Way of the Mountain #190


In the evening the two of us kneel
by the waterhole below camp, filling
our bottles. The vault of the sky
opens and down comes the rain,

big drops splatting our sweat-
rimed shirts, our sun-burnt necks.
We say nothing, keep kneeling,
filling and being filled.

— Richard Kempa
Rock Springs


The wishbone of a well-cooked chicken,
A hand on each hook of a clavicle,
Pulling for love, for peace, for rent money,
As if this breast bone anchor, the larger half,
At least, could channel luck or make bad luck
Disappear. As if the near miss, the short staff
of the “Y” would bring less, when in fact,
It’s the chicken who needs both halves intact
And one more wish to fly.

— Frank H. Coons
Grand Junction

To Mt. Elbert

I watch the hush before late clouds
are drawn to you, before wide sky

is smudged with charcoal trails that wrap
you in the breath of coming storms,

before thunder reverberates
in shadowed fields under your peaks,
before the lightning, wind and rain,
before you shake that wet, gray cloak,

before the dark dissolves stirred light,
unmasking owls and constellations.

— Malinda Miller


Deep in right field
kicking at crabgrass
hoping no one
hits the ball
my way.

— Gary Glazner
Executive Director, Alzheimer’s Poetry Project


I envy the surfers
Who have no choice
but to throw themselves
Into twisting currents at dawn
When big waves rise in the lavender light
Throwing white tails of foam
at the new young sun.

— Bryan Shuman

Tyin’ The Knot

Blinded by love, sure

She felt the rope’s grip slacken
heard the hardwood crack

They both fell even harder
when their tree swing gave way

— Kierstin Bridger

Death is near

humming a little song
in the night
and the melody is hauntingly

— Cathy Casper