Lt. Wilfred Owen, in a letter home,
described the front with the license
of a modern poet as smelling “like
the breath of cancer.” And as Simon
and Garfunkel fans know, “Silence
like a cancer grows.” I have had cancer.
At my last appointment, the oncologist
fumbled for words in relating the results
of a recheck. Wilfred Owen would be
killed on night patrol in no man’s land.
Howie Good's latest book, Frowny Face (Redhawk Publishing, 2023), is a mix of his prose poems and handmade collages. He co-edits the online journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.
Friday, May 17, 2024
Thursday, May 16, 2024
Charles and Lydia by John Ziegler
The sepia photo of my great grandparents
is their only record beyond their headstones.
I imagine the soft flesh of her wrists,
her ginger hair curls like a French horn,
Charles as white as a cod without his shirt.
As she lays her smock across the maple rocker,
the casual yellow dog, watches discreetly,
his chin on the braided rug.
They slip beneath the muslin sheet,
exhale and smile.
In this bed she conceived
their ninth child,
the same day she became a grandmother.
John Ziegler is a poet and painter, gardener and traveler, originally from Pennsylvania, he recently migrated to a mountain village in Northern Arizona.
is their only record beyond their headstones.
I imagine the soft flesh of her wrists,
her ginger hair curls like a French horn,
Charles as white as a cod without his shirt.
As she lays her smock across the maple rocker,
the casual yellow dog, watches discreetly,
his chin on the braided rug.
They slip beneath the muslin sheet,
exhale and smile.
In this bed she conceived
their ninth child,
the same day she became a grandmother.
John Ziegler is a poet and painter, gardener and traveler, originally from Pennsylvania, he recently migrated to a mountain village in Northern Arizona.
Sunday, May 12, 2024
How much does the spirit weigh? by Michael J. Galko
Ask the pallbearers
fifteen years after
carrying the closed casket
of a murdered friend.
Feel the hasty flinch
even when your hand
rests
on their shoulder
in clear kindness.
Michael J. Galko is a scientist and poet who lives and works in Houston, TX. He was a finalist in the 2020 Naugatuck River Review narrative poetry contest and the 2022 Bellevue Literary Review poetry contest. Recent poems have appeared in Eclectica, Clackamas Literary Review, and Tar River Poetry.
fifteen years after
carrying the closed casket
of a murdered friend.
Feel the hasty flinch
even when your hand
rests
on their shoulder
in clear kindness.
Michael J. Galko is a scientist and poet who lives and works in Houston, TX. He was a finalist in the 2020 Naugatuck River Review narrative poetry contest and the 2022 Bellevue Literary Review poetry contest. Recent poems have appeared in Eclectica, Clackamas Literary Review, and Tar River Poetry.
Tuesday, May 7, 2024
Carum Carvi by Russell Rowland
The trivet, with its pretty picture
of that curative plant, is among my takeaways
from the long-ago divorce.
It rests on a table; often I look at the image.
Also called caraway, it will blossom in June
and July, and its seeds
give off a pleasant aroma, crushed.
It has been found effective
in getting down and keeping down whatever
is hardest to swallow in life.
I’m always grateful to learn a little;
grateful for so many things I’m aware of now
that I was not, until the hard
divorce—when my eyes were opened, almost
too wide for their sockets, while my weight
fell for a time to one-hundred-eight.
Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire. Recent work appears in Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust.
of that curative plant, is among my takeaways
from the long-ago divorce.
It rests on a table; often I look at the image.
Also called caraway, it will blossom in June
and July, and its seeds
give off a pleasant aroma, crushed.
It has been found effective
in getting down and keeping down whatever
is hardest to swallow in life.
I’m always grateful to learn a little;
grateful for so many things I’m aware of now
that I was not, until the hard
divorce—when my eyes were opened, almost
too wide for their sockets, while my weight
fell for a time to one-hundred-eight.
Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire. Recent work appears in Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust.
Monday, May 6, 2024
Twin Red Oaks by Russell Rowland
If that Federal-style house on Route 107
ever aspires to B&B, “Twin Oaks” is what it will call itself.
The pair out front have been together
since they were acorns. Old-school, however—minimum
public display of affection. Oh,
they nod to each other over private arboreal concerns,
shared memories of the hurricane.
By midsummer, it’s difficult to tell whose foliage is whose.
Trunks don’t touch—
just stand like people waiting to be properly introduced.
But underground, with only moles, worms, water veins,
and rocks to notice, these two
are holding hands. And if one ever topples to gale forces,
we know the other will catch and support it.
Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire. Recent work appears in Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust.
ever aspires to B&B, “Twin Oaks” is what it will call itself.
The pair out front have been together
since they were acorns. Old-school, however—minimum
public display of affection. Oh,
they nod to each other over private arboreal concerns,
shared memories of the hurricane.
By midsummer, it’s difficult to tell whose foliage is whose.
Trunks don’t touch—
just stand like people waiting to be properly introduced.
But underground, with only moles, worms, water veins,
and rocks to notice, these two
are holding hands. And if one ever topples to gale forces,
we know the other will catch and support it.
Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire. Recent work appears in Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust.
Sunday, May 5, 2024
A Chicken Strays from the Neighbor’s Flock by Sharon Waller Knutson
A coyote follows
the brown hen
from the neighbor’s
yard as she traipses
across our property,
breaks her neck
as she bends
to pick up the popcorn
kernel on the ground.
My husband stands
at the window watching
the blizzard of feathers
as the coyote carries
the dead chicken back
to his den and the rooster
crows a warning:
Predator in our Midst
as the sun rises in the valley,
just like the warning
we gave our neighbor
when she got the chickens
and let them roam
in the wildlife habitat.
The neighbor wagged
her finger as she does now
when she sees the feathers
covering our lawn. It’s your
fault my chicken is dead,
she says. You lured coyotes
with your water. And my
chickens with your snacks.
We close the door knowing
reasoning with her is like
trying to convince a hungry
coyote to stop dining
on the smorgasbord of squirrels,
chipmunks and chickens,
fearing the feral feline is next.
Sharon Waller Knutson has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She has published 12 books of poetry, including the most recent, The Leading Ladies of My Life (Cyberwit 2023) and its sequel, My Grandfather is a Cowboy (Cyberwit 2024). She has published 1,000 poems in more than 60 publications. She is the editor of Storyteller Poetry Review and lives in Arizona.
the brown hen
from the neighbor’s
yard as she traipses
across our property,
breaks her neck
as she bends
to pick up the popcorn
kernel on the ground.
My husband stands
at the window watching
the blizzard of feathers
as the coyote carries
the dead chicken back
to his den and the rooster
crows a warning:
Predator in our Midst
as the sun rises in the valley,
just like the warning
we gave our neighbor
when she got the chickens
and let them roam
in the wildlife habitat.
The neighbor wagged
her finger as she does now
when she sees the feathers
covering our lawn. It’s your
fault my chicken is dead,
she says. You lured coyotes
with your water. And my
chickens with your snacks.
We close the door knowing
reasoning with her is like
trying to convince a hungry
coyote to stop dining
on the smorgasbord of squirrels,
chipmunks and chickens,
fearing the feral feline is next.
Sharon Waller Knutson has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She has published 12 books of poetry, including the most recent, The Leading Ladies of My Life (Cyberwit 2023) and its sequel, My Grandfather is a Cowboy (Cyberwit 2024). She has published 1,000 poems in more than 60 publications. She is the editor of Storyteller Poetry Review and lives in Arizona.
Saturday, May 4, 2024
Serving Time by Jean Ryan
A royal family in Polynesia was gifted
a tortoise hatchling by the explorer Captain Cook.
For 188 years this reliable creature hauled itself
across the property, accepting whatever
hindrance it encountered. Some days
it likely went nowhere, just hunkered where it woke,
disinclined to travel or eat or even gaze at the greenery,
the act of breathing engagement enough.
How can we assume that a turtle who lived 68,620 days
didn't get bored or grouchy, didn't want to occasionally bite
the hand that fed it, just to shake things up?
How many decades was it saddled with aches and pains?
How much had it slowed down before the difference
between living and dying became too small to measure,
and did it give itself away then in agreement
or did it fight, like us, for one more wretched inch?
Jean Ryan, a native Vermonter, lives in coastal Alabama. Her debut collection of short stories, Survival Skills, was published by Ashland Creek Press and short-listed for a Lambda Literary Award. Lovers and Loners is her second story collection. She has also published a novel, Lost Sister, a book of nature essays, Strange Company, and a poetry collection, A Day Like This. https://jean-ryan.com/
a tortoise hatchling by the explorer Captain Cook.
For 188 years this reliable creature hauled itself
across the property, accepting whatever
hindrance it encountered. Some days
it likely went nowhere, just hunkered where it woke,
disinclined to travel or eat or even gaze at the greenery,
the act of breathing engagement enough.
How can we assume that a turtle who lived 68,620 days
didn't get bored or grouchy, didn't want to occasionally bite
the hand that fed it, just to shake things up?
How many decades was it saddled with aches and pains?
How much had it slowed down before the difference
between living and dying became too small to measure,
and did it give itself away then in agreement
or did it fight, like us, for one more wretched inch?
Jean Ryan, a native Vermonter, lives in coastal Alabama. Her debut collection of short stories, Survival Skills, was published by Ashland Creek Press and short-listed for a Lambda Literary Award. Lovers and Loners is her second story collection. She has also published a novel, Lost Sister, a book of nature essays, Strange Company, and a poetry collection, A Day Like This. https://jean-ryan.com/
Wednesday, May 1, 2024
Best Friend by J.I. Kleinberg
The dog sits by the door
below the hooks where jackets
and scarves, raincoats and a leash
hang in a tumble of color. The dog
is curled on the forbidden couch.
The dog stands at the side of the bed,
chin resting near the pillow, watching.
The dog feels the car approaching,
and barks an announcement, a warning.
The dog is a blur on the beach,
a zigzag shadow in the woods. The dog
carries the growling hunger of the pack,
stands ready, eager to be the metaphor.
The dog chews the delicious shoe,
so redolent of love.
J.I. Kleinberg is an artist, poet, and freelance writer. Her chapbooks include The Word for Standing Alone in a Field (Bottlecap Press), how to pronounce the wind (Paper View Press), Desire’s Authority (Ravenna Press Triple Series No. 23), and she needs the river (Poem Atlas). She lives in Bellingham, Washington, USA, and is on Instagram @jikleinberg.
below the hooks where jackets
and scarves, raincoats and a leash
hang in a tumble of color. The dog
is curled on the forbidden couch.
The dog stands at the side of the bed,
chin resting near the pillow, watching.
The dog feels the car approaching,
and barks an announcement, a warning.
The dog is a blur on the beach,
a zigzag shadow in the woods. The dog
carries the growling hunger of the pack,
stands ready, eager to be the metaphor.
The dog chews the delicious shoe,
so redolent of love.
J.I. Kleinberg is an artist, poet, and freelance writer. Her chapbooks include The Word for Standing Alone in a Field (Bottlecap Press), how to pronounce the wind (Paper View Press), Desire’s Authority (Ravenna Press Triple Series No. 23), and she needs the river (Poem Atlas). She lives in Bellingham, Washington, USA, and is on Instagram @jikleinberg.
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