Poems on Living
“Cherry Blossom” - Ash Schlax
Meditation XXI
O God who flickers at the edge of sight
when wind and sun conspire, when all the leaves
are wings unburdening themselves for flight;
who turns an iridescent wing to weave
between the treetops, ever dividing
prediction and perception from belief;
who falls like rain, a sparkling screen of string,
encompassing and indistinct, yet so
precise that every drop affects one thing;
who flashes from the surface of the flow,
capturing and then repelling the eye,
while we, entranced, squint through the dancing glow;
who shines from every surface, every sky;
have mercy.
When you hide yourself in light,
help me seek you without seeking why.
Time Out of Time
She sat on the rocks before the sun made his approach, beneath the spattered white canvas of a master impressionist. Orion hunted Taurus above as the powers of this world began to wake for another day of waging wars of words, of spinning spins, of stoking furnace fears and grasping, grasping, grasping for ashes and straw. The stars peered at their reflection in the lake before her and thought not of such struggles. A goldenrod stood station through the Stygian pre-dawn, tall and slender, brimful of begetting power as wine is full of joy.
sun crowns cedars
revealing golden blooms
the loon
calls
Rooted, Ruined
In this failure I find myself
a sapling trembling,
bent before the gale.
You, the unsparing storm;
you, the earth that binds me
to endure the buffeting,
rooted and ruined at once.
What other whirlwind
spends itself against itself,
bolsters as it batters?
You surround my straining
with shackles of your strength.
Hidden to my length in you,
how can I fail to hold?
It Was the Wind
It was the wind, when first it grew,
that carried news of rain that brewed;
it made the sun more true.
It was the rolling grey that veiled
the valley, while the wind prevailed;
it turned the sunlight pale.
It was the sweep of midday shade
that covered us while we surveyed;
it brought the vanguard spray.
It was the storm’s excessive zeal
that drove us in, with windows sealed;
it raised the fire’s appeal.
Mark Rico
Mark Rico started writing poetry because his mother showed him how to see. He writes now because his father showed him how to live intentionally. His work has appeared in Inkwell, Clayjar Review, and Calla Press, and he lives in Chattanooga, TN, with his family. Find more of his poetry at https://mimesiskinesis.substack.com.
Ash Schlax
Ash Schlax is a poet, artist, and illustrator whose work strives to find the places where the light gets in. Raised in the northeast, she now tends to a slow life in the Arizona desert alongside her husband, three children, and their beloved cat and dog. You can find her on Instagram, Etsy, and at ashschlax.com.
