From the Field

Singing Back

By Carter McKenzie
from beneath the ground

roots and quartz
fragments

glinting

water carrying

all it knows
from the mountains

Our Psychic Maps

By Paul Dage
Frogs. In some very comforting way, they haunt me. Their throaty songs still croak from out of a distant yet familiar past, reminding me of youthful days when Popsicles, bubble gum and mischief were the dandy wonders that lured me, a tow-headed boy, from one carefree summer’s day to the next.

Origins

By Charlie Quinn
My mother used to dig small pits in the sand of ‘Ewa Beach while I was still in her belly – the only way she could lie on her stomach during the last few months of her pregnancy.

Love Letter to Quartzville Creek

By David Stone

Dear Quartzville Creek,

From the time I first laid eyes on you, it was love at first sight.
Your cascading waters and quiet pools sing a siren song I can’t resist.

Short Poems

By Bob Bumstead
Moon over Black Canyon:
The moon rises
over Black Canyon
softening the contours
of Hoover Dam
knowing it will not last.

Tell Me Again, of the Season

By Garrett Reagan
Tell me again of the season
When gallivants would whistle and walk, weary eyed and bushy browed
When blackberry brambles spoke in cursive, tracing hillsides in pillowy clouds

Noticing the Many Shades of Green

By Mary Sharon Moore
Sitting up high in the back of the McKenzie River-bound bus, I take in a picture-window view of morning sky to the east and north. A thin marine overcast evaporates as morning summer sun climbs in the sky.

Finn Rock 1939

By Lamar White

My parents and sister migrated from Arkansas to the McKenzie River in 1939. My father worked for Rosboro Lumber and they lived in a tent just a few yards upriver from the rock which is Finn Rock.

The Wild Raw Power of Nature

By Mary Sharon Moore
The wildfires that have ravaged my beloved McKenzie River Corridor sparked into being a month ago. The evening of Labor Day, to be exact.

The Magic of Being Dirt

By Ms. Joy Sisto
You are the dirt that nourishes the tree.
So, it’s grateful for all your life giving,
and your consciousness to nourish you,
united to love with the best you can be.

The High Cascades

By Howard Horowitz
Three Sisters, Little Belknap, Broken Top,
Yapoah Crater, Ahalapam: volcanic names
are strewn across the map.
(The bilious earth
disgorged one hundred miles of aa,
inhospitable to all feet.)

Looking Back

By Billie Ruth Rose

My youth was spent
in the out-of-doors
climbing hills,
climbing trees,
leaving prints on sandy shores,
collecting rocks I thought I’d keep forever.