From and About Limbs of the Pine, Peaks of the Range
Poems by Twenty-Six Pacific Northwest Poets
Limbs of the Pine, Peaks of the Range "114 poems breathed into life by 26 contemporary poets. Innovative. Touching. Thought-provoking. Limbs of the Pine, Peaks of the Range includes a wealth and variety of rhymed metrical and formal verse by accomplished Pacific Northwest writers. This anthology offers truth at every turn. Rich in feeling, profound in insight, these are poems you will remember long after closing the book."
Terry Martin
"For more than a decade David D. Horowitz, with his Rose Alley Press, has been on a mission: to create fine books of poetry where the varied music of language matters. Limbs of the Pine, Peaks of the Range features some of the Northwest's best poets working within the tradition. To publish such a book, in this day and age, is something of a radical gesture. For poetry lovers, the book is a treasure."
Mike Dillon


Robinson Bolkum			David Mason
Diana Brement			Rebecca Meredith
Susan Casey			Tatyana Mishel
Dennis Caswell			Geoff Pope
Lyn Coffin			J. Andrew Rodriguez
Nancy Dahlberg			Byron L. Sacre
Ellen Elizabeth			Randolph Douglas Schuder
Victoria Ford			Derek Sheffield
Julie Gerrard			Margaret D. Smith
Brenda I. Givens		Michael Spence
Sharon Hashimoto		Joannie Kervran Stangeland
Anna Maria Hong			Len Tews
Donald Kentop			Richard Wakefield


Beneath this fragile calm, I am the rogue horse,
a wild mare against the sky,
tail streaming, hooves pounding the hours.
I thunder through the cluttered alley
of shriveled leaves and last week's trash.
I am the stubborn south wind
blazing through the winter brush,
crashing across the passive land.

I have chafed at the low-pressure hisses,
huffed up a cold sweat of steam.
Tight afternoons of routine
are stoked by small jibes, near misses,
absent fractions that feed the squall
until I rage wide open, gallop into this gale.

Copyright © 2007 by Joannie Kervran Stangeland



Slowly rolling a steel wheelchair
through sawdust, rubber vein pulsing
under the skin of his left arm, he watches.

Neil hammers, Travis saws, I measure,
and nothing, we know, squares in his sight,
carpenter, grandfather, white-haired overseer.

In back seats on the drive to church, we had heard
our fathers tell the stories of the houses he raised,
hands scoured and trousers cuffed by dinner.

One last shim and we stand in the dust of our sins,
watching him steer down our skewed cuts.
A little steep but it will do for Sabbath and dialysis.


Neil swings a sledge, Travis stacks the scrap, and I jerk
my hammer in reverse, cleats jangling to concrete.
From the doorsill, no one reckons our mistakes.

Wood wrenches free of wood, and we hear again
Save yourself, his wish to see us doused in Christ
in the two weeks it took for his blood to poison him.

The damned and all but meticulous, we straighten and sweep,
lock and leave with the last nails clutched in our hands.

Copyright © 2007 by Derek Sheffield


Walk the piano, mow the groceries,
clean out your congressman, empty the cat,
learn to speak a foreign vegetable,
preserve your mother's habitat,

polish the dentist, pay down your gods,
take action now, before Al Gore melts.
Make a commitment! Ignore everything
until you've attended to everything else.

Copyright © 2007 by Dennis Caswell


They never gripped the moral sweet spot tight
enough to squeeze the juice from it, that round
and satisfying taste, like comfort food,
or door-slamming thud that loosens the joints
and clears the head of doubt in matters right
and wrong. They never stood on solid ground,

too introspective, slow to act, at ease
with ambiguity and paradox;
believed in thinking; were inclined to brood
then come down squarely in the middle, feet
astride the fence; and so they failed to please
their enemies and friends. They cried, A pox

on both your houses, yet they never laid
a pipeline straight to God, or advertised
opinion as the truth, or understood
the oxymoron holy war, or bombed
a town or bus, or used the term crusade,
or tried to have your daughter circumcised.

Copyright © 2007 by Donald Kentop


Under, my aunt insists, always twist under,
a green snake coiling from her hands one leaf
at a time. I watch her wring the fibers,

her strong fingers crushing the blades. Arms stiff,
I feel the sticky salts of my body
squeezed out of my pores. Is this enough?

I ask. The thin line of her mouth steadies
her weaving. In reply, the ends shuffle and turn.
Chinese doves soar into humidity

that weights me to the ground. My fingers learn
so slowly. She picks another leaf to braid
into the moist chain; knots rising in a pattern.

Our heads leaning closer, I want to knead
the soreness from my hands. The leis grow
towards our feet like roots. Their ends unconnected,

they will hang open, heavy and new
against our necks. I ask how long should I
make this? She answers, As long as you need to.

Copyright © 2003 by Sharon Hashimoto

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