Seasons – Carolyn Emerson

In the dark underground,
a confusion of roots :
some in a state of dormancy–
a time of rest to conserve energy,
consuming stored sugars,
for survival in adverse weather.
For those still active,
whenever possible,
roots take up water,
gather nutrients;
leaves or needles
processing sunlight.
In the dark some sleep or
cogitate, speculate, deliberate
about plans for thriving
outside of chaos.
Sometimes it is the charred seeds
which at last, release new shoots,
while others wait for longer light,
then offer up bright, shiny sprouts.
What has grown out of chaos,
falls into a natural order,
as roots, stems, leaves intertwine
into a vibrant whole.

Sand Song – Russ Green

Feelin boxed in. Feelin boxed in in a sand song
sung loud. A sand song written in poem
form. I walk over sand everyday in my Sound Beach
sanctuary. Sound at my feet lapping at the shore,
like Innisfree in my deep heart’s core. I’m breaking
out of my boxes like waves breaking on the sand.
I’ll wedge those boxes between the trees. The trees
will cradle my past pain. Voluntary tiny masochistic
jail cells, they’ll absorb all the historic drama for me,
synthesize it back into light and release it to the sky.
And, so it goes. The cycle of life, samsara, my mandala
on paper, pulp to tree, sand, sound, water. Break-down,
rebuild. Breakthrough, sail. The other shore is waiting.

Russ Green 

Biography:

Russ Green, a graduate of Hofstra University, has served as co-editor at Great Weather for Media, and has run reading series and poetry and arts events around Long Island and NYC. In addition to hosting and curating poetry stages at various festivals, Russ has read his work in cities across America.

I Know a Blue (after Dan Welden’s Optimistic Sphere) – David Taylor

I know a blue like a deep exhale,
water under an afternoon thought,
an azure noon over a forest,

A liturgy of asters and spiderwort,
an oath of sapphire and senses
to all that’s beyond me,

An iridescent cobalt of tuna,
a navy crest of kingfisher,
a nod to the teal and tones of scale and feather,

I know a blue like a sphere,
a hope of sky and water,
a rounded cerulean wish

And these indigo words in their hue,
sound and sight,
a blue to which I return, and perhaps,
you too return.

David Taylor

Biography: 

David Taylor is an Associate Professor and Faculty Director of the Environmental Humanities track in the Sustainability Studies Program in the School of Marine and Atmospheric Sciences at Stony Brook University. His writing crosses disciplinary boundaries and genres—poetry, creative nonfiction, scholarship, and science writing; however, at the core of his work is always a concern for environmental sustainability and community. 

https://www.stonybrook.edu/commcms/somas/people/_profiles/david-taylor.php

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=804500042&mibextid=LQQJ4d

For the Sculpture – Haim Mizrahi

Left alone in an age, distant from someone’s creation—
like an offering of loyalty,
adding tubes through the inner spears of coming together—
maybe as faith-sharers,
clearing the space designated to sing
the songs of impossibilities,
looking toward the key,
somewhat bleeping
under cover
and without shame.

Driven from estrangement, blinking backward—
into the revelation of shape and shadow.
The voice behind the strings vibrates—
joyfully silenced, ruled and welded
with throne and thorn.

A cooking trunk, rooted,
blessed fully—dreaming, shooting
the early signs of permanence
across the range:
from honesty to spectacle,
from trade to lovemaking—
a scene lasting
beyond the earth-moving drills.

Here you are,
with majestic tricks of the eye—
if the wondering eye
were hanging from a tree,
nesting,
an option never taken
at its most observant moment.

Observing from inner dampness, so blessed—
the earth of fertility.
Shining lights of hope,
honing forces in a casual afternoon—
a long one,
driven into the penetrated aspect of last breath,
cueing a ritual well-deserved—
to be the realized factor
of waving hands,
woven lastly
with mutual admiration.

Haim Mizrahi

Biography:

Haim Mizrahi is an internationally exhibited painter and poet who has hosted an arts interview show, “Hello-Hello,” at LTV in  Wainscott, Long Island, since 2000, and has shown his work and curated literary events at Ashawagh Hall in Springs, NY. His collaborative poetry book, Slipcover, was published in 2021.

https://www.instagram.com/haimmizrahiart/

Linkages – Claude Meyers

Everything is connected
Sun and moon and stars
Linkages to our ancestors
Plant and animal

Saplings grow toward the canopy
shading the ground
Beside staunch oaks and maples

Babies grow in love

We feel the pull of the universe
But we remain here
Tethered to the Earth
Gravity confining us
To live and die here

Like a tree we mature
Grow tall
As we sink our roots deep

Then we decompose

Then we are debris
Afertilizing a bed
For the next generation
The web of life linked together
By hoops that interlock
With developing unity
Spreading through the woods
Circling subtle sprouts
Soon to emerge
Evolving a trail
Into the future
Connected to the growing past
The cycle of life never ending
Man eventually part of the humus
Like a dead tree
Or the carcass of an old scary bear

Claude Mayers

Biography:
Claude Mayers, a prolific and eclectic poet is dedicating the last quarter of his life to activism and awareness. As a surfer and health professional, his worldview revolves around the respect for nature and all forms-of-life’s vagaries. Since 1983 he’s produced and hosted multiple televised poetry readings in New York’s Hamptons.

http://claudemayers.com/category/poems-Others-musings

Nippon Daisies – Bruce Johnson

Voyagers from the rocky shores of Honshu

come to set roots in the sandy soils

of Montauk, Freeport, Sea Cliff.

Immigrants, optimists,

settling in a new home,

taking on a new name, American name—

better to find acceptance.

Bold, bright flowers, perennial,

late but dependable bloomers,

adorning a garden of stunning profusion.

Who would not love you?

Bruce Johnson

Exotic, Dangerous Beauty Poem in response to John Wittenberg’s installation – Pramila Venkateswara

They alarm us like a mighty organ–

stones vibrate, the ocean in the trees 

roar with us how dare they,

as the army of bamboo advances 

among oak, fallen trunks and stones,

laughing their wick-y laughs,

vermillion-sharp and sure,

imagining among duff and humus, a forest, 

roots spreading underground.

Was I fooled by their cool shade? Seduced like I was

by a weed that I swore was jasmine when I drank

its perfume each time I walked the backroad of my 

neighborhood where the tropics were alien?

The town sends ordinances Remove the

dangerous interlopers. Free the land

for native species. Arguments like

the uses of bamboo, buying expensive

bamboo underwear and pillows on amazon

and using bamboo silverware, flail 

before the stealthily advancing army of 

an innocuous species that obeys its purpose.

Cherry blossoms are Asian and beautiful 

you might say, the hordes of gawking tourists 

your evidence. The town interjects, But they’re brief.

Don’t be confused by danger and beauty,

We draw the line for any crop that strays. 

Pramila Venkateswaran

Biography:
Pramila Venkateswaran, poet laureate of Suffolk County, Long Island (2013-15) and co-director of Matwaala: South Asian Diaspora Poetry Festival, is the author of many poetry volumes, the most recent being We Are Not a Museum (Finishing Line Press, 2022), winner of the New York Book Festival award.

Website: http://www.pramilav.com/

WONDER – Adam Fisher

Wow! I never expected to see
a large banner along the path
tied to two trees with leaves
and a person making their way
through the foliage as I am.
It prompts me to look
closely, side to side
at the vines and brambles,
the wonder of green,
the graceful shapes
of leaves, smooth edged
saw toothed, shiny, matte,
so many, so different,
astonishing though
so ordinary even turning
sunlight into food—magic!
Yes, we live in a wonderland—
be ready.

Adam Fisher

Biography:
Adam D. Fisher, rabbi emeritus of Temple Isaiah, Stony Brook, NY is the author of numerous articles and two books of liturgy. He is also the author of a book of short fiction, and four books of poetry. He was the Poetry Editor of the CCAR Journal from 2006-2014.

How It All Stacks Up (poem for CEED 2025 Sculpture on the Trail – Katia Read’s sculpture) – Mankh (Walter E. Harris III)

some say we were molded of clay
but in the morning
and at the end of the day
i give thanks to the mother earth,
water,
air,
fire,
they sire
flesh,
blood,
breath
and spark from mystery
aren’t we all fired stoneware?
aiming to get it just right
so we can be useful as a cup
or plate,
make a date
look for just the right glaze,
a bit of shine
so you don’t get lost in the maze,
the haze,
rather gaze
at Katia’s sculpture ―
let’s work together
like bees making a comb,
making the place homey
like a stove with storage shelves,
a black blank tv screen,
a cabinet for dishes and
tableware and tear,
a pair of elongated spooked eyes
you might see something else
but there’s common ground
looking at the sculpture,
sculpture touching
earth
no matter how high it stacks up
common ground

Mankh (Walter E. Harris III)

Biography:
Mankh (Walter E. Harris III) encourages people to learn from direct experiences, not just head knowledge. He is a small press  publisher and author of 17 books, traveling a holistic mystic Kaballah-rooted pathway staying in touch with Turtle Island and the cycles of the Seasons.

Sentinels – For Scott McIntire – Kathy Donnelly

Each one, tall, carved, colored—
implying depth of character,
an individual soldier sent to protect
the weak, the soft, the fragile.

They stand in perfect communion,
responsible and strong, what ever
position they take in the field.
Dedicated, perfect resolve.

I think of how the world would be
so very different if we all had
protection around us, wrapped up
in a cocoon where harm could not

barge in, threaten, malign, penetrate
through. Nothing to worry about,
la-de-da, la-de-da. Our thoughts
could go directly to our lives, our arts.

I think of the 7-year-old little girl
who was traumatized beyond beyond.
I know her a little because I am
reading her book. She wrote poetry.

Not able to tell her captors anything
about herself, not English speaking,
she was put into the hull of a slave ship,
1700s, called the Phillis. That became

her first name. Months later, scantily clad,
skin and bones, hungry and standing alone
on an auction block, she was purchased
for a small sum.

John Wheatley was looking for a companion
for his wife. They fell in love with her, treated
her as family, educated her with their own
children, discovered a prodigy.

Her poetry claimed her fame. She published
in 1773, Boston, London, became a figure
in American literature. George Washington
celebrated her writing, invited her to dine.

Absent of sentinels in her young life,
she found herself celebrated for her gifts
most likely never found had she been
saved the trip across the sea.

She writes this poem:

“On Being Brought From Africa to America”:
TWAS mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there’s a God, that there’s a Saviour too:
Once I redemption never sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
“Their color is a diabolic die.”
Remember Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,
May be refin’d, and join th’ angelic train.

Lacking those who would protect her
from separation—home and family,
angelic sentinels joined forces,
an extraordinary job, later, as if planned.

I have felt protected at times in my life,
things that could’ve happened but didn’t.
I look at these wooden carvings in Scott
McIntier’s sculpture, choose my angel
to be the blue one!

Kathaleen Donnelly

Biography:
Kathaleen Donnelly is a 1976 graduate of St. Vincent’s, formerly in Greenwich Village, who works at StonyBrook Medical Center as a Nurse Practitioner in Cardiology. With a little help from her friends, she created three anthologies: Paumanok: Poems and Pictures of Long Island, Interwoven, and Transition. She strives to write poems you’d enjoy reading.

http://www.poetographyLongIsland.com

nest of flames – Kelly Powell

two fledgling phoenix
jump from a nest of flames
feathered in harsh words
unrequited love and unrealizable
dreams and expectations
one wrapped inside
the other’s tiny scarlet
freshly broken wing
paralyzes
staring bravely ahead, stumbling
they emerge disoriented
wander needlessly
and repeatedly
back into the fire
tiny flames
greedily licking their feet
like confections
again and again
they return dazed
sleepwalkers, hypnotized
immortal

Kelly Powell

Biography:

Kelly J. Powell is a poet native to Long Island and a 1988 graduate of SUNY Binghamton’s Creative Writing Program. She has performed widely on Long Island and in NYC. She has a new book of poems called Posthumously Yours from Local Gems Press, available on Amazon.

The Living and the Dead – Maggie Bloomfield

Based on a work by Aurelio Torres and the research of Ian Urbino
Like a cypress with two trunks
pillars ascend from the deep,
holdm tangled wires of steel,
a network of rusted cages symbolizing
the chaos and disregard for oceans-
the Asian Pacific,
the West African Atlantic.

How seductive a life at sea–offering
freedom, escape from lives destabilized
by governments, laws, families,
guilt.
In the tortured spaces of these wires,
murder waits.
Davey Jones Locker a morgue,
ocean outlaws, sporting
dark fishing fleets, ghost boats.
Wishful fishermen,
naïve to the uncompromising greed
of companies and captains,
are conscripted, trafficked, enslaved,
sleep in caves beneath decks,
trawl 45 foot nets until their backs break.
Without enough squid or sea bass in their nets,
sent below to die of scurvy
or meet a watery death along with
piles of unwanted sea life- fish, porpoises,
coral reefs, trapped, tossed
to the bottom of the world.
Bodies of men and fish drift ashore,
discarded by illegal Chinese squid trawlers,
pollute Gambia’s once vibrant beaches,
left to become dust.

We don’t think about Dark Fleets
while sunning on our pristine beaches.
Eating chilean sea bass, we don’t consider
the carbon footprint of thousands
of unwatched, unmonitored
fishing boats.

These pillars reach up to the sky, expose
the crimes, offer awareness, sunlight,
hope
for a thousand Sea Shepherds,
Green Peace vessels,
to navigate the ravaged waters,
follow the black ships,
burn their nets, bring criminals to justice,
unwind and repair the world
where lifeblood begins–
the magnificent sea.