Three Element Poems

Pd (46)

I want to feel magical again--
not this hard silver shell
cold in the night.

Let me be pooling moonlight
until the shadows dissipate
from my witchcraft.

Sb (51)

I fumble for the kohl.
My eyes will be blacker
than my own unsteady
mind tonight.

No one must see me
without this heavy armor--
a smoldering look
the only defense
a woman has.

Th (90)

They call us hurricanes,
these girls with storms in our brains.
But we were born of thunder:
silver streaking into black.
& we never disappear--
just make our circuit
on high,
hoping for the days
when we're able to blaze.

Caitlin Johnson

Questions without Answers

Why do black-and-white photographs bite silently?
Could pigs fly if tomorrow was longer?
If shadows aren't following me, who is?
How do clouds drift without purpose?
Would mice sing if their voices were sweeter?
Where do extinct love stories go?
How did the first colours ignite if there was no one there to light them?
It never snows blue, but why?
Presumably somebody, somewhere is right, but who?
Do unreal cities warm up at night?
What corners of the mind breed ideas that fight back?
When did twilight decide not to flicker sideways into a bright winter?
Are people less fragile in other dimensions?
Which came first, time or space?
Would it be painful to be locked away in a dream?
Where do pencils really want to go?

Finlay Worrallo

Lemony Taffy and Sour Kisses

Lemonade flows from
that fluted fountain on
red diamond rivers of
gentle rainy sprinkles.
Honey drops blissful
of sweet or sour kisses,
the dew faeries dance
opus of fruit romance.
Coveted rose essence
outside an open window,
sweet summer breezes
gently sway lilacs in time.
A Corn cob pipe smolders by
the bowl of lemony taffy as a
scent of peppermint schnapps
wafts in a night of jovial folly.

Ken Allan Dronsfield


Looking up at the sky when I was five, it seemed
to me no one else could see it. This one wasn’t falling
but it was too big and too bright blue-yellow-
white and there were too many people beneath it.

My mother dragged me out the door, chasing margaritas,
ignored my trembling goldfinch shoulders, did not
understand why I was sick on the floor of the Mexican
restaurant across the street from our apartment.

It was the summer I ate only greens. The heat
a conspiracy of elements telling me I didn’t belong,
sandpapering my fear until it was red and bleeding.

Back home, empty of tears, of bile—air-light—
I was numb to a bruise shimmering on my thigh
the same indigo as the shrinking sky.

Kate Garrett

Haiku Cats


the gingersnap cat stares as
I get undressed.



What does this cat think
strumming his tail with such ease
to fugues of Bach?


Shut Eye

Black and white kitten
lying under clothesline in
soft circles of sleep.


Street Walker

Calico cat
curving corners
against the cold.


Free Throw

A tiger cat with
big green eyes
tosses balls of yarn.

Joan McNerney


That deluge of haze
Just before sundown.

Spring shakes Winter’s hand

Now the day has truly gone.

Street lamps glow
A sodium pink

When blue milk pacifies,
The copper moon sliding up a sleeve of glass,

Her luminous lake
Drowning the city,

A black felt hat against
Heaven’s empty dome.

An indigo deer slips back
Through the shadow of night-green cedar,

Teasing with promise.
I could not look away.

Natalie Crick

lemon (1)

i’m a pool of April rain
bleeding on the pavement
my milk of dismal silver

there’s a hillside in Italy
somewhere with a grove
of lemon trees, the smell

so sweet you could bottle it
pure and true, as if I’d
never met this city at all

not one day spent out
in the stall where they eye
our luscious colours

and pluck our sisters
and brothers for their brown
bags and their silent

afternoon juicing, the
buying of vitamin luck
like years of the future.

Maria Sledmere