From the archives – The Ring — Christine Yurick


We are staying in that little apartment above the pizzeria
and have been roaming the dry mountains like goats. It did not rain
for almost a month and we are both dark from all of that sun
and high from the fresh air and lazy from all of the beauty.
The waves hit the brown-orange cliff.
The sheer blue curtain billows in the wind
brushing my cheek in the room where we make love.
The waves come in and go out again.

by Christine Yurick

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, March 27, 2018

At the End of the Day and Other Poems is now available from Kelsay Books

From the archives – Paris — Leah Browning


Every day now we wake
in an unexpected hotel room.

Will this be the afternoon
in Paris, with birds singing

in the courtyard
below our window?

Or, more likely, will we find ourselves
somewhere else entirely. Most days,

the room is either too hot
or too cold, or an unsettling

combination of both;
the sun angles in through

ill-fitting curtains, or
we’ve been woken in the night

by loud, frightening noises:
fists pounding on a door, sirens.

It’s too late or too early,
and we’ve traveled too long;

it’s the night I was pregnant
and we were moving cross-country,

or the morning after any sleepless,
swollen night. The headache

won’t go away, or we’re back in
Toronto, in the hotel with the

wedding reception down the hall
from our room, the blaring music

and the fight that went on so long
that someone called the police.

There are so many bad days.
Every morning, though, I wake up

hoping for just one more golden afternoon
(so lovely and heartbreaking),

for sunlight in the courtyard
and birdsong.

by Leah Browning

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, June 3, 2015
When the Sun Comes Out After Three Days of Rain is now available from Kelsay Books

From the archives – Falling Star — Kimberly L. Becker

Falling Star

I don’t call.
There is the time difference, yes.
The matter of other relationships, granted.
I don’t call.
Instead I make a marinade for supper—
soy sauce, sugar, juice of tangerine,
some garlic. Fresh ginger.
And the star anise.
Scent of licorice.
Delicate like the spines of a starfish.
So lovely.
I stir it in and watch
as the star sinks to the bottom of the bowl
where it lies winking: your life, your life,
what have you done with your life?
I stir it into silence,
into submission,
where it lies steeping, steeping.

by Kimberly L. Becker

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 7, September 2007

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

Photo Calendar Preorders!

Do you enjoy the photos featured on the From the archives posts? If so, this is your chance to buy a 2023 calendar showcasing some of them. As you know, Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY is completely free to read and free to submit and always will be. However, this daily journal is entirely funded by the editor, Christine Klocek-Lim, via sales of her art and novels.

Christine is accepting preorders for her 2023 floral calendar and 2023 landscape calendar. Preorder by Wednesday, November 9 and they will arrive by xmas. Invoicing will happen once the calendars arrive. Each calendar is $35 USD with free shipping in the USA via USPS.

Each calendar is 11.5 x 8 inches and has a single top spiral. Each calendar comes signed on the cover by the artist/photographer-Christine Klocek-Lim. To view the calendars, visit this link on Christine’s website:

To preorder, please comment on this post OR email with quantity and calendar type (e.g. 2 floral and 1 landscape).

Preorders close on Wednesday, November 9, 2022.

From the archives – Quake — Tyrell Johnson


The ground shifts
under our feet

the fishbowl lands
with frightening speed

you and I
fall to our knees.

When all is over
we look to the floor.

Our shattered windows,
the broken door.

We can’t remember,
was it us,

or the earth,
that shook to the core.

by Tyrell Johnson

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 20, January 2011

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Deck of a Beam Trawler, Gloucester, 1923 – Jean L. Kreiling

Deck of a Beam Trawler, Gloucester, 1923
—after Edward Hopper’s “Deck of a Beam Trawler, Gloucester.” 1923. Watercolor over graphite pencil on paper. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

He saw the art of work, despite the lack
of workers: the expectant energy
aboard the unmanned deck, the sinewy
preparedness of heavy ropes left slack,
the muscle of the mast. Where rusty black
abuts the dullish red of industry,
we know men labored, though we cannot see
their forms or faces or what they brought back.

They likely sailed before this sky turned blue,
before sunlit perspective clarified
the architecture of their work; they would
have felt their way through chores. The trawler’s crew—
unlike the painter—didn’t need a tide
of light to show them work they understood.

by Jean L. Kreiling

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 19, October 2010

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Walking Is Good and Other Things We Tell Ourselves — Luke Evans

Walking Is Good and Other Things We Tell Ourselves

The edge of the asphalt is cracked and crumbling
where he steps on the painted white line, blessing
the wheat and thistle with outstretched palm.

Boys in a car hoot and holler, but he does not
flinch. He envisions leaping onto their trunk, ripping
the door open, and throwing each one into a tree.

A gray finch lies on the roadway. He bumps it
with his shoe. It is like a toy. Its feathers are still soft,
its eyes black with a crystal glint. There is no blood.

He stands in the archway of a mausoleum, presses his ear
to the stone door. A draft whispers secrets of the dead
to the corn spider wrapping a beetle in a silk cocoon.

He sits in the shade of a pine along a cemetery road
thinking about deer ticks and how itchy the grass is
and scrambles away when a car crunches down the lane.

A padlock key lies along the curb. He rolls it
through his fingers, tosses it into the gutter, revels
in the clinks off the grate and the sploosh of the water.

Puffs of clouds court the horizon; he is surrounded.
Unseen space and flighty wisps lord over him
as the sun continues its ceaseless interrogation.

He plucks the head off a wildflower between his knuckles.
It is a giant white ring on his finger, a thousand tiny
blossoms he never could make. He twirls it and twirls it.

A rabbit picks at the gravel before him. It stops as he crunches
closer, perks up. They stare each other down.
It is frozen; he draws closer; its ears twitch; his lips part.

It, too, runs away.

by Luke Evans

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 18, July 2010

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – our lady of perpetual contusions — Nielle Norton Buswell

our lady of perpetual contusions

we couldn’t figure out what she saw in him:
slope-shouldered, slope-hoped,
those hands that hung loose from thick arms,
huge but soft, like loaves of bread but heavy
like something unsaid and sometimes
you’d see them catch and lock in fists
when he looked at her too long, got caught.

and the way he looked at her—
like a man held two inches under
the water’s surface. trouble.

she was maybe lonely, no matter
how busy we kept her, that mind of hers
off fishing, her body sipping coffee
or under a hair dryer or trying on shoes
while her mind floated on hazardous currents
bobbing and drifting downstream.

so they married. a beautiful cake, sugar roses
and ribbons that flowed down the columns.
on top, a bell, a pair of birds.

we watched her reflexes improve.
sometimes her eyes weren’t eyes
but shadows, fast shadows outrunning
what might be a memory. her arms
broke out in fingerprints, every day
she grew more opaque. eight years later
when whatever was in him gave out,

the burial shocked her back to earth, to us.
what was it, what of him was love we had to know.
his hands, her voice sank low, oh, those hands of his.

by Nielle Norton Buswell

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 18, July 2010

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Surgeon Finds Tree Growing in Man’s Lung — Laura Sobbott Ross

Surgeon Finds Tree Growing in Man’s Lung

First there was the cough, then the dream—
a rumbling through his diaphragm, throat dilated,
raw as if scraped with bark, the soft corners
of his mouth splitting like a seed coat.
His sinuses so full of green needles,
his sheets smelled like fir for days.

He began to disdain clouds and blinds,
the pearl colored cave of Russian winter sky.
Here, it was not unusual to lack vitamin D,
but, oh, the craving for sun! How it burned,
as his fingertips tingled and itched for river silt
buried beneath the snow clotted valley.

His cough grew in the humid bog
of his lungs, until he was blotting blood
from his lips, an essence aromatic
as rosemary on the back of his tongue,
despite lozenges of honey and eucalyptus.

Inside his chest, between bruised air sacs,
slashed webs of capillaries, doctors found
a shadow with teeth, a clawing of roots into tissue
lush as peat moss, while he lay at the window,
almost breathless with pain. His eyes transfixed
beyond the amassed evergreen edge, taiga,
tundra, permafrost, whiteness upon whiteness.
Snow clouds heavy with winged seed,
the same air he had once inhaled like a forest.

by Laura Sobbott Ross

from Autumn Sky Poetry Number 18, July 2010

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Blessed Are Those Who Hunger — Tania Runyan

Blessed Are Those Who Hunger

On the day that 27,000 children died,
my dishwasher flooded its basin. I cradled a bowl,

running my finger around a yellow shroud of curry.
I mourned the scrubbing I would have to endure,

the salesmen with their litany of buttons,
the snake’s nest of disconnected tubes.

Mothers embalmed their children in wet sand.
Fathers folded skeletal bodies in sheets.

The mosquito nets and vaccinations were still
en route, stalled in cargo holds, legislation, hearts.

I did not remember. I opened the dishwasher again
and felt my blood quicken at the sour soup

of food and water, the marinara-flecked plates,
and—Jesus help me—oatmeal stuck to the whisk like bone.

by Tania Runyan

from Autumn Sky Poetry, Number 14, July 2009

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim