How the Sky Touches
by Paul Gibbons

Beyond the point where the fenceline disappears
in fall, willows turn and sound like they’re turning,

a burro in a field flattens its ears
against its head and then offers them up again the way
a young daughter, waiting around her father who digs a ditch,
suddenly extends her arms to be picked up,

and that is how the sky comes closer, bringing with it
a cloud that started waning miles ago
but now has thinned out to a line that hovers
in the eye of the burro, and the white line stretches too

above the field until its tail is pointing at a barn in front of which
browning grass waves suddenly
and then the willows startle and whistle like a river moving
from its bank, and the barn shifts as the first

corner rattles and around the red slats
dust throws itself like an element should
when the unseen seems to have descended,

and like wasps clouding their nests in the eave
there is the small awful display of one thing
following another, and though the otherwise cloudless sky
surely has been broken by the surly thread of white,

you know it is no less sky, no less the dust spiking past
itself and nothing else. And you are tempted to believe in it.
You look post by post into the field and you hear

your mother shout to you, a splinter working its way
through the burro and barn and the sky. And this, maybe this,
is a way to say, if you are asked, how you are touched
seven years after her death.

Joy A State You Set
by Pinkroses Smith


If joy is a state of mind; then plant therein
seeds of those; indeed.
Deweed the state of depress.
Press happy seeds in my mind instead.
Deweed the stress within and all the unrest.
Sow the seeds of wholeness nad blessedness.
To others may I show seeds of kindness.
So, indeed Lord in my miind, plant seeds
of joy deep within.


Written by: Sheila Kay Smith
© Jan. 27, 2006

Midnight Pastoral
by Kristy Bowen


Suppose we could describe it: the bird collector
with his binoculars and net gone home to his wife

in her blue-lit kitchen. The black pot boiling over on the stove
and the goats outside rubbing their bodies against the fence.

Who knows what he cages or what survives the night.
A girl in a white dress arcs toward the dark horizon, the world so

small you could climb out of it. So small you could pocket
the moon with a cupped palm. Suppose we could describe

her movement through bluestem and aster, or describe dress,
or girl, or even sky. That beautiful black climbing.

According to the birds. According to the goats.

The Robot
by Michael Mack

Upon the stairway of despair,
Complete with broken love affairs
And promises that never came,
But faded with a touch of shame,
A pretty girl with golden hair
And innocence so sadly rare,
Strove to keep her head above
A way of life devoid of love.

Feeling pinned against Life's wall,
She chanced upon a robot tall
And said, "Please come and share with me
Whatever Fate has deemed to be.
I'm through with love, done with chances
Spirit crushed by past romances,
Just be a friend in word and deed.
That's all that I shall ever need."

"There's not too much from me to learn,"
Remarked the robot, in return.
"Emotions do not form a part
of my cold, solid-steel heart.
Whatever maker fashioned me
Did not permit my circuitry
Responsiveness to love or pain -
You're thoughts for me would be in vain."

"No matter", spoke the maid. "No more
Do I wish passion to explore.
Be someone I can come home to
When my exhausting day is through.
Count yourself a well-worn shoe -
A friend that I can slip into . . .
Protection from a stone cold floor . . .
For this I ask and nothing more."

Agreement made, he took her hand
And lived the life that she had planned,
Always willing, not demanding,
Aiding her with understanding
He made her smile with humorous wit
(As his restrictions would permit)
And, bit by bit, she came to feel
That he was more than iron and steel.

"I love you, robot", she at last
Replied when several months had passed.
"You're strength and quiet dignity
Have brought a wondrous change in me.
No more do I feel all alone,
And pray you must be flesh and bone.
Deep-set emotions you MUST feel
Within that outer coat of steel!"

"If I were able, I would say
I'm sorry I was made this way
But my design and programmation
Does not provide for that creation
Of feelings normal men may feel
That were not born of iron and steel.
I told you all this once before.
You have no right expecting more."

"Go, then!" cried she. "I will not live
Beside a fiend who cannot give!
Though I be battered by misuse,
Misguided trust and strong abuse,
At least the men I chose were real
And had the power to love and feel.
Of all the lovers I recall,
You are the cruelest one of all!"

The robot, indestructible,
Continues freely and at will.
Emotionless, apparently,
But, bearing closer scrutiny,
One can see a small tear streak
Down that cold, metallic cheek
As I reflect upon my life . . .
That lovely lady was my wife.

The robot, of course, was me.