A poem that summons us to respect plants, listen to their wisdom, and learn their names. WORDS AND IMAGES Lee Beavington a found poem my grandfather was an expert ..my father only learned some ……….I know almost nothing we hunt, see, pick, smell, gather, use, boil, taste red sap of the root bladder of
A poem that pays homage to trees as our Elders, life-givers, and first teachers. Chang Liu (劉長亭) . Disciple-less, you were dropping bushels of unrecorded wisdom all over the sidewalk in great pulpy explosions. The owners were away for the summer — not to blame. Years later, to my microphone a shriveled Ngäbere
Art that chooses to meet evil with beauty: A response to the discovery of mass graves of Indigenous residential school children. WORDS AND ART Rose Imai . The first news stories came flooding into our consciousness telling of the unmarked graves of thousands of Native children Children who had been forcibly taken from their homes to
Fauzi Bin Abdul Majid My oxygen is love My oxygen is joy My oxygen is forgiveness My oxygen is nature My oxygen is togetherness Their oxygen is money Their oxygen is power Their oxygen is war Their oxygen is killing Their oxygen is hate They took my oxygen away, So they can breathe. They killed
Darryl Whetung Our spirit isn’t red skin, or light skin, brown skin, white skin Or if we have red hair, brown or black hair, when will the buffalo herd come back here? Are we raven or are we eagle? We are families, we are equals It’s our wigwam, it’s our war song, or the moon that
Teja Jonnalagadda We have fallen so far from where the water fell. There a wall stands now to power dishwashers, curling irons, flat screen TVs, and telephone poles. The fish no longer swim freely. Crawling up step ladders like meticulous marmosets. Flooded the valley floor, to ensure that we can always take more. We have
David J. Rapport . Pregnant with Passion Nuances of Nature Permeate our senses Burnish feelings deep within Life and non-life cling to each other, incessantly In Mist on the Mountain Countless Creatures in the Canopy Take the Dance Sunbeams Synchronize Clocks of Cacophony . . Back to Vol. 9 | Read the Table of Contents | Like Our Stories?
Page Lambert They say the traffic in London has killed the song of the nightingale. When they serenade each other, they sound more like the honking of horns, the squealing of brakes, and so the nests lie empty. Yet a coyote sought shelter in a Chicago Starbuck’s last month, the closest thing to a cave
A reflection by Carrie Ann Barton Science tells us that the sense of smell most strongly sparks our memories and emotions I smell stories I smell reunions I smell tradition I smell anticipation I smell family I smell Love . . Back to Vol. 7, Issue 2 | Read the Table of Contents | Like Our Stories? Please Donate!
by Momoe Malietoa von Reiche In the cool Of morning Moving waters fall Silently seeking Pathways to the sea Blue veined Crisscross a fractured landscape Nervous leftovers of Cultural powerlines that Carved vertical earths Into umbered lakes Reflecting Deceptive silver linings In the sun Shades of a troubled Paradise Lost in camouflaged lushness Azure oceans