The last time I saw you
in this world, it was in the darkened living
room. It was about
three in the morning when,
half passed-out
on the couch, I heard the rickety front door
fling open, followed by your unsteady foot-
falls and, close behind, a heavier tread.
She was the largest angel I’d ever seen
you lead home, over a hundred pounds heavier
than your heart,
easy.
She had to turn herself side-
ways to fit through your narrow bed-
room door, like a hulking cherub trying
to squeeze her bulk
past the gates of heaven. But,
always the gentleman,
you went in first.
Samir Atassi lives and works as a librarian in Cleveland, Ohio. He holds an MFA in Poetry from Ashland University, and his work has appeared in various publications including River Teeth, Painted Bride Quarterly and Sontag Mag. He was also the featured poet in the inaugural SLANT Forum.
Tuesday, January 27, 2026
Sunday, January 25, 2026
Ringtone by Howie Good
I’ve a habit – an unfortunate one,
according to others – of leaving
the house without my cell phone.
Later I’ll run into someone who’ll
say, “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
Exactly.
Battered by coastal winds, stalks
of beach grass bend like commas
in a sentence that doesn’t need any.
Howie Good is a widely published but little-known poet.
according to others – of leaving
the house without my cell phone.
Later I’ll run into someone who’ll
say, “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
Exactly.
Battered by coastal winds, stalks
of beach grass bend like commas
in a sentence that doesn’t need any.
Howie Good is a widely published but little-known poet.
Saturday, January 24, 2026
at first by Matt Borczon
-for Dana
I blamed
a deviated
septum, blamed
the nightmares
left over
from the war,
you blamed
the alcohol
and my restless
twitching, my
screaming out
whenever a
helicopter flew
over the house.
its been
15 years
and we
no longer
sleep in
the same bed
and I
no longer
remember if
this was
your idea
or mine.
Matt Borczon is a nurse and recently retired from the United States Navy. He lives and writes in Erie, PA. He says some days he wins and some days the war wins.
I blamed
a deviated
septum, blamed
the nightmares
left over
from the war,
you blamed
the alcohol
and my restless
twitching, my
screaming out
whenever a
helicopter flew
over the house.
its been
15 years
and we
no longer
sleep in
the same bed
and I
no longer
remember if
this was
your idea
or mine.
Matt Borczon is a nurse and recently retired from the United States Navy. He lives and writes in Erie, PA. He says some days he wins and some days the war wins.
Thursday, January 22, 2026
Snowplow Driver by Terri Kirby Erickson
He swears to his wife that snow hits
the ground with a scraping sound, none
of that silent night stuff most people
talk about in a winter storm.
After a heavy snowfall, when families
are still sleeping, he'll be clearing
the city’s major arteries, coffee cup
in one hand, steering wheel in the other.
He could drive his plow blind,
but keeps his eyes on the road in case
a deer decides to leap from the woods,
or an irate citizen jumps in front
of his truck, insisting his street needs
clearing first or he’ll have your job,
which as far as the snowplow driver
is concerned, he is welcome to try.
But it feels good to make the roads safe
for people whether they appreciate it
or not, though his dreams are often
filled—even on summer nights—with
the scrape, scrape of his plow, the wet
pavement shining like a warrior's
shield everywhere his blade has been.
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of eight collections of poetry, including The Light That Follows Us Home, which will be released by Press 53 in the fall. Her work has been widely published and has won numerous awards, including the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and International Book Award for Poetry.
the ground with a scraping sound, none
of that silent night stuff most people
talk about in a winter storm.
After a heavy snowfall, when families
are still sleeping, he'll be clearing
the city’s major arteries, coffee cup
in one hand, steering wheel in the other.
He could drive his plow blind,
but keeps his eyes on the road in case
a deer decides to leap from the woods,
or an irate citizen jumps in front
of his truck, insisting his street needs
clearing first or he’ll have your job,
which as far as the snowplow driver
is concerned, he is welcome to try.
But it feels good to make the roads safe
for people whether they appreciate it
or not, though his dreams are often
filled—even on summer nights—with
the scrape, scrape of his plow, the wet
pavement shining like a warrior's
shield everywhere his blade has been.
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of eight collections of poetry, including The Light That Follows Us Home, which will be released by Press 53 in the fall. Her work has been widely published and has won numerous awards, including the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and International Book Award for Poetry.
Tuesday, January 13, 2026
Spoor Reader by Rose Mary Boehm
I am an intrepid tracker.
Hunting. I read broken twigs,
indentations in soft mud,
finding the fleeing crab
across endless sandflats.
I read my woman’s salty skin,
snail trails of dried tears.
I fear the hot jungle nights,
soft voices wafting in through
open windows.
A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels, eight poetry collections and one chapbook, her work has been widely published mostly by US poetry journals. A new full-length poetry collection is forthcoming in 2026. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
Hunting. I read broken twigs,
indentations in soft mud,
finding the fleeing crab
across endless sandflats.
I read my woman’s salty skin,
snail trails of dried tears.
I fear the hot jungle nights,
soft voices wafting in through
open windows.
A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels, eight poetry collections and one chapbook, her work has been widely published mostly by US poetry journals. A new full-length poetry collection is forthcoming in 2026. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
Saturday, January 10, 2026
Damselflies by Tamara Madison
Young girls gather at stage door,
feet turned out, their own
worn toe shoes in hand,
eager to capture autographs
on sweat-stained satin.
My mind is full of the one
I have just watched float
across the stage, a fine-bodied
flying thing so light
I could almost make out
her wings. I think
of the short life of a dancer's
career, a fleeting span
like that of a hummingbird,
a dragonfly, a moth. My child
was one of those girls
fluttering around stage doors
as the dancers exited, drawn
like damselflies to the light
of each dancer's singeing flame.
Tamara Madison is a California native and retired educator. She is the author of three full-length volumes of poetry, Wild Domestic, Moraine (both from Pearl Editions) and Morpheus Dips His Oar (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions), as well as two chapbooks, The Belly Remembers (Pearl Editions) and Along the Fault Line (Picture Show Press). Her work has appeared in the Writer’s Almanac, Sheila-Na-Gig, One Art, Worcester Review, and many other publications. Read more of her work at tamaramadisonpoetry.com.
feet turned out, their own
worn toe shoes in hand,
eager to capture autographs
on sweat-stained satin.
My mind is full of the one
I have just watched float
across the stage, a fine-bodied
flying thing so light
I could almost make out
her wings. I think
of the short life of a dancer's
career, a fleeting span
like that of a hummingbird,
a dragonfly, a moth. My child
was one of those girls
fluttering around stage doors
as the dancers exited, drawn
like damselflies to the light
of each dancer's singeing flame.
Tamara Madison is a California native and retired educator. She is the author of three full-length volumes of poetry, Wild Domestic, Moraine (both from Pearl Editions) and Morpheus Dips His Oar (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions), as well as two chapbooks, The Belly Remembers (Pearl Editions) and Along the Fault Line (Picture Show Press). Her work has appeared in the Writer’s Almanac, Sheila-Na-Gig, One Art, Worcester Review, and many other publications. Read more of her work at tamaramadisonpoetry.com.
Wednesday, December 17, 2025
Father and Child, Alone by Joseph Mills
In the dream, my father sits by himself
against the back wall. The room is full.
People are in pairs and small groups,
but he is alone and clearly lonely.
When I wake, I call to make sure
he’s okay. I know his life has become
a series of doctors’ appointments,
each one like the checking of a lottery ticket
to see if the numbers mean anything.
He says he’s fine although surprised
by the call since we talked a week ago.
I explain the dream, the feeling I needed
to check in, and he says he hopes I have
more dreams like that and so will call
more often which makes me feel shitty
although he doesn’t mean it like that
(I don’t think). I say I will, regardless
of what dreams may come, and I mean it,
at that moment, and he knows I do.
I have good intentions, most of the time,
and perhaps that’s what it comes down to
for parents, the belief in good intentions,
despite experience, the small comfort
they still come to their children in dreams.
Joseph Mills is on the faculty at University of North Carolina School of the Arts. His most recent collection of poetry is The Holiday Cycle (Press 53).
against the back wall. The room is full.
People are in pairs and small groups,
but he is alone and clearly lonely.
When I wake, I call to make sure
he’s okay. I know his life has become
a series of doctors’ appointments,
each one like the checking of a lottery ticket
to see if the numbers mean anything.
He says he’s fine although surprised
by the call since we talked a week ago.
I explain the dream, the feeling I needed
to check in, and he says he hopes I have
more dreams like that and so will call
more often which makes me feel shitty
although he doesn’t mean it like that
(I don’t think). I say I will, regardless
of what dreams may come, and I mean it,
at that moment, and he knows I do.
I have good intentions, most of the time,
and perhaps that’s what it comes down to
for parents, the belief in good intentions,
despite experience, the small comfort
they still come to their children in dreams.
Joseph Mills is on the faculty at University of North Carolina School of the Arts. His most recent collection of poetry is The Holiday Cycle (Press 53).
Sunday, December 7, 2025
Circles by Ruth Holzer
Even among the expats
you were treated as second-class,
not a member of the inner circle,
never invited to those famous parties
with actors, directors and couturiers.
Excluded from their escapades
but subjected to their tales.
No matter how it had been spent,
sprinkled with what small random pleasures,
when the day ended
you had to return by yourself
to the arched doorway
that bore a lion’s head biting an iron ring
and spend the night
picturing the people you loved
loving each other instead.
Ruth Holzer is the author of ten chapbooks, most recently, On the Way to Man in Moon Passage (dancing girl press). Her poems have appeared in Blue Unicorn, California Quarterly, Freshwater, POEM, Slant, Thema and elsewhere. She is a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee.
you were treated as second-class,
not a member of the inner circle,
never invited to those famous parties
with actors, directors and couturiers.
Excluded from their escapades
but subjected to their tales.
No matter how it had been spent,
sprinkled with what small random pleasures,
when the day ended
you had to return by yourself
to the arched doorway
that bore a lion’s head biting an iron ring
and spend the night
picturing the people you loved
loving each other instead.
Ruth Holzer is the author of ten chapbooks, most recently, On the Way to Man in Moon Passage (dancing girl press). Her poems have appeared in Blue Unicorn, California Quarterly, Freshwater, POEM, Slant, Thema and elsewhere. She is a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee.
Saturday, December 6, 2025
No Show Snow by Terri Kirby Erickson
In the deep South, when we go to sleep
with the possibility of snow and wake
to the sound of disappointment in the form
of pelting rain, we should be compensated,
in my view, with fields of blooming bowl
of cream peonies, each flower fully formed,
every petal softer than cashmere, the color
of snow mixed with clotted cream. Sadly,
there would be no ice-covered hills for kids
to slide down on their sleds, no men made
of snow. But think of the fragrance—rich
and powdery—of so many peonies at the
pinnacle of their beauty, how miraculous
it would be for thousands of flowers to
appear all-at-once, overnight. Bees would
shed their winter jackets and feast among
them, delirious with nectar. Deer would
stroll through them as rabbits zig and zag
with wild abandon, unseen by predators.
At least it would be something more than
brown lawns and bare trees, the skies gray
as gym socks. If not snow, let there be this—
multiple fields of cream-colored peonies
glistening with drops of cold winter rain.
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” ONE ART, Rattle, The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and many others. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award.
with the possibility of snow and wake
to the sound of disappointment in the form
of pelting rain, we should be compensated,
in my view, with fields of blooming bowl
of cream peonies, each flower fully formed,
every petal softer than cashmere, the color
of snow mixed with clotted cream. Sadly,
there would be no ice-covered hills for kids
to slide down on their sleds, no men made
of snow. But think of the fragrance—rich
and powdery—of so many peonies at the
pinnacle of their beauty, how miraculous
it would be for thousands of flowers to
appear all-at-once, overnight. Bees would
shed their winter jackets and feast among
them, delirious with nectar. Deer would
stroll through them as rabbits zig and zag
with wild abandon, unseen by predators.
At least it would be something more than
brown lawns and bare trees, the skies gray
as gym socks. If not snow, let there be this—
multiple fields of cream-colored peonies
glistening with drops of cold winter rain.
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” ONE ART, Rattle, The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and many others. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award.
Thursday, November 27, 2025
In 7th Grade Music Class by Elya Braden
Listen to the story told by the reed, of being separated. / “Since I
was cut from the reedbed, I have made this crying sound….”
~Rumi, The Reed Flute’s Song
I longed to float on hollow notes silvering up
to heaven, to dance in the high, thin atmosphere
of grace like swallows swooping outside my bedroom
window. Instead, I inherited the tarry sorrow
of my older brother’s hand-me-down clarinet,
conduit of lack and desperation. I practiced for hours
in my solitary bedroom, walls crawling with flowers,
as if I’d dreamed a jungle of security in a house
all open doors and border crossings. My brother’s
fingers intent on exploration, determined to pluck
my song from sealed lips. As I fingered secret melodies,
my lungs expelled each insult into reed after reed.
That year, I learned salvation didn’t live in winning
first chair, couldn’t hide in a crawlspace under the stairs
where, under flashlight’s flickered beam, I inked myself
into erasure, breath caught at the grasp of hand on door.
Elya Braden is a writer, mixed-media artist, and editor for Gyroscope Review. She has authored two chapbooks. Her full-length manuscript, Dragonfly Puzzle Box, is forthcoming from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions in 2026. Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best New Poets. www.elyabraden.com.
was cut from the reedbed, I have made this crying sound….”
~Rumi, The Reed Flute’s Song
I longed to float on hollow notes silvering up
to heaven, to dance in the high, thin atmosphere
of grace like swallows swooping outside my bedroom
window. Instead, I inherited the tarry sorrow
of my older brother’s hand-me-down clarinet,
conduit of lack and desperation. I practiced for hours
in my solitary bedroom, walls crawling with flowers,
as if I’d dreamed a jungle of security in a house
all open doors and border crossings. My brother’s
fingers intent on exploration, determined to pluck
my song from sealed lips. As I fingered secret melodies,
my lungs expelled each insult into reed after reed.
That year, I learned salvation didn’t live in winning
first chair, couldn’t hide in a crawlspace under the stairs
where, under flashlight’s flickered beam, I inked myself
into erasure, breath caught at the grasp of hand on door.
Elya Braden is a writer, mixed-media artist, and editor for Gyroscope Review. She has authored two chapbooks. Her full-length manuscript, Dragonfly Puzzle Box, is forthcoming from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions in 2026. Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best New Poets. www.elyabraden.com.
Tuesday, November 25, 2025
Unhurried by Steve Deutsch
Snow this morning.
Flakes as big
as oak leaves flutter
in the eddying air,
as if their appointment
with the ground
might wait.
I watch them
from a window
that overlooks
a small porch
heavy with
garden tools—
artifacts
from a forgotten season.
I sip a third cup,
warm in the warm house
and curl up
in my easy chair—
looking no farther ahead
than lunch.
Steve Deutsch is the poetry editor of Centered Magazine and was the first poet in residence at the Bellefonte Art Museum. He has been nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net Prizes multiple times. Steve is the author of six volumes of poetry. One of those collections, Brooklyn, won the Sinclair Poetry Prize.
Flakes as big
as oak leaves flutter
in the eddying air,
as if their appointment
with the ground
might wait.
I watch them
from a window
that overlooks
a small porch
heavy with
garden tools—
artifacts
from a forgotten season.
I sip a third cup,
warm in the warm house
and curl up
in my easy chair—
looking no farther ahead
than lunch.
Steve Deutsch is the poetry editor of Centered Magazine and was the first poet in residence at the Bellefonte Art Museum. He has been nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net Prizes multiple times. Steve is the author of six volumes of poetry. One of those collections, Brooklyn, won the Sinclair Poetry Prize.
Monday, November 24, 2025
The Pusher by Ace Boggess
The neighbor with dementia wants what she wants.
I go to five or six shops to find it,
even then a close approximation: Slim-
Fast milkshakes—wrong flavor,
but will do—I come to learn her family rations
like a week’s supply of oxycodone tablets.
When she asks, I have no idea she overdoes it,
overdoses in greedy abandon,
a delight without the rapture.
One junkie recognizes another. We do
what we can to help as long as it doesn’t rob us,
leave us short. I’ve been out of the scoring game
for years, didn’t expect to become
my neighbor’s SlimFast connection, diet-drink hustler.
The next day, her granddaughter
comes knocking, lets me in on the situation.
We share a laugh about it, but I can’t help
looking back at my addiction &
how far I was willing to go the one time
someone stood between me & my drug.
Ace Boggess is author of seven books of poetry, most recently Tell Us How to Live (Fernwood Press, 2025) and My Pandemic / Gratitude List (Mōtus Audāx Press, 2025). His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Hanging Loose, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes, watches Criterion films, and tries to stay out of trouble. His first short-story collection, Always One Mistake, is forthcoming from Running Wild Press.
I go to five or six shops to find it,
even then a close approximation: Slim-
Fast milkshakes—wrong flavor,
but will do—I come to learn her family rations
like a week’s supply of oxycodone tablets.
When she asks, I have no idea she overdoes it,
overdoses in greedy abandon,
a delight without the rapture.
One junkie recognizes another. We do
what we can to help as long as it doesn’t rob us,
leave us short. I’ve been out of the scoring game
for years, didn’t expect to become
my neighbor’s SlimFast connection, diet-drink hustler.
The next day, her granddaughter
comes knocking, lets me in on the situation.
We share a laugh about it, but I can’t help
looking back at my addiction &
how far I was willing to go the one time
someone stood between me & my drug.
Ace Boggess is author of seven books of poetry, most recently Tell Us How to Live (Fernwood Press, 2025) and My Pandemic / Gratitude List (Mōtus Audāx Press, 2025). His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Hanging Loose, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes, watches Criterion films, and tries to stay out of trouble. His first short-story collection, Always One Mistake, is forthcoming from Running Wild Press.
Sunday, November 23, 2025
Surgeon General Warns of Epidemic of Loneliness by Ace Boggess
We wade through shallow ends
of empty pools & crowded rooms.
Our heads drip onto our phones.
Who are you? says the stranger,
a lusty god on his lips.
What are we to each other?
says the lover
as she turns away
the first of many times.
Our partners move to another town,
parents fade in twilight,
children were never born
to play the blues on a red guitar.
Ace Boggess is author of seven books of poetry, most recently Tell Us How to Live (Fernwood Press, 2025) and My Pandemic / Gratitude List (Mōtus Audāx Press, 2025). His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Hanging Loose, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes, watches Criterion films, and tries to stay out of trouble. His first short-story collection, Always One Mistake, is forthcoming from Running Wild Press.
of empty pools & crowded rooms.
Our heads drip onto our phones.
Who are you? says the stranger,
a lusty god on his lips.
What are we to each other?
says the lover
as she turns away
the first of many times.
Our partners move to another town,
parents fade in twilight,
children were never born
to play the blues on a red guitar.
Ace Boggess is author of seven books of poetry, most recently Tell Us How to Live (Fernwood Press, 2025) and My Pandemic / Gratitude List (Mōtus Audāx Press, 2025). His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Hanging Loose, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes, watches Criterion films, and tries to stay out of trouble. His first short-story collection, Always One Mistake, is forthcoming from Running Wild Press.
Wednesday, November 5, 2025
Ash Loaf by Steve Klepetar
The bakery burned all night.
Flames rose like astonished birds.
The smell of sugar turned bitter
as smoke stitched itself into the trees.
By morning the windows wept soot.
Someone said they saw a face
in the rising ash, the baker’s wife
or no one at all.
Children came with buckets,
scooping black crusts into the air,
pretending it was snow.
I stood by the curb,
holding a loaf I’d bought yesterday,
still soft, still throbbing with warmth.
Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. He is a contributing editor for Verse-Virtual. His poems have appeared widely in the U.S. and abroad and have received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
Flames rose like astonished birds.
The smell of sugar turned bitter
as smoke stitched itself into the trees.
By morning the windows wept soot.
Someone said they saw a face
in the rising ash, the baker’s wife
or no one at all.
Children came with buckets,
scooping black crusts into the air,
pretending it was snow.
I stood by the curb,
holding a loaf I’d bought yesterday,
still soft, still throbbing with warmth.
Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. He is a contributing editor for Verse-Virtual. His poems have appeared widely in the U.S. and abroad and have received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
Thursday, October 30, 2025
Ordinary Life by Terri Kirby Erickson
My father wore threadbare white t-shirts
and blue pajama bottoms to bed, a plaid
bathrobe in the mornings. He liked to read
the local paper on the dining room table,
Jake the Cat curled at his slippered feet. In
the kitchen, my mother cracked eggs and
fried bacon while gazing out the window
over the big backyard where bird feeders
rocked from tree branches with the weight
of hungry squirrels, their whiskers shedding
husks. Mom looked like a blonde bombshell
in her plain cotton nightgown, but she never
noticed—Dad a real heartthrob with his salt
and pepper hair and dark, soulful eyes. Yet,
all my parents ever wanted was an ordinary
life. They liked being together in their own
house, never traveled a lot or cared to, didn’t
particularly like company except for family.
So this is a poem where nothing happens and
nobody dies, where my mother and father are
having their bacon and scrambled eggs on an
ordinary day. You can live forever in a poem
like this one—and now they will.
and blue pajama bottoms to bed, a plaid
bathrobe in the mornings. He liked to read
the local paper on the dining room table,
Jake the Cat curled at his slippered feet. In
the kitchen, my mother cracked eggs and
fried bacon while gazing out the window
over the big backyard where bird feeders
rocked from tree branches with the weight
of hungry squirrels, their whiskers shedding
husks. Mom looked like a blonde bombshell
in her plain cotton nightgown, but she never
noticed—Dad a real heartthrob with his salt
and pepper hair and dark, soulful eyes. Yet,
all my parents ever wanted was an ordinary
life. They liked being together in their own
house, never traveled a lot or cared to, didn’t
particularly like company except for family.
So this is a poem where nothing happens and
nobody dies, where my mother and father are
having their bacon and scrambled eggs on an
ordinary day. You can live forever in a poem
like this one—and now they will.
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” ONE ART, Rattle, The SUN, The Writer’s Almanac, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and many others. Her awards include the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize and a Nautilus Silver Book Award.
Monday, October 27, 2025
Cashews by Penelope Moffet
Every month or so they come,
Mom quietly, Dad trying to be nice.
Last night he had me slivering cashews.
He wanted them precisely sliced
but I kept dropping them.
Dad raged about my clumsiness
and the cold air coming from an open
door and window. Mom slipped outside
the sliding glass and closed it, stared at me
without reproach, waiting to be let back in.
Penelope Moffet’s most recent chapbook is Cauldron of Hisses (Arroyo Seco Press, 2022). Her poems appear in Eclectica, ONE ART, Calyx, Sheila-Na-Gig and other literary journals. A full-length collection of her poetry will be published by Sheila-Na-Gig Editions in 2026.
Mom quietly, Dad trying to be nice.
Last night he had me slivering cashews.
He wanted them precisely sliced
but I kept dropping them.
Dad raged about my clumsiness
and the cold air coming from an open
door and window. Mom slipped outside
the sliding glass and closed it, stared at me
without reproach, waiting to be let back in.
Penelope Moffet’s most recent chapbook is Cauldron of Hisses (Arroyo Seco Press, 2022). Her poems appear in Eclectica, ONE ART, Calyx, Sheila-Na-Gig and other literary journals. A full-length collection of her poetry will be published by Sheila-Na-Gig Editions in 2026.
Monday, October 13, 2025
Maui Wowie by Howie Good
Grass smells funky, just like it did when I was young
and cool and my use of it was nonmedicinal, but now,
given my accelerated rate of decay, the aftereffect
of cancer treatment, it lifts me out of my broken body,
like a mother lifts a howling red-faced baby out of a crib,
gently, and fills me with distance and strangeness and
light that has traveled thousands of years to be here.
Howie Good's latest poetry collection, True Crime, is scheduled to be published by Sacred Parasite in early 2026.
and cool and my use of it was nonmedicinal, but now,
given my accelerated rate of decay, the aftereffect
of cancer treatment, it lifts me out of my broken body,
like a mother lifts a howling red-faced baby out of a crib,
gently, and fills me with distance and strangeness and
light that has traveled thousands of years to be here.
Howie Good's latest poetry collection, True Crime, is scheduled to be published by Sacred Parasite in early 2026.
Monday, September 29, 2025
“Till That Plate Is Clean, Young Man" by Russell Rowland
The stalemate was over corned-beef hash.
As sunlight faded in the kitchen,
family life went on elsewhere without me.
It was a meal without grace or benediction.
My mind got up from the table many times.
I was back at their wedding,
my little cellophane bag of confetti, tight
in my hands—
I refused to throw any, because it was mine.
I thought back to an even earlier household:
Mother left me there
with another man. I looked a lot like him.
The front door slammed.
Hash-standoff must have ended: here I am.
Russell Rowland continues his trail work for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust, and his practice of writing a poem every day.
As sunlight faded in the kitchen,
family life went on elsewhere without me.
It was a meal without grace or benediction.
My mind got up from the table many times.
I was back at their wedding,
my little cellophane bag of confetti, tight
in my hands—
I refused to throw any, because it was mine.
I thought back to an even earlier household:
Mother left me there
with another man. I looked a lot like him.
The front door slammed.
Hash-standoff must have ended: here I am.
Russell Rowland continues his trail work for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust, and his practice of writing a poem every day.
Sunday, September 28, 2025
At the Warner, NH Indian Museum by Russell Rowland
Good morning!
You may call me Ellie. I will be your guide today.
My Abenaki name is Lady Slipper.
This exhibit hall is circular,
in keeping with our tradition that all life is a circle.
I will show you moccasins and regalia,
dugout and birchbark canoes, wigwams, teepees.
Teach you to survive winter on acorns,
explain why life depends upon following the bison.
About my Abenaki name.
I come from a subfamily of orchids. We remain
adaptable to varied habitats.
(Imagine being told where you will live henceforth,
and assigned a different name.)
I have sedative properties,
efficacious against nervousness, muscle spasms,
even dental pain.
I am adept at putting museum visitors at ease.
Now if you’ll follow me…
Russell Rowland continues his trail work for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust, and his practice of writing a poem every day.
You may call me Ellie. I will be your guide today.
My Abenaki name is Lady Slipper.
This exhibit hall is circular,
in keeping with our tradition that all life is a circle.
I will show you moccasins and regalia,
dugout and birchbark canoes, wigwams, teepees.
Teach you to survive winter on acorns,
explain why life depends upon following the bison.
About my Abenaki name.
I come from a subfamily of orchids. We remain
adaptable to varied habitats.
(Imagine being told where you will live henceforth,
and assigned a different name.)
I have sedative properties,
efficacious against nervousness, muscle spasms,
even dental pain.
I am adept at putting museum visitors at ease.
Now if you’ll follow me…
Russell Rowland continues his trail work for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust, and his practice of writing a poem every day.
Wednesday, September 24, 2025
Gifted Student by Lorri Ventura
In the amount of time it takes you to brush your teeth
He assembles 500-piece jigsaw puzzles
Starting by turning every interlocking bit
Over onto its unprinted side
Because the visual images offered
On the picture side of the puzzles
Overstimulate him
And trigger hyperventilation
Share with him your birthdate
And, instantly,
He will identify the day of the week
You were born
Recite your car’s license plate
And, even if he has seen your vehicle
Just once,
He will tell you the car’s make and model
But, if an automobile’s license plate
Ends in a letter rather than a number
He will not ride in that car
He sees colors when listening to music
And creates stunning watercolor paintings
Depicting melodies he sees
Loving all music except for G notes
Because G’s are red
A color he fears
He predicts the onset of rain
With the accuracy of a Torricellian barometer
Yelling to everyone on the school playground
When air pressure suddenly drops
And frantically urging them to seek cover
Because he doesn’t like getting wet
“He has needs related to autism,” they sigh
At his special education meetings
His teacher nods knowingly, then replies,
“And he also has gifts related to autism”
Lorri Ventura is a retired special education administrator living in Massachusetts. Her first full-length poetry collection, Shifting the Mind's Eye, was published in 2024.
He assembles 500-piece jigsaw puzzles
Starting by turning every interlocking bit
Over onto its unprinted side
Because the visual images offered
On the picture side of the puzzles
Overstimulate him
And trigger hyperventilation
Share with him your birthdate
And, instantly,
He will identify the day of the week
You were born
Recite your car’s license plate
And, even if he has seen your vehicle
Just once,
He will tell you the car’s make and model
But, if an automobile’s license plate
Ends in a letter rather than a number
He will not ride in that car
He sees colors when listening to music
And creates stunning watercolor paintings
Depicting melodies he sees
Loving all music except for G notes
Because G’s are red
A color he fears
He predicts the onset of rain
With the accuracy of a Torricellian barometer
Yelling to everyone on the school playground
When air pressure suddenly drops
And frantically urging them to seek cover
Because he doesn’t like getting wet
“He has needs related to autism,” they sigh
At his special education meetings
His teacher nods knowingly, then replies,
“And he also has gifts related to autism”
Lorri Ventura is a retired special education administrator living in Massachusetts. Her first full-length poetry collection, Shifting the Mind's Eye, was published in 2024.
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