David Feela
April 2015

A pot of tea steeping
on the marble sill, its steam
clouding the window.

Sunrise on the counter
like the yolk of a broken egg,
oh happy disaster of morning.

All is settled then, the man
still asleep, the woman
keeping this time for herself

beside the sink, thinking of every
beginning and ending she's known
before filling her cup.

Oil on canvas, 30" x 30"
Samantha Haring
March 2015

Discard, oil on canvas by Samantha Haring

Oil on birch panel, 36" x 48"
Robert Porazinski
February 2015

Hybrid IV, oil on birch panel by Robert Porazinski

Michael G. Smith
January 2015

      fingers a volcanic outcrop
            roofed mostly in duplex lichen,
                  one of the tenacious earthmakingmen
                        helming a weathering like and unlike

      and sun and rain – thick-skinned
            operatives saturated with clarity
                  at times breezy, bright and merry,
                        their many modes furthering the world's

      jambment – recomposing log nurses ten
            alders, elfin firs to sprout in their future
                  shadows, nothing microminor
                        about a percolated spring's rambles to an icy

      once-in-many-decades flood wreaking
            pick-up-stick behemoth-log dams'
                  slow-pooled jamb
                        trout rests and paper-packed poets'

      of bits
            into bosomed ash-heaps
                        in the tree-tower boughs sifting the given


This poem was written while the author was a writing resident of the Spring Creek Project (Oregon State University) at the HJ Andrews Experimental Forest.

Photograph by Tina Leto
December 2014

Dandelion Seeds, photograph by Tina Leto

Danielle Susi
November 2014

Each hue is defined by wave length
or frequency. How often or far apart.
The inconvenience of closeness, or
the memory of longing for
harmonic intervals of light
filtered through the human eye

and, sometimes, the mechanical eye,
yet how we discriminate these wave lengths
is not well understood (in light
of other things we know) and apart
from corresponding frequencies for
each prismatic color or

manifestation of color or
what resides harmoniously in the eye,
there is an equivalent harmony for
the musical ear, which collects length
and time, and, in turn, plays a part
in the generation of light

but cannot identify single tones of light,
like notes fingered on a piano or
a cello plucked as part
of an orchestra performed at the center of the eye.
To take red, any length
of red, and mistake it for

the afterimage of green, for
the deposit of complementary light,
is to speak of harmony to some length
and the joining of two or
more colors behind the eye,
pretending like vision is not a part

of what makes the body a part
of a machine for
forgetting. What makes the eye
not a tool for collecting, but for losing light.
To suggest that the human eye is satisfied, or
in equilibrium, is to deny the comfort of length,

the redemption of length,
the restlessness of length, or
the longing for memory of light.

Hilary Brown
October 2014

grew from my mother’s fingers, sprouting
in the dirt under her nails and sending
their shoots through her veins.

Her lungs were filled with bitter earth.

Her feet became clay and crumbled under
the weight of trees. Hyacinths took root
in her liver and lilacs

perfumed the air too sweet.

Roses sprung from her womb.
We picked their berries
for our tea.

Oil on panel, 14" x 11.75"
Brett Eberhardt
September 2014

A History of Painting, oil on panel by Brett Eberhardt

Two prints by Megan Sterling
August 2014

Above Water; etching, woodcut, and monotype by Megan Sterling Hollow Roots; woodcut, monotype, and silkscreen by Megan Sterling

Above Water
Etching, woodcut, and monotype
20" x 8"

Hollow Roots
Woodcut, monotype, and silkscreen
19" x 8.5"

Donna Vorreyer
July 2014

There has been a small fire, burnt
tar-paper in a wastebasket, an accident
of no consequence, really—a thimbleful

of water tamed the blaze—but somewhere
buildings are burning, and I feel it is my
fault, like I have called the flames from

the cold sky with my witchcraft of longing.
I watch a calf being birthed in a pasture
surrounded by high red cliffs. I boil fresh

eggs still warm from soft underbellies
of chickens. These things are pleasant, yet
undeserved. At night, I sit with my books.

Somewhere, a fish is being angled for
off-shore. The hook in its mouth makes me
seasick, metal taste rising in my throat

like an anonymous threat. I keep changing
my address, shift from hotel to rooming
house, just to avoid the hook, the reeling in.

Oil on panel, 17" x 17"
Bo Bartlett
June 2014

Soap, oil on panel by Bo Bartlett

Liz Dolan
May 2014

As a child
I listened
to what was
not said

to the chasm
the spoken words
that floated out
and hung
in the air
like morning mist

to the soft sighs
the soft syllables
to the breaths
the Oh… yes
and the Maybe… so

Oil/alkyd with paper on canvas, 60" x 60"
Katherine Ace
April 2014

Tales from the Ground Up, oil/alkyd with paper on canvas by Katherine Ace

Oil on wood, 35" x 30"
Irene Hardwicke Olivieri
March 2014

Subterranean Family, oil on wood panel by Irene Hardwicke Olivieri

Watercolor, graphite, and pen and ink on Arches paper in bound volume; open book size: 4 x 12 in.
Charles Ritchie
February 2014

Three Snow Studies; watercolor, graphite, and pen and ink on Arches paper in bound volume by Charles Ritchie

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