EDITION #1

CHILD'S PLAY
by David Mattson

ROM her banks I chose the stones,
Smooth, heavy enough to hold the flow,
Piled each abreast, two high in a row,
As I dammed, I watched the water pool and grow
Deeper and wider till trickles seeped between
the rocks. I did the same one hundred feet
Down the road, to form another pool, for me
As I would fish here and watch the stream.
To build those walls, was I kind or cruel?
Changing the flow of nature’s vein for I,
do not know what causes I have made, my tools
are blunt, my vision short, ignorant of rules.
So, as we are all forced to Odin’s rhyme,
One eye for desire, one blind to all but time.

TO THOSE STILL ON THE EARTH
by Dr. Timothy E.G. Bartel

AD we not seen your message to return
We would have journeyed out beyond the sun
And found the worlds its light has hid from us.
Had we not seen your message to return
We would have plowed and planted earthen seeds
In soil that never knew a life like ours.
Had we not seen your message to return
We would have aged, begun to think ourselves
The denizens of alien domains.
But we have seen the message to return,
And in regret accorded with your plea:
Earth is enough. We need no colony.

ERRANTRY
by Dr. Timothy E.G. Bartel

HE knight of resignation waits
His turn at every stoplight.
The knight of resignation holds
The door for all who enter.
The knight of resignation stands
With drooping flowers, folded hands,
And when she leaves (as she must do)
He will not weep, he will not woo,
For he is waiting with no hope
For nothing to continue.
Another knight would fight and grope,
Another knight would run.
But our true knight is so resigned
He will not seek out God's design
That darkens water into wine
Or quickens common dust with mind.
The knight of resignation waits.
The knight of resignation breathes—
The hushing wind—the sinking sun—
The patient night will come, will come.

SHELLYAN SONNET
by Nathan Gilmore

S not the braying world too much with me
On this the day, in which I, verse-like, turn
And like some mortal caesura, break free
From youthful schemes, to rest in taciturn
And sterner themes of cold maturity?
And gaining this, hath readied not my brow
For yet a crown, tho' gloried in it's wealth
That chafes the head with glory thus endowed, 
But leaves that scepter broken in a hand
Innocent of innocence, in truth
Too weak its callous creeds to countermand?
Is then less the braying world inclined
Of weaker men, but wiser, to demand
That to which living dead men are resigned?

EVENFALL. A SONNET
by Stefanie Kate M. Watchorna

HE moon advances through an argentine path
once she extinguishes the vermeil dome.
She veils the earth in sunset's bronze hued bath
and leads the stars to their celestial home.
The eve's indigo robes are spread in swathes,
signaling the approach of the coming night.
Then, the moon stops in the midst of her path
to wrap me in a shawl of rose-colored light.
Awakening nocturnal fowls alight
on their quotidian evening perches,
warbling their tuneful ditties of the night
as they unburden the day of its stresses.
Beneath the last of the sun rays that fell,
my body rests under eventide's spell.

THE WINTER WALTZ. A SONNET
by Elisabeth Joireman

S slender bows glide across the strings, skirts 
Of satin rustle. Songs of gentry Prussian
Command the slippered dance, embroidered birds
Entwined in silk so dipping, rising, Russian
Eyes veiling feminine emotion. Glazed
With blushing cheeks and not-so-hidden ire,
The Countess curtsies as the Prince, ablaze
In silver, bows to bend the waltz’s fire. 
Though champagne and powdered wigs make colored blurs
While gowns of glistening rose wilt and fall,
The Prince and Countess don thick robes of fur, 
Their spirits waltzing, rushing, fleeing the ball.
They waltz on ice, their love in tender flight
As bows of Mozart fill the Silent Night.

THE INCA ORCHID. A SONNET
by Samuel J. Stephens

AY Fifteenth I wrote this terza rima,
An image in my mind of noble dogs
From Peru: the Inca Orchid of Lima
(Hairless so they don’t get soaked in the fog,
With leathery coats like alligators,
Not so rough, but not as slick as a frog’s).
They’re light on their paws, and so big craters
Don’t bother them, nor does hot pavement,
As long as they're comfortable later.
Their barking is less—the noise abatement
Placates your neighbors and deters the war
That would start and end with a payment.
When shopping for dogs (the internet swore),
With hairless Inca Orchids, less is more.

YOUR CAT ON YOUR BIRTHDAY. A SONNET
by Samuel J. Stephens

HAPPY birthday from your cat at home,
Behaving quite how, we don’t know for sure
While we’re at work—as far off as Rome
For all they seem to care, thoughts as obscure
To us as Ancient Greek is to, well, anyone
Who doesn’t read it for their well-paid job—
I bet that guy’s cat also makes a ton
Professionally purring, a full-time slob—
But do they give love? Well maybe they do.
It’s unfair to judge another person’s pet
Till you know them well, and even then you
Can’t be too obviously spying, not yet,
Not till you’ve re-examined that old case—
You know, the one with your cat, at your place?