blue canoe on the lake
         ducks drift alongside --
               in grass a crouched cat
 
 
 

                  pentax pal
               shot the mountains
                     perfect exposure
 
 
 

                        round canyon boulders
                     icy water churns white
                           falls to green pools
 
 
 

                              hands on mountain land
                           my child's feet once knew --
                                 ghost house
 
 
 

                                    Sierra Buttes lookout
                                 metal on crag --
                                       liquid wind
 
 
 

                                          250 miles north
                                       snow striped blue cone:
                                             "that's Mt. Shasta?"
 
 
 

                                     fast down the trail
                                  wild chirp in a tall cedar --
                                        rattler!
 
 
 

                              far below us
                           canyon walls of rock...
                                 twice the golden eagle
 
 
 

                        jump stump to stump
                     winding mountain creek
                           the cat springs behind

                                Layne Russell
 

Visit

the white owl comes in mystery,
neither door nor window
a necessity,

bringing light of northern snows,
through night's silence
where darkness goes.

the white in gentle form appears,
fulfills the dream --
eyes ancient, clear.

wings translucent in silent spread,
eyes meet, dive down:
not one word said.

                  Layne Russell
 
 
 

The waiter poem

Well, I assume
sex is out of the question.

I don't suppose you'd show me
if you have a tattoo or birthmark
that isn't already visible.

How about I
reach my hand across the counter
along the contours of your arm
or down the curve of your back?

I watch you bend forward
to hear above cafe clatter
and off of you comes this smell --
intoxicating philtre
of cinnamon, coffee,
opportunity and curiousity.

I've danced this dance
caught in step between
promise
and probability;

remove, please,
the flip of hair
boyish grin
and glancing eyes that linger
too long on my face.

I will smile politely,
in the way of expectation
and relief,
when my order is taken
and you go away.

           Marianne Wade, 1994
 
 
 

virgin tears

salt
smoldering ashes
grey and white
sea gulls     lined up
wind
thrums her head
small feet
heart
forked tongue
goes on
probing       poking
holes    wet
between
legs        hers
trembling
salt          ashes
fall      pure
gone

          Jan Young