Gone Fishing


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Gone Fishing


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A Sabbath Poem

John Craxton

“For we are fallen like trees, our peace
Broken, and so we must
Love where we cannot trust,
Trust where we cannot know,
And must await the wayward-coming grace
That joins living and dead,
Taking us where we would not go —
Into the boundless dark.
When what was made has been unmade
The Maker comes to His work.” ~ Wendell Berry, Sabbath Poems

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The First Hour

Bjørnar Aaslund

Is there an hour
finer than the first
hour of the day?

It comes a little
later each morning
this time of year

Holds just a bite
of autumn to come
dew on the grass

But its silences
are full Sheer grace
its still embrace

Making the last
hour at the twilight
one of gratitude

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It’s the Light

Nijole Rasmussen

It’s the light
gives the river
its turquoise color
its rays shimmering
on the riffles raised
by the July breeze
blowing inland
from the sea

It’s the breeze
carries the river’s
song in its currents
above the city`noise
the murmuring hum
of time Granite`silt
moving so slowly
toward the sea

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The Skagit Valley

Paul Bailey

The summer fields
gleam in the afternoon light
the panoply of greens variated
each according to the species
of its maturing crop

The verdant valley
bookended by the Cascades
to the east & Sound to the west
is fed by the Skagit’s forks
which snake thru it

In the coming weeks
the greens will go to ambers
and the ambers then go to gold
till mowers return the fields
to September stubble

With the autumn rains
the river will flood yet again
and the fields fill as its reservoirs
green and gold gone to white
as the snow`geese return

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Sabbath Rain

Ginger Huebner

Large rain`drops
fall into the July dust
making small explosions
of grit into humid air
leave tiny craters

where they fall
no sooner begun than
done A summertime tease
or the divine reminder
fall will return

grass go green
again The burnt gully
flow again with the flood
that takes out bridges
to refill aquifers

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A Passage`Way

Jeane Myers

We looked
for a passage`
way to freedom
some small opening
in a granite wall
through which
to scramble

To get free
from someone
is a lot easier than
to be free to something
The gate is locked
from the inside
Its key fear

The pathway
we have come
is now impassable
within without the Wall
as your festal table
slowly molders
gone uneaten

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El Lechero

Douglas Swan

His name is Juan
For the past 8 years
he has been milking cows
on a Skagit Valley dairy farm
arrives at the barn at 5 AM
leaves again at 5 PM
He rents a house

Juan is married
His wife’s name is Maria
They have 3 children home`
born with help from a mid`wife
They have no insurance for
health`care They cannot
trust the doctors

Juan bikes to work
Juan does not have a car
as he does not have a license
Juan does not have a green`card
Biking to work this morning
a Sheriff pulled him over
for not having a light

Today Juan is in detention
Monday he will have a hearing
Then Juan will be deported

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On War

Ion vincent DAnu

We Americans
love a good war
It seems foisting
a little revolution
in the global arena
is part of our DNA
The Big Stick gets
big budget bucks
as the Soft Voice
goes begging in
our budgeting

We were born
in times of war
Is there a doubt
in some war`time
we’ll be born again
Pray for our peace!
If war’s a boon for
our economy as
some folks say
it remains bad
for the world

For children and old men
And for every living thing

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El Viejo

Oswaldo Guayasamin

The old man
sits in the shade
of an old umbrella
the colors faded by
the same sun which
has turned his skin
mahogany brown
carved creases
of hard work

He is too old
now for stooping
his joints all frozen
despite the July heat
He watches them work
son & son’s daughter
She brings a basket
of fresh spinach
just harvested

The old man
lays the greens
out on a little table
beside some onions
pure white walla wallas
the summer’s first lot
dirt still on the roots
and pint baskets
of raspberries

He tends the till
as cars pull over
to buy of what he has
fresh from the garden
a few dollars for the day
with which to purchase
rice beans & tortillas
the daily bread for
which they pray

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The Trailer Park

Harper Blanchet

The trailers
of field workers
all trimly painted
line up like colorful
boxes on a shelf
A little battered
but Home

in tiny yards
the flowers bloom
on tomatoes & roses
on daisies & cacti
all growing

hang on trees
ready for picking
in nearly every yard
In the drive`way
an old pick`up
work dusty

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