Ancient Eagle Press
Archives
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