Taking My Father to the Mall to Buy a Christmas Gift for My Mother by Terri Kirby Erickson

My father moved his arthritic hands across
a row of pocketbooks as if he were a blind
man reading braille. Indeed, his vision was
nearly gone, so he had to lift each purse and
hold it close enough to see it. He unzipped
the pockets, felt the material, measured the
length of every strap. So intent he was on
finding the perfect gift, he might have been
alone in that busy store, save for his daughter,
whom he asked once or twice, What do you
think of this one? Still, the soft-leathered,
cream-colored, mid-sized purse was entirely
his choice. He paid for it with his credit card—
my only job, to sign his good name. Then
he carried that sack containing her present
as if it already held my mother’s wallet and
lipstick, her car keys and pens. And when she
opened his gift on Christmas Day, though he
could hardly see her face, my father knew its
shape by heart, could tell that she was smiling.



Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of six collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Verse Daily, and many others. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award.

The Ancestors by Wayne F. Burke

died without a peep; died
with drawers full of
paid receipts and
ink-stained ledgers
of thumb prints that
recorded only
the story of dollars
earned and spent:
the gas station and
the INN--
the car that went from home
to work and back; the
early mornings and late
nights in the cold & dark,
the rolls of nickels
stored in a metal box
along with insurance policies
that never paid enough
to make a difference
in anyone's life.



Wayne F. Burke's poetry has been widely published in print and online. He is author of 8 published poetry collections, one book of short stories, and a non-fiction work titled HENRY MILLER: SPIRIT & FLESH. He lives in Vermont.

Abject Colors by Howie Good

My father, in the long days
just after the factory closed down,
would sit staring morosely
at the TV for hours.
Meanwhile, my mother
shut herself up in the bedroom.
I could hear her in there
alternately raving and weeping.
“Love is like a tree,” Victor Hugo said.
I was the kid you saw
crunching through dead leaves.



Howie Good's latest poetry books are The Horses Were Beautiful, available from Grey Book Press, and Swimming in Oblivion: New and Selected Poems from Redhawk Publications.

Untitled by Matthew Borczon

A

therapist
says
he
can
hear
the
war
in
my
voice

post
deployment



Matthew Borczon recently retired from the United States Navy Reserve after 20 years of service. He is a poet from Erie, Pennsylvania who has written 17 books of poetry. His most recent book PTSD: A Living Will was released last year from Rust Belt Press. He is a nurse at a plasma donation center and is married with 4 children. He publishes widely in the small press.

Untitled by Matthew Borczon

My

wife
spun
her
wedding
ring
like
a
prayer
wheel

deployment



Matthew Borczon recently retired from the United States Navy Reserve after 20 years of service. He is a poet from Erie, Pennsylvania who has written 17 books of poetry. His most recent book PTSD: A Living Will was released last year from Rust Belt Press. He is a nurse at a plasma donation center and is married with 4 children. He publishes widely in the small press.

Haiku by John J. Dunphy

traffic jam
sound of honks
from overhead geese



John J. Dunphy’s poetry collections include Stellar Possibilities, Dark Nebulae, Bullet Cluster, Zen Koanhead, Old Soldiers Fading Away, pagan rites and Touching Each Tree. He runs The Second Reading Book Shop in Alton, Illinois. Visit his Facebook page to get to know him better!

Haiku by John J. Dunphy

street corner

panhandler and a passerby share
Iraq war stories



John J. Dunphy’s poetry collections include Stellar Possibilities, Dark Nebulae, Bullet Cluster, Zen Koanhead, Old Soldiers Fading Away, pagan rites and Touching Each Tree. He runs The Second Reading Book Shop in Alton, Illinois. Visit his Facebook page to get to know him better!

Haiku by John J. Dunphy

storefront church
street person leaves wearing
the minister’s winter coat



John J. Dunphy’s poetry collections include Stellar Possibilities, Dark Nebulae, Bullet Cluster, Zen Koanhead, Old Soldiers Fading Away, pagan rites and Touching Each Tree. He runs The Second Reading Book Shop in Alton, Illinois. Visit his Facebook page to get to know him better!

Angel in the Snow by Alice G. Waldert

When a letter arrives
with a foreign stamp,
my foster mother

orders me out
where snowflakes fall
like cinder ash.

Plunging backward
into a snowbank,
I become Phaethon

plummeting from the sky
and when I land, the trees
mourn, sagging sisters

burdened by grief.
I make wings with my arms.
My angel flies

above the smokestack
billowing black, while Mutti
burns her secrets.



Alice G. Waldert is a poet and creative nonfiction/fiction writer. Her work has appeared in Arc Poetry Magazine, Misfit Magazine, Prometheus Dreaming, Survivor Lit, and other journals, and she has work forthcoming in the Evening Street Review. In addition, she is working on her first poetry collection about surviving childhood traumas rooted in war. She holds an MFA from Manhattanville College.

Partners by Penelope Moffet

Two wide-mouthed mugs
the color of coffee lightened with cream,
shaped to welcome cappuccino or latte,
purchased years ago from their maker,
Mary Swann. Her loopy signature
sprawls across their undersides,
these wide-hipped mugs
I bought to share
with my next love
late Sunday mornings.
Then he didn’t like coffee.
The mugs nest in the cupboard
face-down until in early morning dark
I pull one out for espresso, nutcream
frothed and steamed and sprinkled with cinnamon
the same orange-brown as the clay.
Each has a tiny chip on its lip.
They sleep together
all night long.

Penelope Moffet is the author of three chapbooks, most recently Cauldron of Hisses (Arroyo Seco Press, 2022). Her poems have been published in The Missouri Review, One by Jacar Press, Natural Bridge, Permafrost, Gleam, Rise Up Review, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Gyroscope and other literary journals.

Over the River and Through the Woods by Russell Rowland

No, Grandmother’s house isn’t there anymore,
nor Grandmother, nor much of the woods.

Nor us seated together. On Facebook
we reminisce about her steamy windows, gold
with light from within, as the bird
and its accoutrements emerged from the oven.

Her apron, how we do remember that apron,
the little smile reminding us to fold
our hands, bow our heads, before digging in.

One day of the year, we felt wholesomeness,
and wondered whether “everything
is going to be all right” was perhaps less
the empty assurance time had made it seem.

And, of course, we went home with leftovers.

I was the one who lived near enough
to touch Grandmother’s cheek in the hospital,
and say thanks for all of us. Her face
softened, that day she finished breathing.



Russell Rowland continues trail maintenance on behalf of the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust. His next poetry book, Magnificat, is due out in April (Encircle Publications).