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.
Sunday, December 7, 2025
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.
Thursday, September 11, 2025
Anneliese by Rick Swann
born 8/30/2025
A fire in the Olympic Mountains
cast a golden spell on the moon
the moment of your birth.
Out on the deck, a breeze
from the west brought a whiff
of smoke and the taste of salt,
picked up while crossing
Puget Sound and evoking
memories of campfires
on the beach. The moon paved
a radiant road across the water.
Rick Swann's poems have been appeared in One Art, English Journal, Autumn Sky Poetry, Typehouse, Last Stanza, and other publications.
A fire in the Olympic Mountains
cast a golden spell on the moon
the moment of your birth.
Out on the deck, a breeze
from the west brought a whiff
of smoke and the taste of salt,
picked up while crossing
Puget Sound and evoking
memories of campfires
on the beach. The moon paved
a radiant road across the water.
Rick Swann's poems have been appeared in One Art, English Journal, Autumn Sky Poetry, Typehouse, Last Stanza, and other publications.
Wednesday, September 3, 2025
Bezoar by J.I. Kleinberg
Our third-grade teacher, Mrs. Dyer,
says to us: No Chewing Gum.
But ruminants, we chew and chew —
Double Bubble, Juicy Fruit —
and blink away a rush of tears
when avid teeth chomp down
on cheek or tongue. A probing finger
checks for blood. We snap and pop,
ventriloquists — it wasn’t me! —
until she turns, her palm outstretched
as if we might release that pallid wad
now hardening and flavorless
into her hand. That righteous posture,
lipsticked mouth a lipless line,
that hand outthrust, she wades
into a rising tide of battered desks.
We suck in telltale Black Jack breath,
gaze earnestly at blackboard, book,
attend her steady skirted swish
and square-heeled clomp until it stops.
Dry-mouthed, we swallow, open wide
to show our gumless gums, our blameless teeth.
We watch her hand, which drops to drum
the desk and drops again to strum the pleats
that spill, a brown cascade, from waist to shins
— that empty hand.
The gum, the gum is gone, hard bruise
to track its slow descent, gullet to gut,
where now, we know, we have been warned,
it will accrue, agglutinate, remain. Forever.
An artist, poet, and freelance writer, J.I. Kleinberg lives in Bellingham, Washington, USA, and on Instagram @jikleinberg. Her chapbooks include The Word for Standing Alone in a Field (Bottlecap Press, 2023) and Sleeping Lessons (Milk & Cake Press, 2025) as well as three collections of her visual poems.
says to us: No Chewing Gum.
But ruminants, we chew and chew —
Double Bubble, Juicy Fruit —
and blink away a rush of tears
when avid teeth chomp down
on cheek or tongue. A probing finger
checks for blood. We snap and pop,
ventriloquists — it wasn’t me! —
until she turns, her palm outstretched
as if we might release that pallid wad
now hardening and flavorless
into her hand. That righteous posture,
lipsticked mouth a lipless line,
that hand outthrust, she wades
into a rising tide of battered desks.
We suck in telltale Black Jack breath,
gaze earnestly at blackboard, book,
attend her steady skirted swish
and square-heeled clomp until it stops.
Dry-mouthed, we swallow, open wide
to show our gumless gums, our blameless teeth.
We watch her hand, which drops to drum
the desk and drops again to strum the pleats
that spill, a brown cascade, from waist to shins
— that empty hand.
The gum, the gum is gone, hard bruise
to track its slow descent, gullet to gut,
where now, we know, we have been warned,
it will accrue, agglutinate, remain. Forever.
An artist, poet, and freelance writer, J.I. Kleinberg lives in Bellingham, Washington, USA, and on Instagram @jikleinberg. Her chapbooks include The Word for Standing Alone in a Field (Bottlecap Press, 2023) and Sleeping Lessons (Milk & Cake Press, 2025) as well as three collections of her visual poems.
Saturday, August 23, 2025
Letter Home by Richard Weaver
After the train to Canton no one believed
I wanted to walk. There is the train they said.
Or bus. But for twenty days I’ve walked
across China. And by this month’s end
I’ll face the sea-blue mountains of Tibet.
I sleep in graveyards, not because it is quiet,
or the only high ground not given over
to growing rice, but because there are soldiers
whose eyes follow me through the villages.
I am safer with their honorable ancestors.
Walking fast is impossible since everything I see
is strange and new and fills me with green fire.
I feel drawn to every shadow and light.
When I stop to draw a boy herding geese with a stick,
those who see me wonder how I can
work with a brush held so poorly and not
made of bamboo. The people are kind though,
offering rice and even wine. I’m learning
language as I go, although my accent
will never be other than Mississippi.
Mary, they ride water buffaloes here
the way you ride a horse, meaning no insult to either.
You could show them a trick or two I’m sure.
I saw a group of women in a village
all fanning themselves like pelicans.
I wasn’t sure if it was my presence, their habit,
or the weather. But I’m glad my fate isn’t that
of a water carrier, balancing two pots
on a six-foot stick. I’d last no more
than day at best, and no doubt
I’d drink up the profits!
My love to you and ours
from the mountain’s shadow.
-Previously published in Underfoot Poetry
Richard Weaver continues as the official writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub, though he splits time with Hooley’s Public House in San Diego.
I wanted to walk. There is the train they said.
Or bus. But for twenty days I’ve walked
across China. And by this month’s end
I’ll face the sea-blue mountains of Tibet.
I sleep in graveyards, not because it is quiet,
or the only high ground not given over
to growing rice, but because there are soldiers
whose eyes follow me through the villages.
I am safer with their honorable ancestors.
Walking fast is impossible since everything I see
is strange and new and fills me with green fire.
I feel drawn to every shadow and light.
When I stop to draw a boy herding geese with a stick,
those who see me wonder how I can
work with a brush held so poorly and not
made of bamboo. The people are kind though,
offering rice and even wine. I’m learning
language as I go, although my accent
will never be other than Mississippi.
Mary, they ride water buffaloes here
the way you ride a horse, meaning no insult to either.
You could show them a trick or two I’m sure.
I saw a group of women in a village
all fanning themselves like pelicans.
I wasn’t sure if it was my presence, their habit,
or the weather. But I’m glad my fate isn’t that
of a water carrier, balancing two pots
on a six-foot stick. I’d last no more
than day at best, and no doubt
I’d drink up the profits!
My love to you and ours
from the mountain’s shadow.
-Previously published in Underfoot Poetry
Richard Weaver continues as the official writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub, though he splits time with Hooley’s Public House in San Diego.
Friday, August 22, 2025
Father Mississippi: A Prayer by Richard Weaver
Bless these ferns that struggle to lift their heads
in a world where temptation
is a bulldozer and man is blind to everything
that doesn’t bite him first. And bless
the four-legged starfish who crawls across the reef
only to be eaten, and rejoice in the kingdom of salt.
Bring peace down
upon all those who glow in this dark
so that we might see their way.
And allow the beached dolphin one last glimpse
of the daymoon before it too fades into blue.
Let the treefrogs sing their song of this earth.
And the earth turn this flesh
back to shapeless clay.
-Previously published in The Cape Rock
Richard Weaver continues as the official writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub, though he splits time with Hooley’s Public House in San Diego.
in a world where temptation
is a bulldozer and man is blind to everything
that doesn’t bite him first. And bless
the four-legged starfish who crawls across the reef
only to be eaten, and rejoice in the kingdom of salt.
Bring peace down
upon all those who glow in this dark
so that we might see their way.
And allow the beached dolphin one last glimpse
of the daymoon before it too fades into blue.
Let the treefrogs sing their song of this earth.
And the earth turn this flesh
back to shapeless clay.
-Previously published in The Cape Rock
Richard Weaver continues as the official writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub, though he splits time with Hooley’s Public House in San Diego.
Thursday, August 21, 2025
Confessions of a Beachcomber by Richard Weaver
If I wake early I walk
toward the sun; if late, away.
I accept what the island provides.
Obvious things I leave:
shells, numinous and ordinary.
driftwood--it burns faster
than I can carry it to camp.
But always there are surprises:
a pair of shoes came in one day, my size!
A bottle of port wine.
A pair of unattached wings.
Lemons, onions, an alligator pear, toys.
One day a book washed in --
The Pageant of Literature-
and a pair of trousers. My size.
And once, for seven or eight miles
the beach was green with banana stalks.
All the animals on the island
joined me in the feast.
I took my share, leaving the rest
for the grackles and crabs,
the few raccoons who won’t
wait for them to ripen.
-Previously published in Underfoot Poetry
Richard Weaver continues as the official writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub, though he splits time with Hooley’s Public House in San Diego.
toward the sun; if late, away.
I accept what the island provides.
Obvious things I leave:
shells, numinous and ordinary.
driftwood--it burns faster
than I can carry it to camp.
But always there are surprises:
a pair of shoes came in one day, my size!
A bottle of port wine.
A pair of unattached wings.
Lemons, onions, an alligator pear, toys.
One day a book washed in --
The Pageant of Literature-
and a pair of trousers. My size.
And once, for seven or eight miles
the beach was green with banana stalks.
All the animals on the island
joined me in the feast.
I took my share, leaving the rest
for the grackles and crabs,
the few raccoons who won’t
wait for them to ripen.
-Previously published in Underfoot Poetry
Richard Weaver continues as the official writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub, though he splits time with Hooley’s Public House in San Diego.
Wednesday, August 6, 2025
Absence by Steve Klepetar
If only the wind had leaned in with a whisper,
instead of slamming the door like a judge.
If only the tea had steeped a little longer,
and the sparrow hadn’t struck the glass.
You might have lingered by the stove,
watching steam rise like old secrets.
We could have wandered to the orchard,
where dusk gathers in the branches like sleep.
If only I had remembered what you said
about time, how it folds like a napkin,
never straight. But your eyes were already
turning toward the dark shape of the road.
Now your absence sits in my chair
each morning, quiet as a coat filled with rain.
Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. He is a contributing editor for Verse-Virtual. His poems have received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
instead of slamming the door like a judge.
If only the tea had steeped a little longer,
and the sparrow hadn’t struck the glass.
You might have lingered by the stove,
watching steam rise like old secrets.
We could have wandered to the orchard,
where dusk gathers in the branches like sleep.
If only I had remembered what you said
about time, how it folds like a napkin,
never straight. But your eyes were already
turning toward the dark shape of the road.
Now your absence sits in my chair
each morning, quiet as a coat filled with rain.
Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. He is a contributing editor for Verse-Virtual. His poems have received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
Saturday, August 2, 2025
Beyond the Frame by Ann Leamon
The woman lies alone in the field—
you’ve seen the painting—peering
over the horizon. The gray, weathered
house looms behind her, overwhelms her fragile
life. Did she really drag herself
out to the field? Why? Maybe for the same reason
my mother dragged the four of us back then:
to pick blueberries.
We packed a lunch, spent the day. Mom
picked berries, we climbed the rocks
along the cove, water cold
and green and clear as our futures seemed to be.
As the sun slipped low, Mom’s buckets full
of berries for jam and winter muffins,
we went to the steep hill
you can’t see in the painting,
above the little graveyard, and threw ourselves
down to roll,
roll,
roll,
arms and legs flying, shrieking
with delighted terror and surprise, to end
at the bottom dizzy, covered with twigs and leaves.
Stumbling, sunburned, sleepy—
Mom piled us in the station wagon for
the long drive home. The berries are still there,
I hear, and Christina hangs in the museum,
looking out of her frame to that hill,
to the graveyard at the bottom,
where she will be buried.
Ann Leamon writes poems, reviews, essays, and technical finance material. Her non-technical work has appeared in Harvard Review, The Arts Fuse, Tupelo Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, and River Teeth Journal, among others. She lives on the Maine coast with her husband and an opinionated Corgi-Lab mix.
you’ve seen the painting—peering
over the horizon. The gray, weathered
house looms behind her, overwhelms her fragile
life. Did she really drag herself
out to the field? Why? Maybe for the same reason
my mother dragged the four of us back then:
to pick blueberries.
We packed a lunch, spent the day. Mom
picked berries, we climbed the rocks
along the cove, water cold
and green and clear as our futures seemed to be.
As the sun slipped low, Mom’s buckets full
of berries for jam and winter muffins,
we went to the steep hill
you can’t see in the painting,
above the little graveyard, and threw ourselves
down to roll,
roll,
roll,
arms and legs flying, shrieking
with delighted terror and surprise, to end
at the bottom dizzy, covered with twigs and leaves.
Stumbling, sunburned, sleepy—
Mom piled us in the station wagon for
the long drive home. The berries are still there,
I hear, and Christina hangs in the museum,
looking out of her frame to that hill,
to the graveyard at the bottom,
where she will be buried.
Ann Leamon writes poems, reviews, essays, and technical finance material. Her non-technical work has appeared in Harvard Review, The Arts Fuse, Tupelo Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, and River Teeth Journal, among others. She lives on the Maine coast with her husband and an opinionated Corgi-Lab mix.
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