God filled the earth with tigers;
men and beasts warring for blood.
He painted them with warning
signs €”what scarlet spots! In God
we do not doubt. God filled the
earth with tigers.
The Father blessed his daughters
in the order of His good
Son, that we might all know good
and evil. And still we choose
sore fruit. God filled the earth with
The spirit’s rushing waters
cannot stop Missouri silt
from covering the sins of
generations. What are we,
crouching here? God filled the earth
And you. Somehow there were no
stripes to warn. I fell, a thorn,
and you rid your hide of
pain. But, Love, certain death waits,
biding in the long, slow bleed–
God filled the earth with tigers.
To read more of Sarah’s work on WIZ, go here, here, here, and here.
Image from a photo by J. Patrick Fischer via Wikimedia Commons Images.
I sensed her by the fallow deer that fed
upon the oak leaves near the sea, and then
around the flooded estuary bed
where egrets hid between large willows. When
a heron waded through the narrow pond
and mingled with the geese, I almost saw
her cherry lips flash like a regal wand,
or damselfly, who quietly withdraws
when humans catch a glimpse. I know she’s here
to gather peacock-butterflies and shells,
until thin moonbeams slowly draw her near
and ghostly forms ring silent vesper bells.
Karen Kelsay is a frequent contributor to Wilderness Interface Zone. To read her bio and see more of her work, go here, here, here, here, here, and assorted other places on WIZ.
“Finding the Powderham Sprite” was first published in Trinacria.
In the tar-like black sky
structures float like ghosts
through the illumination from bulbs
hovering like flying saucers over
the road. No heavenly
luminaries accompany me on this lonely journey.
Only those cones of light brighten the route ahead.
Nevertheless, I must persist.
I am a modern Hebrew
fleeing the Egypt of the office, escaping to
the Promised Land of the field. There,
as I stand on nude ground,
a lunar face and stellar eyes will look
upon me from the depths of the universe
and remind me of the Creator of this grandeur.
Ashley Suzanne Musick was born in Fountain Valley, California, on February 26th, 1989, and raised and homeschooled in Anaheim. In 2010, she moved to southwest Kern County, where she lives and works on a farm and writes in her spare time. You can read more of her verse on WIZ here.
Driving to the top
of Little Pine Creek Canyon,
I see how the reservoir fares,
how deeply it curves
against hand-mortared stone.
Home for spring break,
that it’s filling up good this year.
(Was it at Terry’s Merc?
Or at the Relief Society Birthday Ball
where I watched a former cheerleader
dance in maternity clothes?)
It’s enough to watch
water swell like metaphor
while I remember
that my father grew up
soothed by its flow
past his bedroom window
into small-town gardens.
It’s enough to taste
sagebrush in stories
of cold crawling days
that a wind captures
and shivers away.
It’s enough to hear
this birth of cascades
answering the question
now asked below:
wonder if it’ll run over
again this year?
For Nani’s bio and another of her Spring Poetry Runoff entries, click here.