Saturday, January 12, 2013

J.S. MacLean


Sod dwellers slither under verdure
in a glade as birds gossip dawn.
The gully bank along the garden
erodes and a tiny dome appears.
Flattered lies decay like form.
Relinquished stones meld to earth
unmarked by hoof; such is the fate
of secrets lugged to rackety graves.


A fieldstone on the ridge reckons
that a river runs down there
filling with the fallen
spooning forever in contours.
Seasons sweep the earth
from around its feet.
It moves,
and thrills in stirring.
Others have stilled
in rose thickets
and some have sunk
into failing shale.
Cobbling is graceful
as the tipping grade's
cusp is gained
and the gut beckons.
Below; a pastoral interval
sun sweet as bee kiss,
or a heedless rill surely
captive to its selfish vector

Native Land

When a rambled native exits puberty
they quest towards the first coast
with one bladder of alpine meadow ale.
At the shore they fall on barren bellies
gulping brine until visions buzz
like distant traffic on the tectonic rotary.
As night falls they cocoon like driftlogs
into the limestone skipping stones.
Torn reflections of light from the other side
point at a single green Black Cherry leaf
that float-waltzes with the lap and wash
as it scouts landings. Its serrate edges,
inspired by the crests of waves,
curl up in supplication to airy branches
that crackle the empyrean face
streaked with the Tears of St. Lawrence.

J.S. MacLean is an independent poet who has been published in a variety of journals in Canada, USA, UK, and Australia. Most recent publications are or will be in Ice Flow (University of Alaska) and the Literary Review of Canada. He has a collection, Molasses Smothered Lemon Slices available on In his spare time he works.

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