I break open the hourglass release the silence of eons grain by grain. So slow the fall of passive echoes. Look what eons of defying gravity does! Losing touch of the shore.
The tectonics shift left shift right . . . squirm for air. Orchestrate a wave show. Horseshoe clouds now here, now gone.
Not knowing to belong or not to they build their own orbit. Like the rings of Saturn all ice and rocks buffering on a loop.
Daya Bhat has authored two books of poetry. Her free verse, short poetry and short fiction appear in a number of journals. You can find her art, poetry and musings on WordPress and Instagram.
When its arched brow rises from behind the country hill, snub-nosed, a grin for a grill, you remember you’re in second grade.
There’s Cindy’s old yellow dog feigning outrage at your passing van, his bark and lunge petering to that bored, panting trot. And there the synod of grammar schoolers wrestling lunchboxes into a line, reinventing the rituals, the hierarchies, the variations of elemental courtship.
There the oil-rosy puddles in rutted gravel, the soaked toes, knots of gossiping daffodils, tufts of too enthusiastic grass, the bristles smudged in sage and mustard along the far edge of fields.
When you top the hill you know you’ll see the bus swing a backward right in your mirror, right onto the main road, so you lean, small-palm the cracked leatherette, grasp the memory of cool steel framing the seat ahead, all your uncertain world still straddling the smeared window slid halfway down.
The same low sun stuns you when you glance back, forward, run your times-nines, wheel left and head for school.
Fifth Grade
As I flew into town that first time, leaning over the gull-winged sweep of the handlebars, the burn in my pudgy, mad-pumping thighs, told me I was fast, was free, was finally entering the my country ’tis of thee we’d all been singing, sweet land of weekend- playground liberty. That mile I’d never ridden was a hundred miles, the fresh fall breeze speed itself, as those fat tires snarled through dunes of shoulder gravel and eddies of falling leaves. When I jumped the curb onto the school’s front sidewalk town kids, exotic friends named Cindy, Billy, Darlene, and Gary, were already gathered, long unchaperoned, at ease, their pre-adolescences already underway, their slow turn toward my approach blasé as I came skidding into that newest of my old neighbourhoods of memory.
The Day I Got My Timing Down
It was in that phase of pure sarcasm, midteens, when guys work out an awkward stance,
work their pack’s patter ’til they maybe have it. I don’t really remember the day but
the single-moment wonder of hitting my first come-back just right by accident, then their free, true
laughter, my perfect follow-up, the never looking back. From there a career: from Senior Class Clown
to smooth talker in any crowd to flip teacher spinning lit to wordsmith chiseling chin-up come-backs
to the tin-clad sarcasms every life dishes out as it disarms or drops you or
leaves you hanging, slamming its clanging locker door in your gullible, stuttering face.
Kissed-Off
Lord knows I’m a voodoo chil’.
—Jimi Hendrix
Until that night a girl had only kissed me. Not I a girl. I was fifteen and for
over a year Jimi’d been telling me he was a voodoo chil’, yeah, and I wasn’t. No moon
had turned a fire red, and not one mountain lion had found me waitin’. Now
I was going with Sue, at whose Midwest harvest party I’d do the kissing. Nervous
and showing it, acting distractedly, voice shaking, our friends milling, I knew
it was a now-or-never situation, even though I’d never ever and didn’t really know. Giddy
and ridiculous, we slid into the stairwell, out of range of her parents in the kitchen,
the kids below: the outskirts of our infinity… We made eyes. We made small talk. But all I
could think about was making my move. (If only I’d had a Venus witch’s ring.) Then inching
my arm and small-talking her a little more, I aimed my face and kissed her! And oh, Lord,
the gypsy was right: amazing and no big deal at once. So we kissed again (Lord knows I
felt no pain) and for three months flew on as make-out fiends until she dropped me for my best friend
at her party for my sixteen-and- been-kissed birthday. And I fell downright dea-ea-ead.
Français Firsts
—for Priscilla
After all your dainty tales from la rue du Tel-ou-Tel, so many elegant snippets de la Rive Comme Ci, Comme Ça—Oui, I am forever sheepish I never made it
to Par-ee (sauf une gare on the outskirts, eurailing toward Luxembourg, which was all but fermé for the Halloween weekend). But though now you could easily keep me
down on any farm, France in swah-sohn-canz? Oh là là! —my version of the proverbial semester abroad, and where un nouveau me must’ve definitively begun. Par exemple,
near Nice, absorbing the glowing Côte d’Azur then tour-busing by Monaco for Menton, out one route en corniche and back another, long before my paltry français could surface
fast enough to prattle with my teacher’s kids. But un début—and it would take me only four more largely lonely months to pass myself off as a less evident américain, with at least
a decent accent to show for it, my being the yoghurt-eating, knows-little sophisticate I’d become. It would be two decades before Starbucks blitzed very many Midwest cities,
so old Grenoble’s where the cafés and bistros, wines finer than Boone’s Farm, addicted me to a fresh perspective, to une idée de moi-même transcending tackle football, college fraternity,
and culture as country rock. Granted, all the exotic side-trips did make a difference: that disorienting week in Warsaw (still dictatorial), those goose-steppers in Chopin’s
park; the overnighter (avec les trois femmes!) to Italy; Geneva on weekends; Christmas on the Bodensee (which made me certain I’d learn German for my Überlingen girlfriend
before Italian for those gorgeous Florentines.) But en France? So seul? And working steadily on the concept of an inner life? It was la première fois that I knew I knew abnormally
nothing—and that I no longer wanted to. On the vigntième floor of my international dorm, some inside switch had somehow gotten flipped. Souddainement, ancient history was interesting,
the future a matter for my contemplation, my ignorance a currency I hoped to leave behind, exchanged for novels in two languages and grand prospects for actually using my mind. By winter
I could’ve stayed on through spring. And by spring, back home again and left to reconnoitre, I began that retrospective cataloguing that deepens one’s appreciation—such as how a shy, petite
‘teep’ from Japon and a bold, femme noire from La Côte d’Ivoire could intersect via moi via anglais; or how tinny, small-car traffic is more romantic in memory; or how geraniums are la plus rouges
à Chambéry, a few blues uniquely Mediterranean, and no whites colder than novembre over Mont Blanc. Or how some French are rich, canadien, but also poor, arabe, c’est à dire, algérien. And how
my world seemed now to be le monde.
D. R. James’s latest of ten collections are Mobius Trip and Flip Requiem (Dos Madres Press, 2021, 2020), and his prose and poems have appeared in a wide variety of anthologies and journals. Recently retired from college teaching, James lives with his wife in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan, USA.
Periwinkle garden, flowers folded into a dumpling.
I sit on the bottom floor of a blessing before it builds and blooms, before its face has distinction, expression, perfect individuality.
Low ache of forming, wandering cold plains, over icy lakes through dead forests and caves.
Almost ripe, platelets connecting, composing a singular solid substance. Then
out of the egg and into the vast ocean, forward, shell collapsing, imploding, out free-riding, embodying a fully sufficient infant form.
Darkness
Darkness heavy as a hunter’s footsteps, as a sermon up the sleeve, offered like a ripe strawberry covered in ants.
Darkness like the green on a last slice of bread or the dome of pollution that mutes Earth from the zodiac hymns.
Darkness that binds thumbtacks to the temples, smokes weed everyday through a mousehole piece of glass, dirty as a campfire after the fire or a marriage after infidelity.
Darkness as a shell, hardness masquerading as strength, terrors of complexities, moral confusion and the allotment of grief that mushrooms in tiny pockets here, here, until all greenery is overcome with fungi and poisonous fruit.
Darkness that says ‘I have a right, for my heart is broken more than any other heart has been broken, and then there is the boredom!’
Darkness that holds no peace, no joy in just breathing, makes up myths and ceremonies to blast out the darkness, flaking at the core.
Darkness I am done with your engulfing disease, your canopy wings, trickery, making me believe there is rest and safety in your shade. I lay down my fossils and my weeping.
Darkness sticks out its tongue, builds idols and wins the air. Darkness, I blow you over and when I am blown over, I will offer no resistance.
Resilience
Violet-hue star of mighty purity, a fixed point, directly overhead, anointing, a release from the symbiotic purgatory-fold, from the loop fire enduring coil and the billowing dead land once before me.
I will build a bonfire and dance under this eight-billion-year-old star, no longer held hostage by what I know, inevitable observations, time turned to stone, locked in one position, dammed to have no meaning, no longer trapped in a rippling tremble, continuous and static state.
I will lean into this bright gathering, translating the bursting floral mastery of endless constellations, keeping my height, keeping my mind, ready to engage in a divine exchange, discourse.
Declaration
The declaration came, ground-breaking, significant to every aspect of my nature. At stake is the stability of my core symbolism, the root and the fruit combined.
What matters is this day to walk the wooden floors, replenish my joy in the simple things of duty and care, opening to the embrace of alternate thought patterns, pursuing the paradox, digging out its core for a braver scenario to catch and be malleable with, kneading and knowing the vision will form, overtake and dissolve superfluous dreams and attachments until it pulses like an embryo forming, being formed readying for exposure.
Fish
I saw a fish in sleep beneath a curly wave dreaming in a prophet-trance, its lips and fins relaxed, no resistance against the water’s sway. Some say the fish was dead, but I could see its eyes enflamed, travelling deep in a vision unnamed into crevices of underwater caves, finding peace in a pitch-black reverie. I cupped that fish inside my hand and still it did not move, continuing its placid ephemeral journey, now journeying into the sky, able to breathe, transitioning into flight and becoming intimate with the sun’s heat like never before. That fish was so far gone into a state of transcendence as I released it back into its salty wet home, kissing it forehead first. I felt it absorb my love under its scales, floating away from me, silver and white. Tranquil, in steady rapture, I watched it vanish as it rolled across and under the oceans’ blanket, as though it never was.
Chain
The chain is cracked, only a small tug will break it and the wall will let down its curtain, the leech will release its hold, find a new host or none at all.
I empty my heat on the bed toss with disorder, too slow on my feet. But even so, I am carving a future I can get behind, lift myself onto a plateau that has many plateaus above it, sure of my growing strength. It is possible to keep my internal promises, not like before when the dirty current rippled through me like a disease, threatening, consuming my substance and storages.
Can I say the chain is rusted, dissolving, no access to its binding power? I go for walks. I am grateful for the open door, one step forward.
Child
The child twists a ringlet, runs to the shops to buy candy, rides her bike by the river and assembles a dream-world, bigger world than her whole reality. The child found worship in her heart for God and love for an infant raccoon alone under a tree, talked to herself incessantly, and often, she talked to God, and to his son, Jesus. She went to school, but chalked it up to unimportant servitude, felt joyful and free, plucking the autumn leaves, engaging with the neighbour’s dog. The child was wild, swinging from willow branches, throwing stones, skipping stones, toes always at the edge of the unsettled river. Cats were her guardians, confidants and kin. Church was boredom, except for the one place where the light was let in, that place took over her full imagination as she travelled through and into an instinctual reverie. The child loved her family, was allowed every independence, was ostracized by the other children for her crocheted clothes and the colour of her flaming hair. Some called her witch, others, an atrocity, and the grown-ups, beautiful. The child rode horses when she got older, wrote down the songs of clouds and the names of the crows that would follow her, converse with her from the school bus window. The child found her belonging in her own head, with the animals, and sometimes, she remembers, walking silently, holding the hand of a great angel.
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Five times nominated for Best of the Net, 2015/2017/2018, she has over 1300 poems published in over 500 international journals. She has 25 published books of poetry, 12 collections and 6 chapbooks. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay.
Collaborating with Allison Grayhurst on the lyrics, Vancouver-based singer/songwriter/musician Diane Barbarash has transformed eight of Allison Grayhurst’s poems into songs, creating a full album entitled River – Songs from the poetry of Allison Grayhurst, released 2017.
Some of the places her work has appeared in include Parabola (Alone & Together print issue summer 2012); SUFI Journal (Featured Poet in Issue #95, Sacred Space); Elephant Journal; Literary Orphans; Blue Fifth Review; The American Aesthetic; The Brooklyn Voice; Five2One; Agave Magazine; JuxtaProse Literary Magazine, Drunk Monkeys; Now Then Manchester; South Florida Arts Journal; Gris-Gris; Buddhist Poetry Review; The Muse – An International Journal of Poetry, Storm Cellar, morphrog (sister publication of Frogmore Papers); New Binary Press Anthology; Straylight Literary Magazine (print); Chicago Record Magazine, The Milo Review; Foliate Oak Literary Magazine; The Antigonish Review; Dalhousie Review; The New Quarterly; Wascana Review; Poetry Nottingham International; The Cape Rock; Ayris; Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry; The Toronto Quarterly; Existere; Fogged Clarity, Boston Poetry Magazine; Decanto; White Wall Review.
Keith Hoerner (BS, MFA) lives, teaches, and pushes words around in Southern Illinois, USA. He is frequently featured in lit journals (75+ to date, including decomP, Fiction Kitchen Berlin, and Litro—to name just a few). He is founding editor of the Webby Award recognized Dribble Drabble Review, and his memoir, The Day the Sky Broke Open, is a recent Best Book and American Writing Award Finalist. A collection of short fiction and poetry, entitled Balancing on the Sharp Edges of Crescent Moons, publishes later this year.
You can find more of Keith’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Ten inches of wet Heart-attack snow Sits in the driveway. When we first came to Golden Pines My shovel was a shield Of pride and pleasure, unwilling To give in to the years, Eager to break out of restive days.
But Golden Pines does not want The 80-year-old guys shoveling snow, So, on this third day, I lounge in pajamas at noon, Working from my easy chair On paper tasks of little consequence, Saved up for such a time.
The snowplow has cleared the driveway now And we can get to the store, Past sooted, graying mounds that will remind me Of Pennsylvania. Later this afternoon I may try to Widen the path a bit.
For Jeremy at Fifteen
The life of a friend, a teammate, Ended Suddenly, inexplicably: You honoured him by playing hard, By standing for him In the chancel, All of you, your uniforms Still damp from trying, As if you did not already know Of the fragileness of life.
Closing up the Cottage
1) September 2020 Our daughter came back up To help close the cottage. We sat down and watched her Wash the refrigerator.
82-year-old bones ache From cleaning, packing, lifting, Awaiting the subtle vibrations Of two days on the road.
We stood one cold morning By the side of The Third Connecticut Lake Wondering which would be The penultimate trip north.
Back at Golden Pines We are trying this morning To remember where and how We store things for the winter, The TV, the toaster, Computer, coffee maker.
2) September 1986 My dad’s last summer on the pond I flew up Labor Day To help close up, drive them home. The airport bus Only came as far as Dover. Somehow they managed to get there, Him wandering around the restaurant, Agitated, My mother with the Caregiver’s exhausted sadness. The restaurant is still there, Different name, different owners: I pass by that place And still feel An unbidden welling up, How one thing comes To stand for another.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.
You can find more of Robert’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Fore Coppers for a Bluebird Fasting at her house means drinking only beer Well worth the money buying her gear Picking your pocket like a Blackbird Mozart’s Twelfth Mass moody as absurd Two out of Eighty can’t hear With a second to spare, herds of deer Muttered facial expressions heard
Herds of Deer
Without care, herds of deer He muttered expressions heard Brushing swathe of might Too weak on his pins to go all the way Whale with a harpoon hairpin light Last words on the cross to pray His creation Lord of light Chairs upside down in the field
Sonnet CCCXXVIII
At day break maze of dark will be gone Unable to read chalk scrawled back door tonight Her joust of life at first light Human shell’s crucified shirts chiffon Dishonours of their flesh at the Pentagon Outcast man’s high mined appetite Weak wasting hand confessional Fahrenheit Quacking Soul’s utter triviality fawn Spiritual eager anticipation to fly Solemnities slightly ironical glee Hymn to heavenly beauty horrify Church yard behind the tree our favorite place to pee White Biscuit tin’s pie Last swig of the pint to be
Eyes of a Raccoon
White Ivory fur sea cold eyes of a raccoon Deep looms of sea’s moon on Halloween Making friends without half trying Limp as a wet rag nobbling his beer Blue Trousers and a white alabaster shirt Red nose rag old sloppy eyes guzzler Like holding water in her hand not his The moon sets before the clock strikes twelve
Kiss of a Queen
Pink articulated lips, kiss of a Queen Double dark increasing vaster Moon Stood pale silent by a Bee was stung at noon Said over her shoulder drinking perfect caffeine English steams of coffee from her canteen Tide sheeting the lows of the Green Lagoon Ivory fur, sea cold eyes of a raccoon Deep velvet of sea’s moon light on Halloween
Terry Brinkman has been painting for over forty five years. Has Five Amazon E- Books. Poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed. Winamop, Snapdragon Journal, Poets Choice, Adelaide Magazine, Variant, the Writing Disorder, Ink Pantry, In Parentheses, Ariel Chat, New Ulster, Glove, and in Pamp-le-mousse, North Dakota Quarterly, Barzakh, Urban Arts, Wingless Dreamer, LKMNDS and Milk Carton Press.
You can find more of Terry’s work here on Ink Pantry.
twisted figures function like toothpicks ponder subjugation circles in village colour self the pants principle to grammatical tense through wacky intrusive logic shocked centers propulsive reflections fascinate like attraction limit quirk to linguistic subterfuge thick unshakeable compelled repeated picking margins flattening refuge arbitrarily insecure familiar narrative a flapping elusive still closer removing modular chances drawn fueled debunked concluded as a presence
Affected Collagen Dissolving
The meandering centipede invokes Hollywood Squares as a scare tactic.
Paranoia pleases chess masters leaving moldy clock on the train, better to save a parenthesis than shout at a letterbox perforation.
Performed a molecular transfer without a stable anchor to hook the syncopated suffix to a mattress.
Intuitive clown car, superstitions recline, struggle to keep profits, though mostly that’s just the bubble to the soap.
Transient Substation Oxygen
Weak atom cannot function in symbolic sleepwalking a — Part , space that bears currency daydream.
Interior of a protein, clever funhouse weigh station preserving charmless war machine.
For the sake of a dimple, awaken before midnight & bemuse prophylactic enzymes.
Linear Absorption
Uptight boogie burglar staking claim to road diets, starting tomorrow, awash in verbal gymnastics, downward facing nylon.
String pulling organic CPR through senior living facilities before releasing scarecrow into unsuspecting public lavatory crusaders.
Meaning of a phosphorous alpine ski lift?
Tertiary bromide emitting necrophilia at sunset?
Packed tightly in hyperbolic acid constant as an equilibrium milkshake, seizing conjugated saddle, high-pressure horse running washing machine aftershave without brain embolism song.
terrestrial
crux influx your typewriter carrier pigeon reverberates goop
famished TIDES pulled AsundeR laughter called NameD X in parabolic etch
sink yet who sink rotting fathomed barnacle speech
multi -use -faceted -modal -hyphenate -step -factor -level
ruled recycled printS curved wall PLASTER end of NaMe blame GaMe tick BiTe
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the books automatic message (Free Lines Press), combustible panoramic twists (Trainwreck Press), Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press) and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals including Otoliths, M58, The Sparrow’s Trombone, Coven, Scud, Ygdrasil, RASPUTIN, Ink Pantry, and Synchronized Chaos.
Don’t like going into stores prefer sitting outside on a bench waiting for her to come out.
Sometimes you don’t feel like talking about anything answering questions, hearing excuses, explaining yourself you don’t want discussions or lectures don’t need the sharing of ideas or opinions, anecdotes, or dreams.
Sometimes you simply want to sit alone in your rocking chair in your quiet little room stare out the window into the street at nothing in particular for hours like grandpa used to do.
Rotator Cuff Repair Blues
I should sound stronger, confident when instead it’s still the same old blah, blah, blah.
Thanks for checking in the shoulder thing has been a long grind I do now recommend breaking your shoulder any time for any reason Monday I check-in with the surgeon see if I can do away with the sling and stop sleeping in the recliner trouble is it’s hard to tell if the damn thing is healing as it should I’m hoping the fancy-pants hotshot surgeon can determine that been doing the best I can on the poetry front everything takes twice as long because I can only use my left hand but I do what I can juggling trying to move forward on 7 projects my head a wellspring of projects hopefully one of them will jump out and take charge of the confusion but really I shouldn’t be such a complainer remind myself it can always be worse my beautiful wife hasn’t yet run off with that hunky UPS guy!!!
Words
. . . a nightmare trying to organize all this damn writing . . .
Of course I keep a writer’s notebook one of those old-fashioned black and white covered college ruled notebooks. I do my “creative writing” in there: poems and bits of prose and prose poems and hybrids of poems and prose. I write in there at night before sleeping and while sitting in the car waiting at the airport or the school or while sitting in the doctor’s waiting room or in hotel lobbies or at the grandson’s basketball practice . . . you’d be surprised how much writing you can get done in between everything else. I don’t draw pictures or symbols, hieroglyphics, or images of any kind I don’t doodle, it’s all just words simple old words.
Diagnostics
. . . mathematics is postulating that we might be able to travel backwards in time through wormholes . . .
Dad, if you returned to life after being gone 58 years I wonder what you’d find most surprising. Because you were a car mechanic and loved cars particularly your Buicks I suspect seeing how far car technology and style has come would make your head spin. Don’t know where to begin explaining it to you: power steering, airbags, automatic windows pushbutton ignition, CD players, GPS . . . I’m not even getting into car diagnostics by hooking it up to a computer when you could tell what was wrong with any old engine simply by cocking your head back and listening.
From Nothing
. . . they dreamed of being together never apart until the end of time . . .
Physicists, astrophysicists, geophysicists, astrobiologists astronomers, cosmologists . . . all of them state it like it’s clear, obvious irrefutable – in the beginning of the universe there was nothing, nothing at all no space, no time, no matter, no energy, only emptiness. Then suddenly out of the darkness out of nowhere for no reason like someone flipping a switch an infinitesimally small speck of something-or-other appeared then immediately exploded into the Big Bang BOOM!!! And the universe – everything there is or was or ever shall be – spiral galaxies, dwarf stars, planets, comets, asteroids, black holes, quasars, quarks, dark matter, dark energy, neutrinos gamma rays, leptons, red giants, globular clusters gravitons, photons, electrons, mesons, and the Higgs Boson – was formed just like that, from nothing absolutely nothing. Seriously?
You can find more of Michael’s work here on Ink Pantry.
The water enraptures my body, which feels like forest-shrouded silk As I clip and clop my awkward way through the water And then suddenly feel like a dolphin. The underneath of Walden Pond is riven by rivers of currents birthed from mysterious sources. As I swim, the current changes from foot to foot, now alienating cold, now feathery warm The currents caress my body like eels that brush their liquid bodies against my chest, torso, groin, legs,
tingling and tangling all up and down my skin, shagging me, changing me, freeing me. I slow down, feel the water like echoes of the past, Know that Thoreau swam and fished and walked and lived here. I feel the sensuous caress of history, of self-reflection, of rebellion against the ordinary. The electric call of infinite Walden seduces me with its sweet and subterranean melody, Like the trapezer who paints the last act. I swim past the why current, Feel the fins of curious fish brushing me. None knows really how deep Walden is, Or what the source of the pond is. It was born eons ago in the distant primordial past of the past of the earth, Born in the majestic ruptures of the earth, Born in the thousand-yard-deep chaos of water and stars, Lifeless at first, then slowly emerging in the slow movement of unforgiving atoms and aimless instincts And meandering, sensuous being.
Christopher Johnson is a writer based in the Chicago area. He was a merchant seaman, a high school English teacher, a corporate communications writer, a textbook editor, an educational consultant, and a free-lance writer. Published short stories, articles, and essays in The Progressive, Snowy Egret, Earth Island Journal, Chicago Wilderness, American Forests, Chicago Life, Across the Margin, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Blue Lake Review, The Literary Yard, Scarlet Leaf Review, Spillwords Press, Fiction on the Web, Sweet Tree Review, and other journals and magazines. In 2006, the University of New Hampshire Press published my his book, This Grand and Magnificent Place: The Wilderness Heritage of the White Mountains. His second book, which he co-authored with a prominent New Hampshire forester named David Govatski, was Forests for the People: The Story of America’s Eastern National Forests, published by Island Press in 2013.
