Ancient Eagle Press

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  January 2018 -- Schrödinger's Cat

  December 2017 -- Daybreak

  October 2017 -- Night Watch

  September 2017 -- The Princess

  August 2017 - Pelham

  July 2017 --  Siena

  June 2017 -- Loyal, Straight, and True

  May 2017 --  A Thousand Flowers

  April 2017 -- Oboe Rap

  March 2017 - March Madness

  February 2017 -- The Cost of Doing Business

  January 2017 -- Reflection at a Winter Window

  December 2016 -- The Creation

  November 2016 -- Hemolymph Moon

  October 2016 -- Vortex

  September 2016 -- Do You?

  August 2016 -- Sailing
  July 2016 --  Mulberries
  June 2016 -- Off Tucker Point
  May 2016 -- Unforgettable
  April 2016 -- At Night She Cries

                                       Lakesong
                          
  She sleeps
  Wrapped in winter’s embrace
  No longer dancing to the West wind
  No ripple from the breaching carp
  The kayak’s prow
  Or flashing oar

  Immobile
  No parting of lips
  No fingers playing along the shore
  Yet from this stillness
  A song
  Offered to the morning sun

  Aching echoes long and low
  Like wind through wires
  Sudden snaps from
  Fractured faults
  Creaks and cracks
  Gurgles and hums

  Joining the song,
  The cacophony of geese
  Massed against the ice
  Screaming eagles
  Celebrating the fallen doe
  Barking vixen, trilling wren

  Till quiet night
  The coda
  As ice invades the shore
  To the slow
  Mournful winter song
  Of the sleeping lake.

  Lee Alloway 2018
 

February 2018


Frigid.  Those from the True North may scoff, but two weeks with temperature between 2- and 25-degrees (F) qualifies as frigid.  Recall that before the advent of air conditioning, Washington, D.C. was considered a tropical assignment by the U.S. military.  By local standards, it has been frigid!  Except for a few protected areas patrolled by a large flock of geese, the lake in our back yard was a 500-acre ice rink.  From the house, 200-yards from the shore, it seemed serene.  Morning walks with the dog, however, revealed an unexpected character.  The lake moaned!  With little wind, the lake sounded haunted.  As the sun rose, the ice shifted, cracking in places, expelling water and gas along the shore.  The animals foraging, scavenging and gleaning added another dimension to the scene.   In all, quite a wonderful gift from the cold which I hope to share with you in the February Poem of the Month.  Enjoy!

Where Old Fliers Come to Roost

Each month Ancient Eagle Press offers a poem appropriate to the season or the mood of our editorial staff.   Poems may be new or drawn from existing AEP editions.

Poem of the Month