Boris Schleinkofer, poetrywatch editor

“When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.” — John F. Kennedy

Do You Enjoy poetrywatch?

Want to see it continue? Then please, send your poems to us and let the Whatcom Watch share them with our readership! Seriously, we really do want your roughly 25-line poems (though length is by no means a deal-breaker; it’s how you use those lines.) featuring or specific to Whatcom County and issues addressed by Whatcom Watch like government, the environment and media. Send your poems to: poetry@whatcomwatch.org and let’s make magic happen.

Poetry has a voice in our community, and the Whatcom Watch is adding to its chorus. You all love poetry, right? Well, here you go!

Subject matter is unlimited, but poetry featuring or specific to Whatcom County and issues addressed by Whatcom Watch (government, the environment and media) will likely get first preference.

Please keep it to around 25 lines; otherwise, we might have to edit your work to fit. Don’t make yourself unprintable.

Send poems and your short, two- or three-sentence bios as a word document attachment to poetry@whatcomwatch.org. The deadline is the first day of the month.

Please understand that acceptance and final appearance of pieces are subject to space constraints and editorial requirements. By submitting, authors give Whatcom Watch permission for one-time publication rights in the paper and electronic editions.


by Fjord Bjornson

Hivernants wrought cold blue in woad
Stone and dragged falsecypress to home
Sumac tea for the painted folk
Hibernacula there to calm

March west to a mountain of trees
The snow hunter in his buffalo robes
Stalks evenly, no breaking through
The winter count

They found it there, beneath the dirt
Where they rose their hall in timbers
History for the dead earth
Warmed by embers and the heat of work

Settlers uproot, never settled
Never sleeping, instead paused
O! surest hunt, why have you left us?
In mutual fury, we rest

They rest, and the past so displaced
As to warn us of our homesteads
Forgetting nothing, nor where it came from
The provenance of man

Of earth; land and most distant edge
Cutting the world open for thought
Dusk spirals unwind and lineate
And offing closes distance

Vincent Sementelli writes as a scientific journalist for the National Park Service, publishing within the Sonoran Desert Network. Selected poems as S.L.V. Stronwin published at The Writing Disorder, and self-published poetry and prose is available under far too many pseudonyms at amazon.com/author/slvs.