What to Do When Bees are Few

by Penn Kemp


One bee, one clover

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee. / And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.

Bees are sadly far fewer now, dear Emily Dickinson, but
these days it will take more than revery to save our planet,
our province, our town. What is right action? What follows
hope? We write protest letters to ban roundup. We march.

Continue reading "What to Do When Bees are Few"


by North Wind Woman

I prayed to a God who was just not there, he never ever listened, he simply didn’t care
I searched and I studied, but I found him not, in dry dusty pages that I soon forgot

I listened to others, who claimed they knew, he really existed, could this be true?
For me he was nowhere, the truth was plain, I didn’t matter, I had no name

I walked in the moonlight, heard the North Wind blow, who could I turn to, where could I go?
For me there was no God at my side, I filled up the seas with the tears I cried

Continue reading "Journey"

Calling on Persephone, by Penn Kemp


Blessed be the lost ones, those who
left, in our opinion, too soon, whose
time, they say, had come. Blessed

be those whose lives have stopped
in their current form, the bodies we
know and miss. For it’s we who are

lacking, not they. Either they don’t
know any more or their essence has
dissolved to some fuller| plenitude

we too will come upon in our time.
Only the Goddess knows for sure
if we listen, if we reach out to Her.

Calling on Persephone, as seasons
darken, as night falls into autumn:
Take care of those we have lost.


The Three Comadres, by Susa Silvermarie

Watercolour of Nuestra Señora del Lago Chapala, by Susa Silvermarie
Watercolour of Nuestra Señora del Lago Chapala, by Susa Silvermarie


I. La Vieja Machis

The wind lifts the wild, white mane
of La Vieja Machis, Lake Chapala Goddess.
She protects the lake from which she rises,
and guides the beings blessed to live
under its lacustrine sway.
Blowing from the four Directions,
she gifts the patterns of the winds
to fishers and farmers and poets.

Over the sea of the lake
she mediates the moon,
as month after month I learn
how to grow old like her.
Lake Woman Machis receives
the colors of the world,
and in her moving palette
mixes them continually.
Sometimes she stirs a whirlpool,
or flings to the clouds a waterspout.
Often her waters show me
the stillness of the mountains.
Always, she brings abundance
and floods the lakeside air
with the aromatic bromide of her soul.