From the archives – Reading the Sky — Peg Duthie

Reading the Sky

for Mary Alexandra Agner

To seek eclipses–to prize things in the way,
the partial views and full-bore speculation
about what transits mean, what they mean to say

and whether to put stock in such a day
thick with pseudo-expert conversation–
is that what we yearn for, when we weigh

sunshine vs. frost, leaven stubborn clay
with compost and peat? Will germination
greet us before we’re ready? Who can say

they haven’t taken shortcuts, tried to stay
time’s ruthless march toward annihilation,
and learned that even when there’s will, the way

is sometimes not to be? But one can sway
and strut through shadows too. The rotation
of the earth can be measured, scholars say,

by notes on BCE eclipses. May
there be more data, more observation,
stamina past slurs, high roads past “My Way”-

riddled swamps. When I lay me down to pray,
“Deliver us, Lord, from obfuscation,”
it’s shorthand for a list as long as day.

I long for happy endings–that to pay
one’s dues pans out, that skilled navigation
will steer us out of darkness, lead the way
to answers true as stars, that save the day.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, March 7, 2017 — by Peg Duthie

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – Feedback — Ben Rasnic


This thing remembered—

tendrilled wisps of amber
groomed from sweaty plough blades
of Nebraska soil, waves breaking
the black earth into gold flames
ripening in air, rich with mirrors.

“It’s only wheat”,
she said,
“Just big dumb fields
of nothing but wheat”,

this harvest from my
loins, tawny fingers weaving
strands of sun-bleached
tasseled hair, face
flecked with straw

her bright smile,
her star rising.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, July 21, 2016 — by Ben Rasnic

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim

From the archives – On changing tides — Luke Evans

On changing tides

Out by the rails, the grass too tall to walk through,
but we did anyway, checking each other for ticks
afterwards. We itched like the blades
still scored our legs. She always had
such sensitive skin,
but I don’t.

The break room was our island of sun
beneath the skylights. She told me over slushies
what attraction was, its traits of irresistibility,
how it drags us out like a rip tide.
How we shoot the moon
to keep the rising tide from our shoes.
At some point, she sneaked in
a pun on hearts,
but I can’t.

Such a hard rain and so many worms on the asphalt.
I watched her in the gray-light, a parka
darkening her face, the car’s tires kicking up
droplets as she pulled away. Clocks
only scab the wounds, they never heal.
Packages come and go, zip codes change.
I watch the sky grow dark and light,
tirelessly, black and blue
again. One day she’ll see I’m gone,
at peace with the moon.
I’ll pack up my things,
take some lotion in case,
thinking she’ll know,
but she won’t.

from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, June 2, 2016 — by Luke Evans

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim