Willawaw Journal Spring 2024 Issue 18
Table of Contents:
Cover Artist: J.I. Kleinberg
Notes from the Editor
Page One: Terry Adams Frank Babcock Stephen Barile Llewynn Brown Page Two: J.I. Kleinberg Jeff Burt Claire Cella Dale Champlin Richard Collins Ron. L. Dowell Page Three: J.I. Kleinberg Jo Angela Edwins Maureen Eppstein Ann Farley Diane Funston CMarie Fuhrman Page Four: J.I. Kleinberg Charles Goodrich ash good Tzivia Gover Stephen Grant Kevin Grauke Page Five: J.I. Kleinberg Suzy Harris Matthew Hummer Bette Lynch Husted FD Jackson Marc Janssen Page Six: J.I. Kleinberg Marilyn Johnston Blanche Saffron Kabengele David Kirby Elizabeth Kirkpatrick-Vrenios Tricia Knoll Page Seven: J.I. Kleinberg Barb Lachenbruch Susan Landgraf Gary Lark Phyllis Mannan DS Maolalai Page Eight: J.I. Kleinberg Richard L. Matta Catherine McGuire John Muro Neal Ostman John Palen Page Nine: J.I. Kleinberg Gail Peck Diana Pinckney Vivienne Popperl Samuel Prince Sherry Mossafer Rind Page Ten: J.I. Kleinberg Jennifer Rood Maria Rouphail Joel Savishinsky Sarah Cummins Small Doug Stone Page Eleven: J.I. Kleinberg Audrey Towns Laura Grace Weldon Paul Willis Martin Willitts, Jr. Sam M. Woods BACK PAGE with J.I. Kleinberg
Jo Angela Edwins
Woods Walking
My friends and I discuss the names of trees.
Though none of us are arborists, each one
knows a species here and there, so by degrees
we call out the woods entire. Our walk began,
though none of us are arborists, with each one
saying, “Look at that tree! What is it?” Until another
called out the wood, the leaves, and thus began
our game of claiming knowledge, but soon enough our
saying failed us. Each tree resembled another,
so we started inventing names none would believe,
our game of claiming knowledge soon enough
descending to wild insistences meant to deceive
no scientist. Inventing names none would believe
is story-making, an act the woods enable.
Meant to delight and inspire, not to deceive,
is the job not of the lie but of the fable,
the story, the poem, the play. Soon we were able
to label fishmaw, fat-step, monkey shell
every shrub we saw, no lies but only fable,
and we laughed at the names we conjured from our warm well
of ignorance, maw-deep, fat-lipped, an empty shell
of absent knowledge we filled, by degrees,
with conjured joy. How warm, how wild, how well
go the days when friends discuss the names of trees.
Jo Angela Edwins has published poems in over 100 journals and anthologies and is a Pushcart Prize, Forward Prize, Best of the Net, and Bettering American Poetry nominee. Her collection A Dangerous Heaven was published in 2023, and her chapbook Play was published in 2016. She lives in Florence, SC, where she teaches at Francis Marion University and serves as poet laureate of the Pee Dee region of South Carolina.
Maureen Eppstein
Shared Bounty
ripening apples
at twilight
gleam dusky red
in the tree
by a wall
that holds back a hill
young fox appears
leaps lithely up the wall
walks a tree branch
nosing each fruit for ripeness
daintily picks one with its teeth
sits on the wall to eat
a sibling strolls down the hill
finds a windfall
sits nearby
having eaten together
they flow down the wall
tails high
graceful
as a pastel line
swirled over a page
Maureen Eppstein’s most recent poetry collection is Horizon Line (Main Street Rag 2020). Finishing Line Press published her chapbook Earthward in 2014, and will publish a new chapbook, Daughter in 2024. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including Willawaw Journal and Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California (Scarlet Tanager Books, 2018), and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Crossing the boundary between the arts and the sciences, her poems have been included in a textbook on geometric modeling, a university geology course and a National Audubon Society report.
Ann Farley
She Watches
The barn owl perches on our bookshelf
in the upper left corner between Richard Adams,
Maya Angelou and Jane Austen, spines bent
or broken, pages dog-eared and worn soft–
perfect nesting material should our owl desire.
In spite of her heart-shaped face,
she is no romantic. She hears every movement,
sees in the dark, the moles tunneling under rugs,
the hurts and silent accusations tucked
behind books, secrets shoved into corners–
wisps of dog hair and dust won’t hide them.
She surveys our coming and going, sleeps
through stuttering conversations
and long stretches of quiet, wakes
to punctuations of laughter and chatter,
moments of tenderness. She does not hoot,
she’s not the hooting sort, but neither
does she chortle or shriek. If she has words
of wisdom, she keeps them to herself.
We don’t feed her, but sometimes we forget
a roasted chicken carcass on the counter,
a pot of pasta carbonara on the stove,
slightly over-steamed broccoli in a bowl
by the sink. But she never samples,
as if she lives on air alone.
There is a great deal we don’t understand.
Now and then she wings about, lands
on the back of a dining room chair,
the upstairs banister, curtain rods.
She goes unnoticed, like the blue jar of marbles,
the ceramic tray of shells and rocks. Visitors
never get a glimpse, never suspect our owl.
The dog gets a little nervous, retreats
to her crate, sweeps her tail over her nose,
sleeps with one eye partially open.
Maybe we should be wary, too,
but her presence is a comfort.
We are more kind when she watches.
Ann Farley, poet and caregiver, is happiest outdoors, preferably at the beach. Her poems have
appeared in Timberline Review, Third Wednesday, Willawaw Journal, Verseweavers,
KOSMOS, and others. Her chapbook, Tell Her Yes, was published by The Poetry Box in
April, 2022. She lives in Beaverton, OR. Visit www.annfarleypoetry.com
CMarie Fuhrman
Hells Canyon Revival
Camped beneath Hells Canyon Dam
last night it started raining.
I moved my head outside the tent
and let rain fill the hollows of my eyes.
I never saw lightning but heard thunder
roll from beneath me, the earth
upside down, hooves of animals
bolting through clouds
it started raining lamprey and sturgeon
it rained so hard last night I was young again.
It rained so hard the earth moved
from the graves of my grandparents
their bones started dancing on the rocks
dancing like hail.
It rained so hard the river was young again.
Neither of us had our second names
we chewed dirt with our first teeth
we ran together with salmon, steelhead
the shores lifted their skirts at our passing—
last night the rain brought back my grandmother
she put my head in her lap
she told me stories, she told me carp
sucked the bones of my grandfather
her tears filled my eyes. Her braids tickled
my cheeks.
This morning the skies are clear. A fly dances
on my nose. In the flooding light I move earth
worms from the trail. Sometimes
I toss their wet brown bodies back into the river.
Reprinted from CMarie Fuhrman‘s chapbook, Camping Beneath the Dam: Poems, with the author’s permission. For more about the author, please go to the poet laureate prompts here.
Diane Funston
Atmospheric River
Walking in Northern California rain,
snug under a plastic poncho
I’m bothered neither by wet nor wind.
Brave dogs at my side,
we straddle puddles and gutters
to get our daily exercise
despite downpours ten days out.
Our snowpack is secure
after years of drought and dust.
Forecast calls for “Atmospheric River”,
the latest in dramatic terms
to excite the media-addicted sedentary class.
I continue my walk, tree limbs wave,
our pace reflected in standing water.
Diane Funston writes poetry of nature and human nature. She co-founded a women’s poetry salon in San Diego, created a weekly poetry gathering in the high desert town of Tehachapi, CA and most recently has been the Yuba-Sutter Arts and Culture Poet-in-Residence for the past two years. It is in this role she created Poetry Square, a monthly online venue that features poets from all the world reading their work and discussing creative process. Her first chapbook, Over the Falls, was published in 2022 by Foothills Publishing. Diane is also a visual artist in mosaic, wool felting, and collage.
