c o n v e r g e n c e:
an online journal of poetry & art


by Viola Weinberg

There, beyond the 8' cannas
blazing red, with firecracker throats
There, aside the path of persistence
that turns happy each year on
the eve of her birthday, the lilies
and their irrepressible joy
the purple, the throaty yellows
streaking each trumpet, the bees
moving through the hefty blooms
to the delicate golden bells of
the last two who greet the poet
late in the spring, in pale might

There, in the air, waving lazily
the long-legged sunflowers with
their happy faces, turning toward
the light, as they do each day
Below, the ambitious snow peas
and scarlet runners climbing
ladders and a tepee of willow
in a sea of tomatoes with names
like Golden Hillbilly, Black Crim
Mortgage Lifter and Yellow Glockenspiel
that nod to the perking chilis
ablaze in two boxes, sweet and hot

O, the song of it, the symphony
and happy chaos of growing things
The healing scent of green leaves
unfurling like resolute flags of no country
The guardian Echinacea fierce and pink
stands on the prow of the garden's ship
guides the humble weed picker
through the rags of the natural, teaches
patience and makes a good tea for the sick
On the wall of the old tin shed, sprawl
night flowers from the island that bloom
as they please in the full sail of the moon

REMEMBRANCE by Brent Wiggans

REMEMBRANCE by Brent Wiggans

by Ann Wehrman

pale yellow-white sky
edged with robin's egg blue
the air still holds winter's stubborn punch
ice crystals and morning hoar frost

yet one senses a subtle invasion of fertility
smells damp, rich loam
infant grass engendered by winter rain

triangle of soil
dusted with olive-green moss
holds pedigreed rose bushes
lined up like crosses at Arlington
bearing neither taut, fresh buds
nor blowsy, browning blossoms
dropping sated petals

naked, thorny bushes
tightly, sensibly pruned
shiver in January's cold sun
with its promise of spring

by John Zedolik

Perhaps if I let these blossoms,
dry and crinkling as onion-skin paper
accrue to my busy person

I will sprout leaves like those
that used to accompany these wrappers,
so I will not flick them off my jeans

in order to preserve the uniform appearance
of the weave's blank blue—too much effort,
too much will—to remove the effects

of live spring, which will grow up,
spread around me, and leave me,
if constantly flicking the tree's confetti

from my limbs, stuck in plains clothes,
an island remnant of winter,
clinging only to the discrete,

neat integument, good for warmth and work-a-day
appearance, want, and need
but not for this hemisphere's present turn

and its flying and sticking seed

HAPPY PINK by Jennifer Lothrigel

HAPPY PINK by Jennifer Lothrigel

by Millard C. Davis

At the edge of the woods the Chuck-will's-widow drops song
Like one who'd had too much before and had to unroll it all
Like a gift to others the song he felt further inside than breast
And looked for us to try to walk in close
Not to miss a note or the feeling he knew.
It's the kind of song you go to listen to,
Only holding hands for being invited to come out
And join in song with its own musical notes
That you can't find in writing much less by a band,
Though an orchestra comes close and an organ even better.
I try to catch as much as I can before sunrise comes
And night goes to hide those who would be sung with.
That's the value of dreams, darkness itself,
And are taken away at the call of daylight.
I feel as one with those both coming and going
And make an envelope to carry them away.
That's the value of dreams, so I never let them go.

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