Wings of the Winds
By Spencer Mann

The wings of watered winds brush dew across the canvas of land
Flowing fog wisps about chilled morning air
Saplings bow to unseen masters
Noises are dampened as a soft dish cloth
The clouds above are not blessed with punctuality

The wings of wild winds whip sands across the deep-scarred land
Seething sun scorches with reasonless enmity
Cacti refuse to wither and die
Waving dunes mock an ersatz sea
Blessed rains depart before striking sands

The wings of chilled winds batter drifts with frost and rime
Arcs of moonlight reflect wet-washed hues
Frozen heath ceases growth
Icicles are wicked spears of frigidity
White wintry blizzards are the guests of honor

The wings of whistling winds slash obliquely crimson canyon walls
Macabre auras of malignancy permeate defiled lands
Thorned shrubs decease and decay
Eerie sunlight shines through dense ethereal haze
The wasteland abyss is deserted but the air is darkly chilled…

The wings of reckless winds culminate in the tempest
Forked lightning cuts jagged lines in the clouds
Rain and hail torrent and churn
Waves smash into shore as relentless battering rams
Tumultuous clouds become vortices of fathomless fury

The wings of warming winds play breezily in the meadow
Frolicking with the runaway sycamore leaves
Chartreuse masses of grass undulate
The trickling stream waves cheerfully back
The sun's invisible fingers cradle the pasture with fairest skies.

The wings of the winds flutter endlessly and swirlingly
From the desolate arctic to arid deserts
Round and round they spiral
With infinitely changing cycles and trails
Around the world wings flutter, each of a feather

Autumn's Shadow
By DD Reiter

The greenery will subside
Less luscious every day
As autumn takes over
With brilliant vitality
The final sprint
Before rest
Demanding attention
Cinnamon red
Pumpkin orange
Gold, yellow, rust,
Evergreens peak between maples
As second rate
Like little brother
Who will someday find his niche
His passion
But not today
Surrounded in autumn's shadow.

Night Parties
By Bitsy Coulston

I see them there, 'most every night,
Doing their dance by the parking lot light
And I wonder what makes them do
Such a silly thing

Is this some kind of mating ritual
Or just a routine nightly vigil
That makes these bugs
Bounce around in the light's ring?

There's a logical reason, i suppose
That makes them fly so very close
To a hot light bulb
That certainly will sting

But, i don't want to know all that
I'd rather watch and enjoy the dance
And make up my own stories
Of why, at night, they take wing

I think sometimes
They're up there flirting
Mindless of how a hot bulb's burning
Could some day put an end to this whole thing

The Memory Tree
By Byron Johnston

The very best place a boy can be
Is high in the branches of his memory tree,
And 'tis far best if the memory tree
Is sailing across a prairie sea.

Horizon only stops his eye
Under the dome of cloudless sky.
Journey onward, ever free
Prairie schooner-mem-ry tree.

High up where the branches thin,
Strummed by wind his dreams begin.
Turning leaves hum each new gust
His ship flies faster with each thrust.

He lets his schooner take its tack,
Always forward-never back;
Fly, fly, fly across the prairie sea
A wake of memories in its lee.

Fly fast- fly fast, tall ship in prairie-sea.
Giant waves like rounded bumps-
Elephants with scratchy rumps
March in circus lines for free.

Flying fishes soar like larks
Dancing in their pleasure parks.

Smelling mem-ries in the air;
His whole wide world is truly there!
Arms stretched out to touch the sky
Hoping thus to ever fly!

On his neck the Summer sun paints pink,
His joy is such that he can hardly think.

The VERY BEST place a boy can be
Is high in the branches of his mem-ry tree.