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Il se cache

dans l’ombre

tisser des feuilles

vert camouflage

au-dessous d’une arbre

Debout, flottant

esprit habille en homme

il m’attende

dans l’ombre

des mes rêves…



I dream of sleep

as snow falls

and butterflies






the sun is killing me

shining right into the wound

spilling the pain for all to see

its glare merciless



the rays like daggers

and sweet all the same

loving and hating

while dying





Folded into space

Captured by mortar

Death immortalized


In time






The shadow of a falling leaf

followed me on my walk today

I looked up to see an empty sky

Was it you?




And a deeper silence

When the crickets


              –Leonard Cohen













Art: Józef Chełmoński, Babie lato, 1875




hummingbirdunder the apple tree

flutter of wings

my friend smiles

a hummingbird



she walks alone

surrounded by many

who do not see her

and those who do

tied to leashes

locked in houses

alone among strangers

who look different

and act different

and who are painfully indifferent

to that profound aloneness

that cannot be expressed

like kindred souls

she shares touches

nose to nose

with the four-legged

tails and paws

whiskers and purrs

are her reward

she walks alone

in but not of this world



Photography: Wanda Wulz





alabaster sky

church bells


dusk folding into night

Sunrise over Lake Superior

What horrors will our off-spring see

in the miasma of futurity?

Their prospects go from bad to worse

as degradation runs its course.

When hope looks like self deception

and positives like mad delusion,

how to stem the lemming crush,

resist the tides of mass confusion?

What chances do our children have

to right the wrongs of history,

to find an unobstructed path

from the charnel house of destiny?

What wonders of the great wide world

will be denied our progeny,

the English Elm, the western Pine,

the elephant, the honey bee?

What poisoned remnants will remain,

what maladjusted misery?

What might they blame for what they see,

where lies responsibility?

We’re un-accepting of the truth

of how it starts with you and me.

How else might we stagger on

in the stench of such perversity?

We’re satisfied with leaders who

confess they don’t know what to do,

that wouldn’t dock our bank accounts

of un-acceptable amounts.

And thus tomorrows loom ahead

with promise overwhelmed by dread;

with life and beauty sacrificed,

our children’s futures overpriced.


Poem by Michael G. Hawkes

English elm

honey bee


western pine