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Volume I, Number 2 (Summer 2007)
ISSN 1934-4324

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NEW-CUE, Inc. is a non-profit, environmental education organization founded primarily to assist writers and educators who are dedicated to  enhancing  the public's awareness of environmental issues.




Rick Agran

Rick Agran is a poet, writer, and educator. For children he wrote a picture book, Pumpkin Shivaree (Handprint Books, 2003). A collection of poems, Crow Milk (Oyster River Press, 1997) had selections read by Garrison Keillor on The Writer's Almanac on NPR.. He wonders about fine art and theatre as an A&E contributor to The Wire. At the New Hampshire Institute of Art he teaches artists another fine art: writing.


Indian River Pony Ride

Always three loves for two people

peekaboo masquerading

always a peony shy a petal

for a pony snack


always a rose-golden orb for desire’s

collect call accepted in Texas

little pink grapefruit, your phone number

on it in invisible ink


silken hum of a palm-held stone

always alone early eves, or

a palmful of water-smoothed porcelain

in your pattern


always animal grace’s velvet step

toward new love’s night-shot umbrella

sweet clementine-sigh as skin slips

surrenders sticky Spanish kisses


always an Ohio BlueTip spit and sparkle

and the dark’ll dapple

your crackleware bowlcut hello

nose to nose


Tickle Auspice

Your mom, she wrote it on you.

She wrote it on your body, a novel in invisible ink

and as you grew the prefixes came apart:

Pre fixed: meaning before you were able to fix them,

Apart: a severance becomes synthesis: a part.

Invisible: your blankfaced tattoo rewritten: in visible ink,

you, her inkling, her part, her pad.

The more you grow the more you divide:

di meaning two, twice, double, vide meaning to see,

I will tell you what it says on your back now:



Oriole Vortex

pastel pink apple blossom boughs
			an explosion of orchard orioles 
					rainmakers of pink petals		a chased crow
			gatling blasts of wing-flash form 
		their black & orange vortex
	sheer loop-the-loop & veer
& vanish


What This Crow Taught Me

how to use my voice, when to warn the others

how to read what the tilt of a head says

to harvest the massacre & keep to the side of the road

how to wear a shadow cloak & dodge a stone

how to skip when I steal & eat dove among thorns

how to sleep with one eye peeled

to flee the scene, when to lollop, when to dive

when to raise one wing & bow


How Much World In a Bowl of Cereal?

blue of the berries

dimple the surface

bruise a bowl of milk into translucence


wet gold wave

of stalks in the fog

a shape mistaken for her


bulge of her belly

belies a child in hiding

becomes a skirtful of sweet peas, blueberries


spatter of sparkle

rain dappled brook surface

or little O of a trout mouth


kissing the surface from above & below

hum of the sun’s rising







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