Ariana Writes Mary Oliver

That cottonwood grove full of fawns, some curled in the high
grass, tawny circles with white spots in a funnel
of sleep and vulnerability, some giving the lie
to pathos in their efforts to crawl for shelter; that tunnel
under my dreams where fear always waits to turn
the mundane to the terrible--these form my constant sense
of departure. Even in the first person vortex, the churn
where memories keep reinventing themselves, I tense
at the sound of my own lies. Thus I fly
the grove in hopes the doe will return. I wake
to the hurt world and feign indifference. Why,
in all the green sadness religion would take
for granted, would the carnivores remain at bay
when these spots turn to blood in light of day?


Ed Writes Dylan Thomas

When the river turns opaque
and its mirror dies too,
how many clouds will lose
their charm for the boys of spring
who lost their fear in the greening thunder?
When the girls turn fair
and their songs improve,
how many birds will sound the alarm
for the boys of spring who lost
their hearts in the whirling rain?
When the air turns chill
and its scent turns blue,
how many stars will it cost the night
for the boys of spring who lost their youth
in the failing light?
When the sun turns moon
and the mood turns too,
how many deaths will spell the truth
for the boys of spring who lost their minds
to their lewd intentions?
When the river turns opaque, how many,
oh, how many mirrors will it take?

Jimmy Writes Jim Harrison

You approach on the highway,
the crows fly up. You look in the rearview,
the crows fly back. Road kill works that way
and it probably should. What would you expect?
Our sleek machines load their larders
with sluggish bunnies. Urban to rural,
we move between our appointments
with an ease attainable only in this
most perfect of worlds.
You think I’m being ironic?
Why would I tease you about this?
There’s a huge sadness
behind it all that makes no allowances
for the play between good and evil.
What the crows find interesting
is painfully simple.
Say what you will, they’ll still
fly up when you pass, then
in lieu of the wreckage you’ve left,
they’ll settle again.

Melanie Writes Ann Sexton

New snow piled on old snow
turns to old snow under more new snow.
Thus the winter goes.
Leave the house and track some bold
new tracks out into more of the same.
Enter the commerce of the coffee shop,
and mark in every face you meet
the color of the day.
Converse if you’ve a mind for it.
“Stark enough for you?” or
“Thinking of moving away?”
But more likely you’ll sit by yourself
and observe the dogs tied
to a bike rack outside. No bikes,
just dogs. Big dogs with lots of fur.
They look back as if they haven’t seen
the likes of you before. One stands up
for a better view then sits back down
when he sees that you’re nothing new.


Jamie Writes Billy Collins

Much of the world has put
a cell phone to its head.
Walking in the woods,
standing in line at the super market,
alone in a restaurant, these damaged goods
chat like there's no tomorrow,
and maybe there isn't.
Maybe this is the new Russian roulette
with nothing but empty chambers.
The insistence in the voices
is too strong to let them go
from the past to the future.
They stand on street corners,
muttering like true schizophrenics,
pausing to punch their hands
occasionally and stare into a blue glow
while they wait for the voices
in their heads to die down
into the silence they dread.


Casey Writes Shel Silverstein

When the big bad world
comes blowing down
the door, some little girl
might call it by
another name: say mine
or kitty or clown.
When all the world
she’d ever want might lie
just beyond the length of her arm,
she’d reach until her arm was longer
and Mr. Happy Candy Pig
rolled a giant peach
into her hand. She’d say,
“Let’s make it snappy,”
to the clouds that block the sun. She’d say,
“Why, thank you” to the sun itself,
“You’re welcome” to the moon,
and when the stars came out to play
she’d drift away with them down the plum-
colored sky. And in her dreams the girl
would call the wild world home.
“Good world! Good world.”