floor, searching for a few more ribbons
of dead grass to line its burrow before curling
into its heartbeat, clenching all the warmth it can.
Wind will sweep over the hills, weave through trees,

straining the spines of elm and oak, exciting the chimes
that dangle from my backyard birch into panic;
they’ll ding and clang, shiver discordant songs
above the neighborhood stray, a gray cat, that, I assume,

will find its spot among branches of Holly,
tangled arms collecting silence and shadow.
I’ll peer out the window, wrapped in a sweater,
my hands curled around a hot mug of coffee

as steam rises from its mouth as it would a cauldron circled
by witches, weird sisters, stirring a foul concoction,
chanting, rhyming strange words, each sound
meant to make thick the blood of all who find breath

where fires flare and hearths are warm.
That’s what the weatherman said.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, February 23, 2016 — by S. Thomas Summers

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Earth-bound by Rosemary Badcoe

Earth-bound

Tonight we’re waxing gibbous, giddy
with our arms out-flung in late-night light from stores
that stock their windows high. We sow distraction,
lope in doorways, carve our immortality
in bus shelters and benches. Here’s where hares
shovelled starlight on the recreation ground,
the mound like broken glass flinging reflections of our feet
up to a sky boxed in by banks of tenements.

Like leverets we’re born in shallow scrapes, eyes wide –
no chance to set a burrow where there’s space to grow.
We sling the stones that burst the lighted panes.
The hares pursue the moon into the sky
and squat there, pestles pounding rice cakes,
faces turned away.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, February 24, 2016 — by Rosemary Badcoe

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – (It Could) Have Gone Either Way by Paul Dickey

(It Could) Have Gone Either Way

It could have gone either way. The moon
was dripping alphabets, on the one hand.
On the other, she was saying everything like:
Now we can be friends. I can get married again.
We can put the children in a private school. You
will have all day to do whatever it is you do.
I appreciated the concern, but the truth was
I hadn’t done anything. We didn’t know why
other people get so excited about what are just
daily affairs. Everything now is better for all
concerned. We didn’t mention what we’d do
with the children’s first alphabet, or our old
high school’s moon. If we had, we would not
have known how it all would have turned out.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, February 25, 2016 — by Paul Dickey

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Negotiation by Robert Ronnow

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Negotiation

Chipmunks, squirrels collecting
bitternut hickory, chirping
against a small owl cruising
low beneath the trees.

Everyone has gone this morning
to school or work. Laundry rolling,
carpets vacuumed, cleaning
in the bathroom on my knees.

I’d like to be Whitman, praising
the pure contralto, Wynton practicing
all day. But like my father dying
I cannot hear what I cannot see.

Locally there’s politics, processing
points of view. Eventually coming
to a decision, building or not building
windmills on the sky, bridges in the sea.

Insignificant and mighty happenings
seem the same from my vantage ageing
gratefully, inexorably, planning
how to die in my own damn way.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, January 13, 2016 — by Robert Ronnow

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – The Retirement Of The Lighthouse Keeper by Phil Wood

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The Retirement Of The Lighthouse Keeper

I could do without the light.
The bottled shadows pour
another slow glass, though
they cannot block that eye –
it blinks and blinks again,
both lamp and lens conspire
to see the sea through crusts
of salt; if light should slow
in whiskey’s blur of time –
but it beams across the zest
of spray, that grinning bay
with granite cliffs, and wakes
the ghosts in wrecks. I hear
the prayers shiver from voices.
I hear the drowning clock.
I could do without that light.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, January 14, 2016 — by Phil Wood

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Let Death Come by Martin Willitts Jr.

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Let Death Come
—villanelle, starting with a line from Jane Kenyon

Let evening come — I am not afraid of dying
for I have known the kindness of birds and seed.
Let trouble find someone else. I have time

to find the climbing blue flowers, trying
to talk to God. Let winds tear, let rivers recede,
let evening come — I am not afraid of dying.

None of this will succeed in denying
what I know is true: not one will impede.
Let trouble find someone else, I have time

before I die, to search for God, and find
bees hording secrets and worms for bird feed—
let evening come, I am not afraid of dying

in the winter of my life, in everlasting, crying,
searching. Death will have me, even if I plead:
Let trouble find someone else. I have time,

I have time; I can fit more love in my mind
and heart. Let the turtles try to hide in reeds,
let evening come — I am not afraid of dying.
Let trouble find someone else — I have time.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, January 20, 2016 — by Martin Willitts Jr.

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – For a Bird Found Dead on my Doorstep by David Parsley

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For a Bird Found Dead on my Doorstep

We found him after lunch just
out of the snow.
My wife touched the still-warm breast,
one limber claw drawn in an infant curl.

Yellow as sun, too exotic for our climate,
he would have come while we were eating,
sent while the season’s first stormfall
and its clouds clung to surrounding hills.

We watch those clouds leave our valley today.
Trees and brambles shake down their snow.

I remind her we don’t always know
how hunger approaches our door.
We look for it as we can, ignorant
of where it comes from, and when.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, January 29, 2016 — by David Parsley

photo by Christine Klocek-Lim