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Heads of pampas grass bending  left to right lef 

Michael H. Brownstein: Playground

The long leaves of the pampas grass
bend as if with wings, the wind a river
floating through them, and the house wrens
skip from seed pod to seed pod. Stems
sway to their small shape, teeter totter,
and then, as if they had the power of hawks,
toss them all  from one perch to another.

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Liza McAlister Williams: Afternoon Gardening

At four p.m. the dinner bell rings out
for all mosquitoes cruising here about.
I’ve covered up each tempting juicy place,
but they’re content to bite me on the face.
They raise red welts that itch or burn for hours;
for miniature creatures they have monstrous powers.
I love my garden, it’s my little slice –
for me and my sworn foes – of paradise.

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Martin West: Diagnosis

I think it's love: this agony,
this feeling quite peculiar.
My heart is pounding frantically
and couldn't be unrulier.

I'm sure it's love. To suffer so
out-argues all denying.
I think . . . I swear . . . IT IS . . . although
perhaps I'm merely dying.

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Bruce McGuffin: The Pride of the Lions

The pride of the lions
And bold lionesses,
Both parents and scions
Is thick lion tresses.
Giraffes grunt defiance  
And zebras dissent
But the lion alliance
Is the Park’s mane event.

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Peggy Verrall: All my best poems are conceived at night.

Words flow, metaphors sing, deep channels reconnect.
I lie, on the verge of sleep.
Ideas merge.
With completion – satisfaction.
Eyes closed, I smile,
then snuggle down and sigh,
“I’ll remember that tomorrow.”

And never do.

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Shikhandin: Nursery Rhyme For Covid Time

One, two, three, four, five,
Too many dead, too few alive,
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten,
The pandemic’s back again
This time spreading far and wide.
Get your jabs and stay inside.
There’s a lot of it about,
Social distance if you're out.

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Max Gutmann: From Don Juan Finish'd

Frost once dismiss’d free verse as “playing tennis
  Without a net.” By now we’ve done away
With boundary lines as well, for these would pen us
  Too tightly in, inhibiting our play.
And all those rigid racquets were a menace!
  Thank goodness we’re much less constrain’d to-day.
We smack the ball round any way we please.
Odd, therefore, we’ve so many referees. 

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Raymond Hume: Forget-Me-Not

Incandescent glare of unclouded sky,
Dazzle me, and I’ll catch the mirrored sight
Of this powder-blue carpet’s pastel dye
In dotted patterns of greeting-card trite;
Or come closer, and puff up the pixels:
Let clusters of glowing star-flowers enter
The frame and pose their five heart-petals
Round each white and yellow starburst centre.

Three forget-me-not heads close up