. Stream Above the bend, the water deep and clear, the current strong; seen from the Buckman Bridge, ten minutes walk for me, my cabin near, through pines down from a timeworn granite ridge —a lofty mountain once, it’s said, in time gone by. I come to see and hear the stream, this part that of the whole makes not a line: a phrase, a word or two, in the river’s scheme of mounting water up ahead that this small stream will join; and that behind, upstream, flowing down, winding from a nascent hiss to sing a hymnal line and brace the dream. From this unsubstantial perch, this swaying bridge, mirrored in the stream, the sun floats on the ridge. . . A Quandary of Jugglers —and of those who fiddle with villanelles Why does the juggler toss plates in the air? What is the meaning? Where is the reason? What makes him dare? Why does he care? What is the point of tableware in the air? Fame? Jugglers names might be Grecian. Why do jugglers toss plates in the air? Gain? rich jugglers like unicorns are rare. Plus juggling’s passé—quite hors saison. What makes him dare? Why does he care! What explains the dinner plates up there? It boggles the brain. It’s just not Cartesian! Why do jugglers toss plates in the air? What is the worth of a foal chasing the mare? Why angles Pythagorean? pastries Parisian? Why are blue sapphires more than just rare? Why are freckles so fair on girls with red hair? Why does the juggler toss plates in the air? What makes him dare? Why does he care? . . Another Art —a lover’s quarrel with Elizabeth Bishop The art of finding binds in weaves of rhyme: the warp and weft of found and lost, and after. An art to master, joining the threads of time. A loom of beating lines, the past intwined, lost days among the threads; a presence ever. The art of finding haunts in weaves of rhyme. A requiem of walks in autumn rain, the stillness of the hills in misting color. An art to master, bridging the rifts of time. Find now a pungent sprig of fresh cut thyme, the scent of love made long ago in heather. The art of finding weds in weaves of rhyme. And to the star of bitter Persian lime add the perilous bloom of oleander. An art to master, daring the rifts of time. Go! Find again in lines of fair design, weaves new, intwined in lost forevers. The art of finding binds in weaves of rhyme. Another art, joining the threads of time. . . Leland James is the author of four poetry collections and four children’s books in verse. He has published over 300 poems in poetry venues worldwide including The Lyric, Form Quarterly, Rattle, The South Carolina Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, New Millennium Writings, HQ The Haiku Quarterly, The American Cowboy; The Ekphrastic Review, The London Reader, and London Magazine. He was the winner of The UK’s Aesthetica Creative Writing Award and has won or received honors in many other competitions, both in the USA and Europe. He has been featured in Ted Koozer’s American Life in Poetry and was recently nominated for a Push Cart Prize.