Sunday, February 5, 2023

BRISTLECONE | January 2023

Photo of Bristlecone Pine on Mount Blue Sky

         Photo by Sandra S. McRae

Poems by

Beth Franklin, Erica Hoffmeister, Karla Johnson,
Marcia Jones, Donald Levering, Jessy Randall, and Tim Raphael

© 2023 Bristlecone

Click here to download this issue as a PDF


Bristlecone welcomes poems from writers of the Mountain West region. The editors are especially eager to read poems that reflect the region’s various cultures and landscapes, although we have no restrictions in mind regarding subject matter. Our main concerns are with the quality of the work and the cultivation of a regional community of poets and poetry lovers.

Submissions are accepted year-round. Please adhere to all of the following guidelines:

  • Submit 3 to 5 unpublished poems in a single Word attachment (no poems in the body of an email) to: Submissions with more than 5 poems will not be considered.
  • Poems posted on blogs and social media are considered published. Simultaneous submissions are fine as long as you let us know right away if the work is accepted elsewhere.
  • Use a header on at least the first page of your submission that includes your:
    • Name as you wish it to appear in the journal
    • Mailing address
    • Email address
    • Phone number
    • Website address (if you have one)
    • Phone number
  • Submission should be in .doc or .docx file format (no .rtf or .pdf)
  • Times New Roman 12 pt. font—titles in bold and not all caps
  • Flush left alignment except for drop-lines, internal spaces within lines, and any other special formatting your poem requires
  • 100-word maximum bio at the end of the submission; same guideline for translator bio(s). Feel free to provide live links to your website.

After publication, all rights revert to the individual Bristlecone authors. We consider simultaneous submissions but please let us know immediately if something you’ve submitted to us has been accepted elsewhere.

The Editors: Joseph Hutchison, Jim Keller, Sandra S. McRae, and Murray Moulding

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Beth Franklin

Ghazal in the Land of Love

In the land of love, my heart got broken,
seven times seven times seven every time.

Scarlet dinner-plate hibiscus, one day alive, 
droop, fall to the ground, at evening time. 

Stones placed over daughter bones, press mother 
and grandmother bones, marking ancestral time.

Worn out typewriter keys craft poem
after poem, beating wildly to love time. 

La Malinche
, indigenous traitor from pre-colonial time, 
transforms to hero, Chicana icon, in post-colonial time.

A wheelchair, four walkers, a radiation mask upside down 
on a garage hook, prolong mourning time.

A framed photograph, the groom’s gray tweed suit, 
the bride’s white pleated dress, begin a lifetime.

Orange slices, delicately arranged on a blue plate,
first painted with watercolor, then eaten one at a time.

A thin mattress from the hospice bed, tossed
into a red dumpster; a breath taken. Last time.


“A Throw of the Dice”

This last time, 
I walk around the ponds a few blocks 
from our house, sold and empty.
Until today, a walk taken daily.

A bald eagle rests high on a cottonwood branch, 
in undergrowth, geese surround their goslings, protective.
A gray heron, hidden among cattails, stands rigid.
Red-winged blackbirds balance, trilling, on single stalks.

Did you know he smoked waiting for you?
What did you think would happen when you married an older man?
Why are you always with other widows?

The snow dustings on the iced-over ponds invent geometric patterns.
Rabbitbrush sleeps, not yet its late summer yellow.               
Fields of blue flax will flower to the left of the path.
Serviceberry, with withered fruit clusters, will bloom purple in June.

I carry my father’s prayer card,
the last line from the Irish blessing soothes: 
Until we meet again may God hold you
in the hollow of his hand.

You, drum major extraordinaire, 
melodious voice on the human stage of poetry
swing dancer, jiver, string bass jazz musician. 
And the quiet you, gazer of trees, rocks and rivers.
Bagpipes. Heard that first time in an Inverness bar. 
We stood with the raucous Scottish crowd singing    
their beloved Anthem, music played at your final 
Celebration of Life.

A photo taken by my oldest friend forty years ago—gifted to me
when she came to say a final goodbye—shows me reading
Mallarme’s “A Throw of the Dice.”  Blossoms are
everywhere on my walk.

Why do you write about cancer?
Why do you paint yellow coneflowers on the edge of the river 
at the cabin?


Sometimes a Beauty, Sometimes a Beast

“Ask the wild bees what the Druids knew.”


When my mother died, they found 
an aerogram written to my Irish-American
grandmother. 20, in Madrid, writing

about discothèque dancing with Spanish
architecture students late into the night, 
learning a lot, nice people, thanks for the $10.

A clipping from the Indy Star, quotes me—
Purdue co-ed—questioning her American culture 
and values. Aerogram and newspaper clipping, 

saved evidence of a mother’s and grandmother’s 
pride for a young woman who left home 
for distant adventures.

My seven-year-old niece, a Halloween Disney Belle,
revels in her floor-length yellow satin dress, 
jeweled tiara, matching gloves, sparkling earrings. 

With her mother’s makeup in hand, she requests 
a heart crown painted on her forehead. Now tattooed,
the young princess waltzes through the living room. 

I paint a watercolor of a green apple with two leaves 
casting a shadow on the journal page. I feel 
the rounded apple in my body. My dancing niece 

grabs the gymnastic rings hanging from the kitchen 
ceiling, her backflip turning her princess dress 
inside out. Eating an apple, I watch her.

She tells me she loves apples, sliced thin as wafers.
With a somersault she gains momentum,  
pausing midair, legs straight up.


Beth Franklin, poet, painter, is the Executive Director of the Colorado Poets Center. In her role as Director, Franklin coordinates and sponsors in-person and virtual poetry readings; the Robert W. King Poetry Prize, a yearly contest for the high school students in the Greeley-Evans School District 6; and publishes The Colorado Poet newsletter. She is professor emerita at the University of Northern Colorado, where she prepared pre-service teachers in Culturally and Linguistically Diverse Education. A passionate believer in the importance of poetry, Franklin is dedicated to developing and supporting local and global poetry projects. She lives in Boulder, Colorado.

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Erica Hoffmeister

Dandelion Heart

I want one-hundred legs
instead of these unreliable two.

A centipede in its stop-sudden mirage of fright 
landscaping dandelions for what they are: resilient 
medicinal, caught between concrete domesticity and 
rebellion entrenched in slow-moving ferality.

I want to be a horror show: my body
amazing in the most traditional definition.
Flowing in rhythmic patterns, tidal, near-
villainous, terrifying those in my path 
simply by moving in my strange, alien 
existence, earthly existence, scurrying 
and parting waves of humanity in my wake 
over pavement, through small gardens and
damp soil. 

I wonder where centipedes go after the march of terror 
commences. I wonder if their families hug with two legs, 
or all one hundred. If, like my mother, who needs 
all parts of her body to love, they 
smother their children with one-hundred 
little feet, or hands, or whatever limbs 
attach themselves to sectional parts of entity.

My two legs that carry this body: my inability 
to move my segments in sync—my self 
always twisting from its center, limbs flailing 
against harsh concrete, man-
made obstructions.

Horror show, dandelion heart. Ordinary.
Someone always mistaking me for a weed.


best laid plans

This is not a poem about the sweet scent of orange blossoms
drifting through bright blue skies of childhood memory,
the soft-petaled magnolia leaves, my mother’s jasmine 

This is not about the ocean’s whisper, my salt-stuck curls
or the best breakfast burrito in town

This is not about my appendages ripped from their sockets 
and tossed into farther corners of once-possibility, my torso 
held hostage against Colorado’s snow drifts

my teenage-era locked door, my mother and I’s shared room, 
a year spent mostly sprawled across my best friend’s sofa, 
her legs translucent white

This is a poem about a hallway always occupied, the soothing hum 
of chaos, park birthday parties filled with cousin-limbs and sibling 
jokes: that time my brother drank too much on Halloween, my sisters’ twin giggles,
a knife always at her hip to heat and cauterize my open wounds

my nephew’s curly blonde hair, my mother’s wisdom, a double helix blue 
and citrus wax candle to light when this mountain range partition 
annexes our connected sky, a tiny flame 
held against my chest’s permafrost

It’s when I say that Las Vegas is my favorite city, remember glass shards 
sparkling in the street, hands splayed out of fast-driving windows
under a sky that cracks open on a regular Monday morning. 
I sprout citrus appendages on tilled soil, a beautiful comeback, an
unremarkable origin story

This is a poem about truth-dreams that ache my bones each night
at 4am, awaken and descend into a disorienting free dive, 
the conversation I never had with my husband 
hallucinating desert depths 

A cataclysmic variable—
binary star systems that merge and rotate into
a death spiral until they explode and die

they must exist together 
or not at all

Erica Hoffmeister is a rambling soul from Southern California who now lives in Denver, where she teaches college writing. She is the author of two poetry collections: Lived in Bars (Stubborn Mule Press, 2019) and Roots Grew Wild (Kingdoms in the Wild Press, 2019), but considers herself a cross-genre writer. Learn more at

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Karla Johnson

Gertrude’s Maid

Maid had sloughed out of her starched

white manners
white cleanin costume and 
white-world stance of
high alert watchin

Babys’ heads were pressed
dresses unmessed 
curlers set
so the mornin’s style could be 
blessed and ready to bear sweat
in worship tomorrow.

Maid’s now home with
sisters at the table tappin
whist cards slappin
raucous freedom boomin 
through lit cigs on lips, smoke curlin 
up, a cloud of relief from the day.

Sisters were knowin
how washerwomen
got recruited  
to be witnessin 
the Nordic antics
of the dirtied white rooms of 
gained wages.

Sisters at the table
of Maid
wait she said what
hold up she made you listen to what
naw what
sisters hopin
for a story from the famous woman’s lair.

Gurl, Maid said to the sisters, 
choosing a card and tossin
she was callin
it poetry
I’m tryna get home
paid time done and feet be achin
and she makin
me stand there and listenin
like she got somethin

Maid’s cig moved from lip to hand for the
spinnin of a 
Nordic-mocking recitation 
Exactly do they do
First exactly.
Exactly do they do.
First exactly.

Maid now hollerin
because sisters 
on knees and backs
the funny too strong and
laughter too big to do it just sittin

And first exactly.
Exactly do they do.
And first exactly and exactly.
And do they do.
And shee-bee-bop dippity doo

Gurl, Maid said shoutin
over the shared laughin
Ella oughta slap that woman for stealin
good music
and calling it poetry
all she doin
is scat. actin smart but just bullshit spittin.

Cards slappin
bids winnin
points addin
winners braggin
losers moanin
all still chucklin.

I thought, Maid said, wheezin
I thought, Baby, you need to get off 
that stuff. Sisters 
still laughin
and amenin

But I said, Maid said,
in perfect Nordic form,
I said it sounded important
and made my eyes wide
because ya'll know I ain't tryin
to be losin that one good job.

Sisters dealin
with understandin

Another maid,
a sister at the table
of the washerwomen
spoke up, sighin
I sure hope Langston’s right.

The table be quietin,
the recitation 
of Prophet Hughes’ intention

“We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how, and we stand on top of the mountain, free within ourselves.”

Adopted Guest

Friends, I watch your family from the inside out, absorbed.
Here, there are no sneers for children because they exist.
Instead the grownups chat together like a deep breath
No pressure.

Here, the mothers do not pinch your psyche like wet dough and twist
And the fathers do not sit angrily behind
Upright embalming slabs which chill you
Even in passing.

And your family does not indenture me for
Kitchen duty and holding their blame
And you ask me—don’t order me and you don’t get cruel
When I reach demands.

And dishes stay on tables not flung
And laughter is not biting in at my expense
And you go together not make me go in your stead
And I’m asking myself


Karla Johnson is a perpetual graduate student, with master’s degrees from both Denver Seminary and the University of Denver. She is a third-generation native of Colorado and counts her grown two sons as her wildest blessings.

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Marcia Jones

Car Wash Lullaby

Crystal rain tadpoles twist
upstream, then downstream,
against my windshield.

They curl, sensuous,
all the while watching me
unwind behind
my steering wheel.

Soft suds embrace
the last languid tadpoles
who didn’t escape
in the warning sprinkles.
Bubbles fizzle my car,
hush me in white.

Reclining inside,
I’m on Jupiter
deep in a marble crater
swathed in solitude
and eerie soap clouds,
a lull before the deluge.

Sudden rush, and elegant drops
drum a staccato of silence.
Silver monsoon meditation
washes worry away.

Could death be like this?
At last, more crystal tadpoles
glide forever downstream,
sparkling under crystal parachutes
in the rinse of letting go.


Moonlight Sonata

Wrapped in tangled bedsheets,
tossed and sleepless, she wanders
alone into the night woods.

The first floating notes in C# minor
summon her to still-warm shadows,
restless under the forest canopy.
An ancient square piano ascends
among soaring trees, its burnished body
formed in the forest, from the forest.

Its open lid reflects slender strands
of blue moonlight, its belly brims
with ferns and wild vines.

A flock of nightingales, mysterious
musicians of the dark, slow dances
on worn black and white keys

awakening long-silent notes in an aching
rhythm of tension and release, at once

desperate and joyful—a sonata of healing.

Marcia Jones's poems won awards at national and state levels through the National Federation of State Poetry Societies (NFSPS). Her poems have appeared in two anthologies: A Flight of Poems (Colorado foothills poets) and All the Lives We’ve Ever Known (Lighthouse Writers). She published her first poetry collection, Only Time, in 2019. Her second collection, Blue Hour, will be out in 2023. She lives in Evergreen, Colorado, where the Rocky Mountains inspire her.

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Donald Levering

Song of the Carpet Moths

(Man-Moth) regards it as disease he has inherited susceptibility to.

                   —Elizabeth Bishop

Hearing voices from the wall,
Man-Moth fears he’s gone insane. 
Then he reasons such high vibrations
could be the sonar-seek of bats outside

or emanations from a power line. 
He reaches up to tweak 
the buds of his antennae, and lo,
the signal strengthens, leading him 

to the hanging Navajo weaving. 
As he moves closer, the signals 
resolve to song. Ah ha,
it’s my little cousin carpet moths.

Give me darkness give me dust
and a niche in a slumbering rug
Give me flecks of dried sheep dung
and globules of lanolin

Give me cochineal dye
that turns the wool the same Ganado red
my tiny tongue and feet become
Give me labyrinth of pattern

to chew down to the weft
the dizziness of Whirling Logs 
dazzling Crystal and Spider Web
Two Grey Hills interlocking crosses

I love to inch along the pictures
of Yei giants and pollinating corn
munching on these cords of fodder 
enough for all my hungry young

The Weight of the Painting

To calculate a price quote for framing, the framer needs to know the weight of the painting.

How could the framer assign grams or ounces to the scintillating effect of the painting’s pastel aura of autumn shrubbery, the way it lifts the viewer off the ground?

See the small building in the background of the painting? How is the painting’s gravitas altered by the addition of this human dwelling? The ochre of adobe is dense with mud’s local lore. How shall he account for the levitation achieved by the roseate tones of sunset reflected in the building’s tiny windows?

Added to the assessment would be the burden of the history of the landscape painting, from the Tang Dynasty’s floaty silk scrolls of misty waterfalls to William Bradford’s scenes of spouting whales and ice-locked schooners, to Helen Frankenthaler’s flattened landscapes of pansies (what is the heft of her petals?). All these scenes behind the painting must be added to its total gravity.

This calculation would be incomplete without the sway of the critics’ weighing in on the painting. Their hot air plus the weight of public opinion may loft the painter to a moon-walk domain of celebrity, or consign her to the lead-footed realm of public indifference.

Nor can the framer ignore the background boulder that seems to lift off the ground. With its luminous lichens, it is as buoyant as if it were afloat in a salty sea.

Luckily, the price does not include the weight of the neural cloud of imagination about the painter as she worked. Like a cumulus cloud of water vapor, this mental image of the painting must weigh hundreds of thousands of tons but must be discounted from the framer’s fee.


In Pastel

After a diptych by Jane Shoenfeld

When you wake you check your fingers to see
if they’ve turned into ten long sticks
of colored chalk as you just dreamed.
Instead of the dream’s sidewalk, the paper

on one side of your easel starts to scintillate
with flecks from your pastel sticks,
colors nearly bright enough to sear
an optic nerve as you sketch a figure

that quickly grows into a woman
whose mane is a spectrum spray,
whose face an electric seraph’s,
whose voice reverberates like hive-thrum.


* * *


On the other panel, Grandfather
Sitka Spruce is lying down.
A trillium blooms from his chin.
Toadstools and lichen claim his face.

Carpenter ants haul his heartwood
to their potlatch. His needles
become banana-slug meal,
his voice, receding thunder.

His supine totem pole is hollowed
into a canoe that glides you back
sadly to your own casketed grandfather
among banks of overpowering mums.


After a watercolor by Susan List

Dusk on the lagoon like a burner’s gas light.
A hermit’s quietude flickers in the last light.

Twilight slides with earth’s rotation into night.
Old heartache turns me toward this “Last Light.”

Magenta spreads through the gloaming firmament.
Bats and moths and swallows stir in the last light.

Trappings come unmoored, habitual views disperse.
Glimpses of infinity scatter in last light.

Loose photon jubilee, cumulus hosannas.
Memory, time, and distance fuse in last light.

Donald’s eyes rise to the fontanelle of sky.
Love of spectrums of the dusk in List’s “Last Light.”

Donald Levering's 16th poetry book, Breaking Down Familiar, will be released in May of 2022. A previous book, Coltrane’s God, was Runner-Up in the 2016 New England Book Festival contest in poetry. Before that, The Water Leveling with Us placed 2nd in the 2015 National Federation of Press Women Book Award in Creative Verse. He is a former NEA Fellow and won the 2018 Carve magazine contest, the 2017 Tor House Robinson Jeffers Prize, and the 2014 Literal Latté prize. His work has been featured in Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac podcast.

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Jessy Randall

Not Checking Messages

[stolen french fry form*]

from not checking
messages that I
feel good?


[* The stolen french fry is a poetry form I invented based on the number of fries I stole from Price Strobridge and Ashley Crockett at the Poetry West Writers Retreat in Crestone, Colorado, May 2015. I made five thefts of fries, stealing first 1, then 1 again, then 3, then 3 again, then 2. The stolen french fry is therefore a five-line poem with word counts of 1, 1, 3, 3, 2. As far as I know, “Not Checking Messages” is the only poem ever written in stolen french fry form, but perhaps that could change.]

Jessy Randall's poems have appeared in PoetryScientific American, and Women’s Review of Books. Her new collection, Mathematics for Ladies: Poems on Women in Science is forthcoming from the University of London in 2022. She is the Curator of Special Collections at Colorado College, and her website is

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Tim Raphael

The trouble begins

when I give bunchgrass a sway 
or suggest stones kneel at sunrise, 

as if they have something to say about this mesa, 
its vantage distinct from morning everywhere. 

Better I report unadorned the exact angle of the slope, 
how it frames the valley below,

allow the fields to be green, leave riotous out. 
A valley of green fields is enough. 

Except then the mesa rolls from shadow to sun, 
blinks itself awake and slips 

into its polka dot juniper dress 
in time to spot the owlets learning to fly “on owl-silent wings.” 

They’ve fledged but not far from the cliff face, 
loitering on a dead branch 

in sight of the ledge 
where they were born. 

Not yet horned or hardened, 
one stares back at me like a downy moon, 

its face ringed in a winter halo of white feathers, 
as if a July snow is on the way. 

Flecks of bone, like flakes, are scattered below the nest, 
the white mandible of a mouse or mole, bits of leg bone and spine, 

a tooth. I’ve interrupted something. 
Altered it—

two owlets motionless 
save the slow swivel of their famous heads. 

Harvester ants a few feet away begin their Sisyphean day, 
and I’m tempted to describe them as cheerful— 

a pep in their steps up their cartoon volcanoes. 
But why try to pin a mood on an ant? 

The soil softened by heavy dew. 
The soil itself more pebble than dirt. 

Is your eye drawn like mine to the dark crevices, 
a gash of dry streambed running down the slope, 

where I almost will a coyote onto the page?
Omitting the distant hum of State Road 75, 

I linger instead on the blue of the sky, 
leave out the sweat, my skin already wet, 

8 AM and the urge to say something, 
do something beyond witness.

No, I am not a reliable ally, 
I don’t tell it all,

deny you the scent of after-rain, 
ignore the stab of goathead. 

Today, it’s the absence of swallows and jays, 
no bunches of blue birds in the juniper. 

No birdsong calling Lightnin’ Hopkins—
Baby please don’t go    Baby please don’t go 

The blues scale I practice over & over. 
Each note in its place, but O, elusive swing,

somewhere out there, 
out beyond the metronome, 

where every coyote is a gift, 
and daybreak’s refrain is here 

& gone.

Blue Truck

We know each other first by our dogs—
walking our road, I see Tipsy
the cattle dog, dragging her dead leg 
like a grub hoe & I know Stan will appear 
in long slow strides, knit cap on cold mornings.

Scout runs ahead in sniffed greeting,
& when Stan pulls even, we trade a few words
about his garlic crop, about Kate & the kids 
& keep moving—he east, me west.                                        
Stan’s unwritten list of loss                            
is longer than mine & includes his wife 
Rosemary, whom I never met, 
yet he just hauled a Model A back from Nebraska, 
convinced he can find a transmission                         
& get it back on the road.

Kate had only been half joking 
about our own dead truck when she told the seller, 
We’ll take the house if you throw in the truck,
as if we had a choice, grass hiding                             
the airless tires of the Dodge, 
a ’49 flatbed with perfect patina 
of autumn rust & blue, as if someone 
had sanded dead leaves & sky into fender 
& door, dignity in the rotted bed boards                    
& side rails that once held stacks 
of apple crates or firewood—the kind of truck 
you’d hop in or on if someone was headed to town, 
bouncing over the pitted road when 
there was still a bar & gas station, maybe                  
a kid taking a turn at the wheel. Now 
the bench seat is all springs but the chrome 
is like new, the Art Deco ram on the hood
ready to charge up valley to the snow on Jicarita Peak.                                             

The sign Kate painted & hung at our gate says
Blue Truck, not Blue Truck Farm—
we have less than a hundred whipple beans 
in the ground, assorted beds of zinnias 
& cosmos, three rows of wine grapes,            
a few apple, pear & plum trees, bush cherries, 
a lone apricot & only three hens after 
I forgot to latch the coop one night. 

 is a big word when nothing
is sold and what’s canned or put up 
doesn’t fill a pantry shelf, 
& farmer may require even more—                           
a few generations buried 
in Father Kuppers’ cemetery, callused hands 
like Stan’s that no longer crack in the cold, 
a knack for knowing whether clouds gathering
in furrowed rows will bring a soaking rain.

this town

this town has everything   it has it all this town   except curbs  
curbs & sidewalks but this town has everything else   no curbs like the ones 
in the last town with its paved streets & shaded sidewalks & town dogs 
on leashes  no leashes in this town   this town without a police force   no police 
no movie theater oh & no barber shop   no salons for people or dogs  
no tourist bureau with directions to the post office or the Battle 
of Embudo Pass or the tree where Harbert’s honeybees swarmed last year  
no big muddy river   that’s the other town  this town has hardly stream enough 
for beavers & kingfishers who meet on the banks because there’s no convention 
center either but this town has icy canyon roads sopapillas & a past like 
& unlike your town & the snow is starting to fly & knock down 
the last of the cottonwood leaves & this town looks back & ahead but mostly 
is busy today with Clarence’s funeral & keeping kindling dry as though this town 
is a protest without slogans that fit on banners   a treatise of half-baked 
tenets & no ultimatum   this sawdust-scented town   this town with everything

Tim Raphael lives in Northern New Mexico between the Rio Grande Gorge and Sangre de Cristo Mountains with his wife, Kate. They try to lure their three grown children home for hikes and farm chores as often as possible. Tim’s poems have been featured in I-70 Review, Deep Wild Journal, Sky Island Journal, The Fourth River (Tributaries), Windfall, Cirque, Canary, The Timberline Review, Gold Man Review and two Oregon anthologies. He is a graduate of Carleton College.

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Monday, January 16, 2023

BRISTLECONE | November 2022

Photo of Bristlecone Pine on Mount Blue Sky

         Photo by Sandra S. McRae

Poems by

Kathleen Cain, Karen Douglass,
Nathan Manley, David Anthony Martin, and Ed McManis


© 2022 Bristlecone

Click here to download this issue as a PDF


Bristlecone welcomes poems from writers of the Mountain West region. The editors are especially eager to read poems that reflect the region’s various cultures and landscapes, although we have no restrictions in mind regarding subject matter. Our main concerns are with the quality of the work and the cultivation of a regional community of poets and poetry lovers.

Submissions are accepted year-round. Please adhere to all of the following guidelines:

  • Submit 3 to 5 unpublished poems in a single Word attachment (no poems in the body of an email) to: Submissions with more than 5 poems will not be considered.
  • Poems posted on blogs and social media are considered published. Simultaneous submissions are fine as long as you let us know right away if the work is accepted elsewhere.
  • Use a header on at least the first page of your submission that includes your:
    • Name as you wish it to appear in the journal
    • Mailing address
    • Email address
    • Phone number
    • Website address (if you have one)
    • Phone number
  • Submission should be in .doc or .docx file format (no .rtf or .pdf)
  • Times New Roman 12 pt. font—titles in bold and not all caps
  • Flush left alignment except for drop-lines, internal spaces within lines, and any other special formatting your poem requires
  • 100-word maximum bio at the end of the submission; same guideline for translator bio(s). Feel free to provide live links to your website.

After publication, all rights revert to the individual Bristlecone authors. We consider simultaneous submissions but please let us know immediately if something you’ve submitted to us has been accepted elsewhere.

The Editors: Joseph Hutchison, Jim Keller, Sandra S. McRae, and Murray Moulding

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Kathleen Cain

Natural Curve

for Kelly, 1960-2021

It’s important, to find a refuge in every day, so that when you hit the pillow 
at night, no matter how troubled you are, you can return there and rejoice a little 
in the person, place or thing (though “thing” isn’t really a good word for a poem). 

Today it was a natural spring, still present and unexpected, flowing through  
a subdivision not far from the hospice house where my sister lies. With warning 
signs, of course: Private Property. No Trespassing, blah, blah, blah—it’s only for 
us now, not you.  But just beneath the place where the sidewalk follows the fence 
line, a creek runs away, as they all do if they can. A tangle of trees crosses the water. 
The oldest one goes first, a cottonwood, bent like the St. Louis Arch or a bridge 
a mother might make of her body, to let her children cross. 

My sister needs a bridge like that on her final earth journey, though it’s one she 
has to cross alone, as we all do. She just asked what time it is. Ten to eight on Sunday
morning. October third. Canada geese have just made a fly-by, though if she’s heard
them, she doesn’t say. Which is unusual. The declining Moon sailed above the trees 
last night, a crystal sickle with gold and silver filigree—you know that way the Moon
does sometimes, in a cold sky. “It’s a gorgeous day,” she says. It’s hard to hear her now,
her always-clear voice reduced to a rasp of air. I put my ear to her lips, ask her, twice more, to tell me again what’s she said. “It’s. A. Gorgeous. Day.” Even as light dims around her, how well she kens the curve of weather, the arc of her life amidst its seasons.




I always hate to see
May go—tulips, iris,
their fragrant parts
into fragments of which
they’re made
folding back into the earth
again, into themselves,
forming next year’s seed
or pod, set to begin 
the hubbub of root and bulb 
in their minor tremblings

and yet, the sky clearing
making way for sleepy June
soon the seduction of
mock-orange blossoms
and petal showers
of summer snow—raspberries
already beginning to form
their tart-celled red worlds

on it goes, this continuum
we call life and death
one wrapping and enfolding
the other . . . 
and look! golden alyssum’s
last blossom
and here’s 
the starred globe
of the purple
allium—a gazing ball
if ever
there was one




“Ask the wild bees what the Druids knew.”


Ten years ago, my uncle
the beekeeper
said that “for all intents and purposes
there are no more feral bees.”

Someone in my town posts a picture
of a glut of wild bees in a pine tree
and wonders what to do.

Advice rolls in, with or without
experience or understanding.
“Leave them Alone!”
shouts one. “Call someone to
collect them,” suggests another,
the human impulse to capture
so strong in us. “They’re migrating!”
a third offers, though bees do not
really migrate. For that, they’d need
a destination. And a return. This is

a swarm. They’re just moving house.
They’re gentle then, my uncle always
used to say, easily handled without
fear—all the fuss in honor of
the new queen, whom they will
follow and pledge their lives to.
Yes, leave them. They’ll find their
way, to a hollow log or tree, where 
you may or may not notice them as 
you walk by, to-ing and fro-ing through 
your own day. 



And Now This…

It’s hard to tell at first 
if the birdsong drifts in from
somewhere over Anderson Cooper’s 
right shoulder there in the dark,
from three to four a.m., Ukraine
time; or whether it’s the house finch
in the blue spruce tree outside
the picture window, from six
to seven p.m. Mountain Standard
time here in Colorado. Click off

the volume on the remote. Nothing.
Back on again, just as the finch
lets loose its end-of-day cascade
of notes. 
              Off.    On.  
It’s the bird in the dark
in Ukraine, lifting its song before
dawn. Lark? Or thrush? Sounds like

our 4:30 a.m. robins—so, a thrush
then. Whatever species, alive as
the spirit of land and people, its 
practiced trill of millennia unerring 
there in the dark, certain of the dawn
it can feel, feather and bone. In spite
of everything, singing up the light.


Kathleen Cain's poetry has recently appeared in Abandoned Mine, The Comstock Review, and Pandora’s Amphora (Art Goodtimes’ blog). Work is forthcoming in the premier issue of Jasper’s Folly. She was a featured reader for the Ziggies Zoom reading in April 2022 and for the 100,000 Poets for Change Reading (Denver 2022). She is also the author of two nonfiction books: Luna, Myth and Mystery and The Cottonwood Tree: An American Champion.

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Karen Douglass

Black-winged Moth

How near to a moth is god?
A universe of air away,
unless like St. Thomas’s
sponge in the sea I am
in god and god in me
and the moth brushing my hand
closes the gap from maker to made.

Or god is inside the moth
come to test me: can I believe
in a life like my own, veiled
when I thought to swat,
thus murder, a black-winged god?



Walking Companion

Escaping a sick world,
I carry silence with me,
hear only birds, sighs
of a passing bike on pavement,
the scuff of my shoes
if I forget to pick up my feet.

I choose one stone as a partner—
oval, black, smooth, palm-sized,
a talisman against the invisible.
I clutch the stone like a gift.

Shaped by long friction
against the elements, it asked
nothing but a resting place, yet
I have wrested it from its home.
We meet no one. The day lengthens.



Wild Sparrow

Wing tangled
in the mesh suet feeder
its furious struggle
to get free
twists the string tighter.

I fetch small scissors, clip
the thread and he’s away,
no thanks or regret.

This small rescue
my fingers touching
that delicate wing.


Karen Douglass, BS, MA, MFA, a native New Englander, now lives in Colorado. She has been a psychiatric nurse, horsewoman, racetrack judge, mother (still is), college instructor, poet, and novelist. 

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Nathan Manley


Anas platyrhynchos*
For A.G.

By the watchmaker’s motive element
sprung to his afternoon preen, the drake tucks
as innards tick the green enameling
of that faultless, gem-bright head he carries,
bears up like a finery, prinking now
the fan-clasp fold of each ensapphired wing.

I’ve half-discerned his lost mechanic art,
the gear drive’s twinkling teeth and symmetries
of weight and counterpoise, whirr of gilt chains
wheeling—the animal an invention
of Enlightenment clockshops—when it breaks,
this spell that’s held me half an hour, dawdling

at the duckpond, where I conjure the dead—
yes, the never replicated genius
of Vaucanson, that 
       also of a friend,
who worshipped with a sheepdog’s heart, holding
that the soul takes no form out of nature
but the motion of its fleet machineries.


* The once illustrious, now largely forgotten inventor Jacques de Vaucanson exhibited three automata at a Parisian exhibition in 1738—most famously, a clockwork duck which reproduced mechanically the essential anatomical functions of a living animal, including digestion, for which it was best known. Composed of more than four hundred moving parts, the machine’s intricate design was never documented thoroughly enough to support a modern reconstruction. By the account of one witness, however, the duck appears to have survived at least into the nineteenth century—by then in a sadly degraded condition. His automata astonished Vaucanson’s contemporaries; Voltaire compared the mechanist’s accomplishment to that of Prometheus.



Short-Eared Owl

                                    Asio flammeus

“Lamplight lost on the membranous casement,
midnight lapping—soft, osmotic—cat-eyed
at the pane; sickle moon, slick as pooled cream,
cobwebs spun like a needlepoint doily
and catching the spill of it. Throw that latch,

“won’t you? Set a spell while the coyotes yuk,
yuk it up, gleeful, on gore-scrap tatters
and humble kills. Gullyside, sprightly, 
sylphs of the May wind finick wild lilac,
tumbling idle-wise, sweet as a porch dream.

“Set still. Prick up your ear, won’t you? Bard-beaked,
freckle-breasted, Brown Owl’s out whoop-whooping 
at the wood foot of the tamarack. Why,
the vermin bunch their pretty whiskers, spooked—
Dead Creek bending to its own erasure.

“Old Cricket’s picking at his mandolin,
plumb-tuckered, for the like of us, again:
stickler for struck strings singing out for love
of nothing in particular. Let him.
Hear? The milk-lit lawn’s gone hushabye blue.”



Garter Snake

Thamnophis sirtalis

You’ve traveled, cool and mathematical,
up the earth’s hibernal coil, scouring out
a patch of light to warm your sleeping blood. 

What meticulous articulation
settled scales in the stonework of your head?
In passing, you’re handsome as a statue,

capable almost of speech, if not guile
to slip the fatal lie by a black lash
of your tongue and unplenty the garden.

And yet, how speechlessly you scent the drift
of our mutual fear, of irises
billowing like tattered ships at the rim

of an alien continent, and flit,
slick as sin where you disappear, dipping
down the terrace with its potted blossoms

and into the yawn of a cracked timber.
To what empty, bestial dreams you’ve dropped
in your world below the world, admitting

no command but that of my enchantment.
One hand’s tensing at the throat of the earth,
where I cannot follow you to your peace.



False Parasol

Chlorophyllum molybdites*

Stain of the ethereal cup no king 
since Æthelberht’s drawn a bitter draught of, 
toadstools fatten like figs in the forage,
an elfin ring at the tanglewood’s brim.
Pared, pollarded to a diplomacy
of trees, the wild, fine-fruiting, is no more.
Light laps the orchard of a foreign Christ.

Up tumbleweed country, my heritage—
skulls of bison stacked in a parody
of cultic awe—the prairie plaits her locks
with empty ceremony, wind waking
on the neck, yucca-pod stiff.
                                               Even here,
missionaries heard knocks in the dark, ache
of the old religion rankled, wraithlike 
in the grass: rattle-scrape of ós and ése. 

Sprung dewside of one virgin hill no plow
could scrape to cultivation—this of few,
half-fabled, to weather the oxen yoked
of the Homestead Acts—a fairy’s circling
savagely, calling up her green-gilled shrooms
from an Otherworld isle without a name.

Hers proved a poison, steeped in spleen enough 
by nineteen hundred, to open a door
in the backcountry and carry off the child.

* Known also as Green-Spored Lepiota and colloquially as Vomiter, False Parasol is one among a range of fungal species observed to sprout in so-called fairy rings. The organism’s mycelium, of which its mushrooms are the fruiting body, consists of a buried mass of filaments called hyphae; as hyphae decompose organic matter in the soil, aboveground grasses grow lush and vigorously, enriched with nutrients loosed by the fungi’s putrefactive work. This quasi-mutualism results in circles of dark green grass and occasionally, come rainfall, of pale mushroom caps. Fatal poisonings have historically occurred only in children and small animals.


Nathan Manley is a writer and erstwhile English teacher from Loveland, Colorado. He is the author of two chapbooks, Numina Loci (Mighty Rogue Press, 2018) and Ecology of the Afterlife (Split Rock Press, 2021). Recent poems and Latin translations have appeared or are forthcoming in Portland Review, Natural Bridge, The Classical Outlook and others. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize. You can find his writing and instrumental music at

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David Anthony Martin                  

Interpreting a Circle

Snowshoeing the quiet folds of the forest 
down into bobcat draw and up the other side
to the hem of the meadow opening before me
a near blinding expanse of crystalline white
today is a blank slate, surface unmarked but 
by wind and sublimation, this sheet of white
pulled taut & tucked into the far scrim of oaks
beneath the cold potential of emptiness rest
the moldering calcium-phosphate rich bones of deer
which now sleeping field mice gnaw
and the fibrous matrix of collagen is devoured
slowly by bacteria and fungi, as she molders 
in return to the base elements of the field
from where her nutrition was derived

For a short time, she was the field on four feet
experiencing herself, grazing the green tastes,
solar-powered chlorophyll-infused leaves
of wild grasses busy making sugars to trade
with the penetrating mycelium conveying deep
nutrients from the darkness to shallow roots,
she ground the green to chocolate-dark pellets

The bones: a reminder      memento mori 
“You, too, shall die.” It is a statement.
An admonition. More wisdom than warning. 
Nothing but these beautiful bones remain
the eye finally emptied doorways of perception
cleansed, the skull affixed with the eternal
unhinged grin, a silent, knowing laughter,
a cosmic chuckle of joy



The Wash

crumbling granite 

smoothened stones
haphazard path of red
rounded pebbles

the ghost of ancestral mountains 
long ago eroded

fragmented name
we’ll never know 

but still here

falling apart 
becoming a part
of everything else




One small point in the flow of my forage
this log-cum-bridge, wet-lapped
tight-grained waterworn heartwood
lacquered slick with unseen life
I know, this creek its width just so
beyond a single stride for me
with my eyes to the far bank, can I navigate
the maneuver, will it support me
just one swift, light boot step
all I ask, not my full weight
as I might ask of a stone
and no longer than a heartbeat 
a pivot point, a fulcrum for the swift
compasses of my legs, knowing
there’s a magic to momentum,
to already being in motion—

David Anthony Martin flies kites far too infrequently, forages wild mushrooms when in season, collects feathers when he finds them, writes daily and dreams nightly. He is the author of four collections of poems (Span, Deepening the Map, Bijoux, and The Ground Nest). He works in several capacities for the Nature & Wildlife Discovery Center in Beulah and Pueblo, Colorado, including Environmental Educator, Hike Guide, Park Maintenance, and Caretaker. He is the founding editor of Middle Creek Publishing.

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Ed McManis

While You Sleep

They say the deer creep down at night
from the hills, dainty as ballerinas —
behead the petunias, gladioli. 
Cloven hoof-prints mark the congregation,

soft dirt snuffled, a snort rumbling
in the crease of your dreams to wake 
you at two a.m. You gaze into the moonlit 
garden, tri-horned silhouettes pawing 

through the newly planted flower beds, 
scattering rosary beads of scat. 
grand plié, now stare away, 
now circle beneath your

peach tree, suck the green fruit to pits. 

A neighbor’s engine, early shift,
rumbles to life, just over 
the velvety lip of the ridge. 
Red eyes return your gaze, this family 

of rude tourists, their primal indifference
curling your toes as you turn to bow 
in your slippered feet, lips sticky-
sealed with peach juice.




The attraction—chemical,
the junkie’s fix, gambler’s dice.
Salivating, you peel
the silver dress
—one was never enough—
work your tongue around
the swirled chocolate nipple
let the melting calm 
the sigh, scratch the itch,
then the luxurious
You pinch for another and another
working the flimsy foil,
ripcord the paper-thin
hair ribbon—two, three, numbers swirl
—the addition of addiction—
and always a roving eye,
the bag of gold nuggets
the next counter down,
the slivered almond centers
that tempt restraint, make you
believe love is more than dinner
lust or dessert; it’s in your hands
and head as you gnash
your back teeth, melt the
heart within the heart.



The Poem I Didn’t Write…Twenty Years Later

Still offended at all levels, even in translation, hissed
when I proofed, was still politically incorrect, 
got cancelled and hash-tagged, 
spat graffiti on my computer screen,
had zero metaphors.
It woke me in the middle of the night, 
ate its own paws, eyeballed my young, immigrant 
neighbor, seduced my wife, lied to my son, 
promised me optimism and a jacket cover
as it licked itself, filled out the entry form, sent
a head shot from twelve years ago, signed 
my name, was overly nostalgic
for the ole SASE.
The poem I didn’t write won the contest, 
squandered the prize money on lesser poets, interns
with big eyes ahead of me in line,
transferred onto an electronic
greeting card that forgot
to recollect itself in tranquility
as it emitted the sour odor of all human
knowledge and thought, didn’t play
tennis or even have a net. 
The poem I didn’t write forgot 
to turn out the light, let out the cat, 
kiss my family goodnight.

Ed McManis is a Colorado lifer. (He remembers when I-25 was called “The Valley Highway.”) Ed is a writer, editor, and erstwhile Head of School. His work has appeared in more than 50 publications, including The Blue Road Reader, California Quarterly, Cathexis, Colorado North Review, etc. He, along with his wife, Linda, have published esteemed author Joanne Greenberg’s (I Never Promised You a Rose Garden) latest novel, Jubilee Year. Little known trivia fact: he holds the outdoor free-throw record at Camp Santa Maria: 67 in a row.

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