An antique mirror browned
at the edges, now hangs in my entryway.
It sees me, pauses, searching for my grandmother.
Brought home after the burial,
rescued from the estate sale.
I clung to constancy, finding only change.
A.R. Williams, a poet from Virginia's Shenandoah Valley, is the author of A Funeral in the Wild (2024) and Time in Shenandoah (2024). Website: virginiapoet.com.
Thursday, December 19, 2024
Wednesday, December 18, 2024
Becalmed by Sarah Russell
Late afternoon in summer,
air so heavy I can’t move,
rumbling in the east and a flash
on the horizon. No birdsong—
fledglings gone from the oak
anchored in red clay. The grass
has surrendered, parched and longing.
The porch swing creaks under my weight,
breathing for me. There are chores,
but there are always chores. For now,
only stillness, asking what is next
without you.
Sarah Russell’s poetry and fiction have been published in Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Third Wednesday, Red Eft Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections published by Kelsay Books, I lost summer somewhere and Today and Other Seasons. She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net
air so heavy I can’t move,
rumbling in the east and a flash
on the horizon. No birdsong—
fledglings gone from the oak
anchored in red clay. The grass
has surrendered, parched and longing.
The porch swing creaks under my weight,
breathing for me. There are chores,
but there are always chores. For now,
only stillness, asking what is next
without you.
Sarah Russell’s poetry and fiction have been published in Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Third Wednesday, Red Eft Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections published by Kelsay Books, I lost summer somewhere and Today and Other Seasons. She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net
Tuesday, December 17, 2024
Bird Woman by Sarah Russell
Nearing the shore at twilight,
she drifts in the wind’s current.
The lagoon below is still
as held breath.
Her eyes skirt the trees,
the marshy undergrowth
for a safe settling.
She tires easily now,
seeks sheltered landings
on timeworn wings,
her flight nearing
an unfamiliar shore
that beckons
with no promises.
Sarah Russell’s poetry and fiction have been published in Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Third Wednesday, Red Eft Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections published by Kelsay Books, I lost summer somewhere and Today and Other Seasons. She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net
she drifts in the wind’s current.
The lagoon below is still
as held breath.
Her eyes skirt the trees,
the marshy undergrowth
for a safe settling.
She tires easily now,
seeks sheltered landings
on timeworn wings,
her flight nearing
an unfamiliar shore
that beckons
with no promises.
Sarah Russell’s poetry and fiction have been published in Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Third Wednesday, Red Eft Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections published by Kelsay Books, I lost summer somewhere and Today and Other Seasons. She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net
Monday, December 16, 2024
Cherokee Purples by Sarah Russell
There’s melancholy in picking
the last of these heirlooms
before first frost. The May potential
of seedlings. Yellow blossoms,
then tiny green fruits, hard as marbles,
in July. Deep red beauties, bending stalks
under their weight, radiant and tender
to the touch in August and September,
harvested in threes and fours, starring
in salads, roasted with garlic, eaten
like apples. This small bounty—triumph
of urban farmers who nurture, stake,
feed, and brag about their crop
outgrowing cages to sprawl
across the neighbor’s fence. Oh, the pride
in sharing one or two with friends
who didn’t grow their own this year.
And finally in October, the wistful goodbye
to a generous friend whose final gifts
grace a windowsill to ripen, seeds salvaged
for spring planting.
Sarah Russell’s poetry and fiction have been published in Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Third Wednesday, Red Eft Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections published by Kelsay Books, I lost summer somewhere and Today and Other Seasons. She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net
the last of these heirlooms
before first frost. The May potential
of seedlings. Yellow blossoms,
then tiny green fruits, hard as marbles,
in July. Deep red beauties, bending stalks
under their weight, radiant and tender
to the touch in August and September,
harvested in threes and fours, starring
in salads, roasted with garlic, eaten
like apples. This small bounty—triumph
of urban farmers who nurture, stake,
feed, and brag about their crop
outgrowing cages to sprawl
across the neighbor’s fence. Oh, the pride
in sharing one or two with friends
who didn’t grow their own this year.
And finally in October, the wistful goodbye
to a generous friend whose final gifts
grace a windowsill to ripen, seeds salvaged
for spring planting.
Sarah Russell’s poetry and fiction have been published in Rattle, Misfit Magazine, Third Wednesday, Red Eft Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She has two poetry collections published by Kelsay Books, I lost summer somewhere and Today and Other Seasons. She blogs at https://SarahRussellPoetry.net
Monday, December 2, 2024
The Day I Stopped Writing Poetry for the Nth Time by Howie Good
Tantalizing illusions designed to keep us
toiling have dwindled to a tattered few.
A local fishing trawler was only now coming
into harbor with the morning catch. It was
painted blue, the paint chipped and peeling,
but the name Lauren was fussily lettered
in white across the bow. The gulls hovering
over the boat sounded on the verge of hysteria.
Their shrieks contained urgency, alarm, an element
of pleading. Hell is when no one believes your cries.
Howie Good is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose newest poetry book, The Dark, is available from Sacred Parasite, which will also publish his book, Akimbo, in 2025.
toiling have dwindled to a tattered few.
A local fishing trawler was only now coming
into harbor with the morning catch. It was
painted blue, the paint chipped and peeling,
but the name Lauren was fussily lettered
in white across the bow. The gulls hovering
over the boat sounded on the verge of hysteria.
Their shrieks contained urgency, alarm, an element
of pleading. Hell is when no one believes your cries.
Howie Good is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose newest poetry book, The Dark, is available from Sacred Parasite, which will also publish his book, Akimbo, in 2025.
Sunday, December 1, 2024
heads held low by Corey D. Cook
My eighth chapbook, heads held low, was published by Bottlecap Press yesterday and is now available for purchase on their website. See the link below... This collection contains 24 haiku and senryu. I hope you will consider ordering a copy. Your support would mean a great deal to me and this small / independent press.
heads held low by Corey D. Cook
Thursday, November 21, 2024
Trestle by Royal Rhodes
The trestle no longer shakes,
rivet by rivet, as engines
surge along loose, iron rails.
The ties, coated with oozing pitch,
have been replaced by a boardwalk
for bikes and disciplined exercise.
A human knot of young runners
make a syncopated drum on the wood
floor of this giant erector set.
They show identical sweat stains
on their shirts like the joggers ahead
who sweeten the air with their bodies.
The bridge parts the curtain of foliage,
and the light is blinding in brightness
between the woods ahead and woods behind.
In the river, where water made this valley,
anglers wade upstream, like the heron
whose singleness causes us to wonder.
Humans and birds are watchful for fish
in the currents, surrounding debris
that constructs islands in the river flow.
From above we can see the farm run-off,
floating residue like a curious script
whose letters expand and then pull apart.
But there is no one left to read it.
The sites with fire pits along the banks,
when this was called Little Indian Run,
are claimed by others now, who leave
trash and testimonials of indifference
best forgotten, reduced down to ashes.
What was once called the "place of the owls,"
at least for the past two hundred years,
remains, and remains when we are gone.
Royal Rhodes is a retired teacher of global religions. His poems have appeared in numerous journals in the U.S., the U.K., and Canada. He lives in a small village in central Ohio.
rivet by rivet, as engines
surge along loose, iron rails.
The ties, coated with oozing pitch,
have been replaced by a boardwalk
for bikes and disciplined exercise.
A human knot of young runners
make a syncopated drum on the wood
floor of this giant erector set.
They show identical sweat stains
on their shirts like the joggers ahead
who sweeten the air with their bodies.
The bridge parts the curtain of foliage,
and the light is blinding in brightness
between the woods ahead and woods behind.
In the river, where water made this valley,
anglers wade upstream, like the heron
whose singleness causes us to wonder.
Humans and birds are watchful for fish
in the currents, surrounding debris
that constructs islands in the river flow.
From above we can see the farm run-off,
floating residue like a curious script
whose letters expand and then pull apart.
But there is no one left to read it.
The sites with fire pits along the banks,
when this was called Little Indian Run,
are claimed by others now, who leave
trash and testimonials of indifference
best forgotten, reduced down to ashes.
What was once called the "place of the owls,"
at least for the past two hundred years,
remains, and remains when we are gone.
Royal Rhodes is a retired teacher of global religions. His poems have appeared in numerous journals in the U.S., the U.K., and Canada. He lives in a small village in central Ohio.
Sunday, November 10, 2024
Cat's in the Cradle by Carolynn Kingyens
My black, jade-eyed cat
and I press our noses
squarely against the coolness
of the kitchen's screen window
but for totally different reasons:
his, out of infinite pining
for feral-freedom,
hunting mice and birds
with reckless abandon
before his entrapment
and ultimate rescue
for the safe, mundane life
of an inside cat,
always ready to bolt;
and mine, for relief
from a searing hot flash
while stirring a large pot
of homemade sauce,
where I add sugar
to cut into the acidity
of garden variety tomatoes;
just the two of us,
side by side,
our heads leaning,
almost touching
while we stare out
into the vast, open darkness
of the backyard.
My life has begun to morph
to the mercy of middle age;
to the mercy of teenage daughters
with their scorched earth eye rolls
and ignored text messages
after spamming their phones
with sentimental mother-daughter
reels and memes,
a declaration of my love
despite the obvious thud
from the time in their lives
when I was present
but not fully present
long enough for their validated
resentment of me to seed -
take root, and then flourish
like Mimosa Pudica,
a type of foliage known
to quickly fold inward
and droop whenever touched.
If anything, middle age offers
perspective, however precarious,
like the time I swallowed a fly whole
while riding a Citi Bike
along the Gowanus canal
as a result of my mouth-breathing.
Now I'm learning new terms
like active listening, which,
according to the family therapist,
means being able to hold
the ball while listening
to difficult truths, without reacting,
just holding the ball
as heavy as regret.
Carolynn Kingyens was born and raised in Northeast Philadelphia. She is the author of two poetry collections, BEFORE THE BIG BANG MAKES A SOUND and Coupling, both published by Kelsay Books. In addition to poetry, she writes short fiction and narrative essays. Two of her short stories were selected for Best of Fiction 2021 and 2023. And two of her essays, "There's a Tiffany in Every Dysfunctional Family," about the youngest sister of David and Amy Sedaris, and "How Creative Resilience Saved Me from Childhood Trauma" were recently republished by YourTango, a large, female-led NYC publisher. You can read some of her narrative essays on Medium, where she dives into a myriad of topics from The Royal Family to true crime.
and I press our noses
squarely against the coolness
of the kitchen's screen window
but for totally different reasons:
his, out of infinite pining
for feral-freedom,
hunting mice and birds
with reckless abandon
before his entrapment
and ultimate rescue
for the safe, mundane life
of an inside cat,
always ready to bolt;
and mine, for relief
from a searing hot flash
while stirring a large pot
of homemade sauce,
where I add sugar
to cut into the acidity
of garden variety tomatoes;
just the two of us,
side by side,
our heads leaning,
almost touching
while we stare out
into the vast, open darkness
of the backyard.
My life has begun to morph
to the mercy of middle age;
to the mercy of teenage daughters
with their scorched earth eye rolls
and ignored text messages
after spamming their phones
with sentimental mother-daughter
reels and memes,
a declaration of my love
despite the obvious thud
from the time in their lives
when I was present
but not fully present
long enough for their validated
resentment of me to seed -
take root, and then flourish
like Mimosa Pudica,
a type of foliage known
to quickly fold inward
and droop whenever touched.
If anything, middle age offers
perspective, however precarious,
like the time I swallowed a fly whole
while riding a Citi Bike
along the Gowanus canal
as a result of my mouth-breathing.
Now I'm learning new terms
like active listening, which,
according to the family therapist,
means being able to hold
the ball while listening
to difficult truths, without reacting,
just holding the ball
as heavy as regret.
Carolynn Kingyens was born and raised in Northeast Philadelphia. She is the author of two poetry collections, BEFORE THE BIG BANG MAKES A SOUND and Coupling, both published by Kelsay Books. In addition to poetry, she writes short fiction and narrative essays. Two of her short stories were selected for Best of Fiction 2021 and 2023. And two of her essays, "There's a Tiffany in Every Dysfunctional Family," about the youngest sister of David and Amy Sedaris, and "How Creative Resilience Saved Me from Childhood Trauma" were recently republished by YourTango, a large, female-led NYC publisher. You can read some of her narrative essays on Medium, where she dives into a myriad of topics from The Royal Family to true crime.
Wednesday, November 6, 2024
Air Raid by Steve Deutsch
In Brooklyn,
in 1953, the air raid
sirens would wail
their warning once
or twice a week.
We would
dive under our desks,
assuming the half-inch
oak would protect us
from anything,
although the teachers
never assured us.
My brother assured me
my eyes would boil
in their sockets,
my charred skin
would peel
from my bones,
and no one
would know me from the skeletons
in the Museum of Natural History.
My parents said
that was silly talk,
but my brother told me
the commies had a missile
trained on the Empire
State Building
with a blast radius of 13 miles
and we were within the blast zone.
“Fortunately, he said, the bomb will incinerate us
before the blast blows us apart.
You’re toast,” he added,
taking a huge bite of the rye bread
that he had slathered
with half a stick of butter.
I couldn’t get the eyeballs
out of my mind,
and the day mom left me to shop,
the sirens wailed,
and I hid in the closet
covered in coats.
For the next month
or so, mom would tell friends
and relatives she found
me wailing louder
than any siren
could, and I might
be an instrument of Civil Defense.
70 years later, sirens still
make me close my eyes tighter than tight.
Steve Deutsch is poetry editor of Centered Magazine and is poet in residence at the Bellefonte Art Museum. Steve was nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook, Perhaps You Can, was published in 2019 by Kelsay Press. Steve's full-length books, Persistence of Memory, Going, Going, Gone, and Slipping Away, were also published by Kelsay Press. Another poetry collection, Brooklyn, was awarded the Sinclair Poetry Prize from Evening Street Press and his latest full-length book, Seven Mountains, was just published.
in 1953, the air raid
sirens would wail
their warning once
or twice a week.
We would
dive under our desks,
assuming the half-inch
oak would protect us
from anything,
although the teachers
never assured us.
My brother assured me
my eyes would boil
in their sockets,
my charred skin
would peel
from my bones,
and no one
would know me from the skeletons
in the Museum of Natural History.
My parents said
that was silly talk,
but my brother told me
the commies had a missile
trained on the Empire
State Building
with a blast radius of 13 miles
and we were within the blast zone.
“Fortunately, he said, the bomb will incinerate us
before the blast blows us apart.
You’re toast,” he added,
taking a huge bite of the rye bread
that he had slathered
with half a stick of butter.
I couldn’t get the eyeballs
out of my mind,
and the day mom left me to shop,
the sirens wailed,
and I hid in the closet
covered in coats.
For the next month
or so, mom would tell friends
and relatives she found
me wailing louder
than any siren
could, and I might
be an instrument of Civil Defense.
70 years later, sirens still
make me close my eyes tighter than tight.
Steve Deutsch is poetry editor of Centered Magazine and is poet in residence at the Bellefonte Art Museum. Steve was nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook, Perhaps You Can, was published in 2019 by Kelsay Press. Steve's full-length books, Persistence of Memory, Going, Going, Gone, and Slipping Away, were also published by Kelsay Press. Another poetry collection, Brooklyn, was awarded the Sinclair Poetry Prize from Evening Street Press and his latest full-length book, Seven Mountains, was just published.
Tuesday, November 5, 2024
Morning After the Death of My Mother by Terri Kirby Erickson
They call it daybreak and the crack
of dawn. Even so, light spreads over
the backyard field like melting butter
and songbirds sing. Shy deer retreat
to the woods, and night owls sleep,
dreaming of moonshine and stars. A
red-tailed hawk circles sunlit roofs
of houses in which most of us will
rise as if there is no danger in it—
as if we will never die nor cry in the
dark like frightened children. There
is comfort to be found in our warm
and cozy slippers, the feel of a tooth-
brush in our mouths. So what if we
are growing old and bleary-eyed, our
days shorter? The coffee is brewing.
There are eggs to be whisked, toast
to be spread with jams and jelly. Yet,
the widow clutches her countertop,
her loneliness undaunted by the blue
sky or the scent of hollyhocks wafting
through open windows. And parents
whose son—lost so long ago, no one
remembers but his mother, his father—
the little things that made their boy
real. But breakfast must be eaten, the
grass mowed. And if time tramples us
like soldiers marching in the streets,
we go on reaching for each other like
our grip will never be loosened. We
drink our coffee even when the cups
are cracked, the day already broken.
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” Rattle, 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.
of dawn. Even so, light spreads over
the backyard field like melting butter
and songbirds sing. Shy deer retreat
to the woods, and night owls sleep,
dreaming of moonshine and stars. A
red-tailed hawk circles sunlit roofs
of houses in which most of us will
rise as if there is no danger in it—
as if we will never die nor cry in the
dark like frightened children. There
is comfort to be found in our warm
and cozy slippers, the feel of a tooth-
brush in our mouths. So what if we
are growing old and bleary-eyed, our
days shorter? The coffee is brewing.
There are eggs to be whisked, toast
to be spread with jams and jelly. Yet,
the widow clutches her countertop,
her loneliness undaunted by the blue
sky or the scent of hollyhocks wafting
through open windows. And parents
whose son—lost so long ago, no one
remembers but his mother, his father—
the little things that made their boy
real. But breakfast must be eaten, the
grass mowed. And if time tramples us
like soldiers marching in the streets,
we go on reaching for each other like
our grip will never be loosened. We
drink our coffee even when the cups
are cracked, the day already broken.
Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of seven collections of poetry. Her work has appeared in “American Life in Poetry,” Rattle, 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.
Monday, November 4, 2024
Sparrows by Howie Good
Inside the Home Depot, I hear but can’t see the birds
chirping away among the exposed steel beams overhead –
house sparrows, probably. Halloween has only just ended.
The red Christmas poinsettias on display, when I look closer,
prove to be fabric. I ask a man in a carpenter’s apron who isn’t
a carpenter where the heavy-duty tarps are. “Aisle 41,” he says
and points. The word “cancer” follows me. It is the scariest word
in the language, scarier somehow than even “death.” I am being
murdered by my own body. The sparrows go on chirping their
simple three-note song as if there is no extra time for complexity.
Howie Good is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose newest poetry book, The Dark, is available from Sacred Parasite, a Berlin-based publisher.
chirping away among the exposed steel beams overhead –
house sparrows, probably. Halloween has only just ended.
The red Christmas poinsettias on display, when I look closer,
prove to be fabric. I ask a man in a carpenter’s apron who isn’t
a carpenter where the heavy-duty tarps are. “Aisle 41,” he says
and points. The word “cancer” follows me. It is the scariest word
in the language, scarier somehow than even “death.” I am being
murdered by my own body. The sparrows go on chirping their
simple three-note song as if there is no extra time for complexity.
Howie Good is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose newest poetry book, The Dark, is available from Sacred Parasite, a Berlin-based publisher.
Sunday, November 3, 2024
Measuring the Foundation by Steve Klepetar
I look at the cabin, it’s splintery walls.
My father walks around outside,
measuring the foundation.
He has carried a tire from the truck,
and he sits now by the edge of the lake.
Turtles swim in the shallows.
I find a pair of hiking boots
with one lace missing, a rusty canteen,
a hand axe with a chipped blade.
It begins to rain, and we remember
the misspelled sign in a neighborhood store:
TURTELS FOR SALE.
The owner had fallen asleep at the counter.
Even the little bell failed to wake him.
We slipped out through the back door,
hungry for soup or bread or something
we couldn’t yet name. Night had come on
and streetlights glowed along the avenue.
It’s been a day of memories, which can seem
like ghosts in the half light, or the ending of a dream.
Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. He is a contributing editor for Verse-Virtual and serves on the editorial staff of Right Hand Pointing. His poems have received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
My father walks around outside,
measuring the foundation.
He has carried a tire from the truck,
and he sits now by the edge of the lake.
Turtles swim in the shallows.
I find a pair of hiking boots
with one lace missing, a rusty canteen,
a hand axe with a chipped blade.
It begins to rain, and we remember
the misspelled sign in a neighborhood store:
TURTELS FOR SALE.
The owner had fallen asleep at the counter.
Even the little bell failed to wake him.
We slipped out through the back door,
hungry for soup or bread or something
we couldn’t yet name. Night had come on
and streetlights glowed along the avenue.
It’s been a day of memories, which can seem
like ghosts in the half light, or the ending of a dream.
Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. He is a contributing editor for Verse-Virtual and serves on the editorial staff of Right Hand Pointing. His poems have received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
Wednesday, October 30, 2024
What's a Boy But the Contents of His Pockets? by John Hicks
A lucky stone that sparkled to you;
a ring shaped like a cowboy saddle
found while digging in grandma’s garden;
a length of twine rescued from the kitchen;
receipts you can’t yet read; skeleton key
from the junk drawer. Your pockets
reliquary of the world beyond
what grown-ups said was best for you.
When you asked: What’s this for? Where
did this come from? adult answers were vague,
or you couldn’t understand them, or
they dismissed with When you’re older.
So, you made your own stories—
like the ring lost by a passing cowboy;
messages hidden in grocery receipts; a secret door
in the basement the skeleton key would open.
Some things you shared with other boys:
a single-bladed pocketknife with a broken tip,
the shiny Zippo lighter that might be made to work,
the rusty railroad spike from behind the depot.
You hid your talismans in cotton darkness,
to take out when alone: a copper nugget
from a desert camping trip, blue and roughly round
(larger than your blue marble shooter),
a pearl button like on Gene Autry’s shirt;
a wheat penny from the floor of the Willys.
But wonders found gave way to car keys,
credit cards, and currency you emptied
onto your dresser top at night. You came to
care how clothes fit; stopped seeing things.
A wheat penny in my change today.
I held it up to read the date, wondering
if it was from the year I was born, a reminder
of what slipped away.
John Hicks is working on his first book. His poetry has been published by: Valparaiso Poetry Review, I-70 Review, Poetica, Blue Nib, Verse-Virtual, and others. He writes in the thin mountain air of the southern Rockies. He’s been nominated for two Pushcarts and one Best of the Net.
a ring shaped like a cowboy saddle
found while digging in grandma’s garden;
a length of twine rescued from the kitchen;
receipts you can’t yet read; skeleton key
from the junk drawer. Your pockets
reliquary of the world beyond
what grown-ups said was best for you.
When you asked: What’s this for? Where
did this come from? adult answers were vague,
or you couldn’t understand them, or
they dismissed with When you’re older.
So, you made your own stories—
like the ring lost by a passing cowboy;
messages hidden in grocery receipts; a secret door
in the basement the skeleton key would open.
Some things you shared with other boys:
a single-bladed pocketknife with a broken tip,
the shiny Zippo lighter that might be made to work,
the rusty railroad spike from behind the depot.
You hid your talismans in cotton darkness,
to take out when alone: a copper nugget
from a desert camping trip, blue and roughly round
(larger than your blue marble shooter),
a pearl button like on Gene Autry’s shirt;
a wheat penny from the floor of the Willys.
But wonders found gave way to car keys,
credit cards, and currency you emptied
onto your dresser top at night. You came to
care how clothes fit; stopped seeing things.
A wheat penny in my change today.
I held it up to read the date, wondering
if it was from the year I was born, a reminder
of what slipped away.
John Hicks is working on his first book. His poetry has been published by: Valparaiso Poetry Review, I-70 Review, Poetica, Blue Nib, Verse-Virtual, and others. He writes in the thin mountain air of the southern Rockies. He’s been nominated for two Pushcarts and one Best of the Net.
Tuesday, October 29, 2024
What I Wanted to Say by Joan Leotta
What I wanted to say
to the handsome, bearded young man,
walking along the beach, wearing
black shorts and t-shirt, his phone, like mine
poised to capture the precise moment
when the sun leaps out of the sea to
balance itself on the tightrope line of the horizon--
what I wanted to say
was, “You look so much like my son!
Maybe a bit older.” But I kept silent,
simply smiled briefly in his direction,
fearing that if I spoke, after my declaration
of his resemblance to Joey,
he might ask, “Where is your son?”
Then I would answer truthfully,
“My son died a few years ago,”
and this young man might recoil, perhaps
consider it a bad omen to resemble
a departed one, even a beloved departed.
So, instead, I quietly watched him walk
away, snapping his sunrise pictures
as my own son might have done—
kept still instead of saying
what I wanted to say.
Silently, I sent a blessing
to this young man, wishing him
many stunning sunrises and a peaceful life
full of love and joy.
At last, I turned and climbed the steps
to leave the beach. From the top step,
I glanced back down
for one more glimpse of him
but he was gone.
Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. Internationally published as an essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist, she’s a two-time nominee (fiction and poetry) for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. As a story performer, she offers folktale programs and a one woman show, “Louisa May Alcott Comes to Speak.”
to the handsome, bearded young man,
walking along the beach, wearing
black shorts and t-shirt, his phone, like mine
poised to capture the precise moment
when the sun leaps out of the sea to
balance itself on the tightrope line of the horizon--
what I wanted to say
was, “You look so much like my son!
Maybe a bit older.” But I kept silent,
simply smiled briefly in his direction,
fearing that if I spoke, after my declaration
of his resemblance to Joey,
he might ask, “Where is your son?”
Then I would answer truthfully,
“My son died a few years ago,”
and this young man might recoil, perhaps
consider it a bad omen to resemble
a departed one, even a beloved departed.
So, instead, I quietly watched him walk
away, snapping his sunrise pictures
as my own son might have done—
kept still instead of saying
what I wanted to say.
Silently, I sent a blessing
to this young man, wishing him
many stunning sunrises and a peaceful life
full of love and joy.
At last, I turned and climbed the steps
to leave the beach. From the top step,
I glanced back down
for one more glimpse of him
but he was gone.
Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. Internationally published as an essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist, she’s a two-time nominee (fiction and poetry) for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. As a story performer, she offers folktale programs and a one woman show, “Louisa May Alcott Comes to Speak.”
Sunday, October 27, 2024
On What Would Have Been Our Son’s 48th Birthday by Sharon Waller Knutson
Cowboys on horses
round up cattle
with their blue heelers
like he and his brothers used to do.
ATVs roar by in a cavalcade
and I swear I see him
in the driver’s seat leading
the pack up the dirt road.
Two does and their fawns
frolic on the lawn and I can
picture him sitting cross-legged
on the couch watching.
The flicker knocks and knocks
but no one opens the door
and I hear him say how lucky
we are to live out here
before he walks away
and disappears into the white
clouds that swirl in a sky
blue as his eyes.
Sharon Waller Knutson has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She has published 12 poetry books, 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.
round up cattle
with their blue heelers
like he and his brothers used to do.
ATVs roar by in a cavalcade
and I swear I see him
in the driver’s seat leading
the pack up the dirt road.
Two does and their fawns
frolic on the lawn and I can
picture him sitting cross-legged
on the couch watching.
The flicker knocks and knocks
but no one opens the door
and I hear him say how lucky
we are to live out here
before he walks away
and disappears into the white
clouds that swirl in a sky
blue as his eyes.
Sharon Waller Knutson has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She has published 12 poetry books, 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, October 26, 2024
Before I Leave the House by Jacqueline Jules
I have to check the stove again.
And the coffee maker. Is it unplugged?
The refrigerator closed?
What about the back door? Is it locked?
And the toilet? Did it stop running?
I have to be sure everything
is safe and secure while I’m away,
so there won’t be any headaches
over house stuff, the last thing we need
right now when we don’t know
when you’ll come home or if.
The refrigerator closed?
What about the back door? Is it locked?
And the toilet? Did it stop running?
I have to be sure everything
is safe and secure while I’m away,
so there won’t be any headaches
over house stuff, the last thing we need
right now when we don’t know
when you’ll come home or if.
So I haven’t left yet.
Still busy going back to the stove
and the back door and the bathroom,
circling like a hawk over all the bad things
that could happen if I don’t check one more time
before I go to the hospital where I’ll be
helpless to control what happens to you.
Jacqueline Jules is the author of Manna in the Morning (Kelsay Books, 2021), Itzhak Perlman's Broken String, winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from Evening Street Press, and Smoke at the Pentagon: Poems to Remember (Bushel & Peck, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in over 100 publications. Visit her online at www.jacquelinejules.com
Still busy going back to the stove
and the back door and the bathroom,
circling like a hawk over all the bad things
that could happen if I don’t check one more time
before I go to the hospital where I’ll be
helpless to control what happens to you.
Jacqueline Jules is the author of Manna in the Morning (Kelsay Books, 2021), Itzhak Perlman's Broken String, winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from Evening Street Press, and Smoke at the Pentagon: Poems to Remember (Bushel & Peck, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in over 100 publications. Visit her online at www.jacquelinejules.com
Friday, October 25, 2024
Tell Me About Him by Jacqueline Jules
That’s what she said.
Not “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Or “That must have been so hard.”
Instead, she asked me
to describe the person
he was before he became
someone to be sorry about.
It made me blink.
I was so used to nodding my head,
mumbling a platitude in return.
“He had my mother’s eyes,”
I offered softly. “Grayish blue
with flecks of green.”
“Lovely,” she said, touching my arm,
giving me permission to say
he coached Little League in the spring,
and cooked outside on an old grill
that came with the rented house
he shared with three college buddies.
“So he loved baseball?” she asked.
“And hockey,” I answered.
“We used to watch games together.”
“You must miss him,” she said.
I do.
Jacqueline Jules is the author of Manna in the Morning (Kelsay Books, 2021), Itzhak Perlman's Broken String, winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from Evening Street Press, and Smoke at the Pentagon: Poems to Remember (Bushel & Peck, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in over 100 publications. Visit her online at www.jacquelinejules.com
Not “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Or “That must have been so hard.”
Instead, she asked me
to describe the person
he was before he became
someone to be sorry about.
It made me blink.
I was so used to nodding my head,
mumbling a platitude in return.
“He had my mother’s eyes,”
I offered softly. “Grayish blue
with flecks of green.”
“Lovely,” she said, touching my arm,
giving me permission to say
he coached Little League in the spring,
and cooked outside on an old grill
that came with the rented house
he shared with three college buddies.
“So he loved baseball?” she asked.
“And hockey,” I answered.
“We used to watch games together.”
“You must miss him,” she said.
I do.
Jacqueline Jules is the author of Manna in the Morning (Kelsay Books, 2021), Itzhak Perlman's Broken String, winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from Evening Street Press, and Smoke at the Pentagon: Poems to Remember (Bushel & Peck, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in over 100 publications. Visit her online at www.jacquelinejules.com
Wednesday, October 23, 2024
Marriage by Rose Mary Boehm
We kept the mattress on the floor
for reasons of economics—remember?
When our baby son crawled in to sleep between us
without much ado, it became a godsend.
We didn’t keep each other warm,
laughter hid our emptiness.
We didn’t notice the spiders
undoing their fragile web.
The luxury bed that lifted our heads
and feet if we so chose, the 500-thread cotton,
the large, mirrored wardrobe,
the jacuzzi, the private school, the two Beemers
were only hiding wounds that could not heal.
We smiled and nodded like wind-up toys;
I spent time with the mothers and sometimes fathers
of the kids’ friends. You were always too busy.
One day a young woman came to our house
and asked for your hand.
We all survived the end of another marriage,
the quake and its aftermath,
forever changed by the tsunami of our lack of wisdom,
everyone in their own kayak riding the rapids.
Loathing—the hors d’oeuvre
Forgiving—the main course
Friendship—the dessert
Many years ago, we each married others,
but when you dared to die, I missed you.
A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and eight poetry collections, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
for reasons of economics—remember?
When our baby son crawled in to sleep between us
without much ado, it became a godsend.
We didn’t keep each other warm,
laughter hid our emptiness.
We didn’t notice the spiders
undoing their fragile web.
The luxury bed that lifted our heads
and feet if we so chose, the 500-thread cotton,
the large, mirrored wardrobe,
the jacuzzi, the private school, the two Beemers
were only hiding wounds that could not heal.
We smiled and nodded like wind-up toys;
I spent time with the mothers and sometimes fathers
of the kids’ friends. You were always too busy.
One day a young woman came to our house
and asked for your hand.
We all survived the end of another marriage,
the quake and its aftermath,
forever changed by the tsunami of our lack of wisdom,
everyone in their own kayak riding the rapids.
Loathing—the hors d’oeuvre
Forgiving—the main course
Friendship—the dessert
Many years ago, we each married others,
but when you dared to die, I missed you.
A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and eight poetry collections, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
Monday, October 21, 2024
Gravid by Tamara Madison
A young deer steps
with caution
across the grass
toward the fence
at the edge of the garden.
It is afternoon. He is alone.
I have seen him here before
I think, a yearling
behind a pregnant doe
walking slow. Yesterday
she was alone; I watched
her shadow move
into the dark woods
beyond the fence. Perhaps
she was seeking a place
to lie down in damp grass
to foal. Now her elder child
walks alone. I think I know
his loneliness, his puzzlement.
And I know her need
to do the hard, natural work
in solitude. In these woods
I've seen the wild apple trees
gravid with blossom, standing
alone among the birches
who have just given birth
to a new generation of leaves
glistening with dew,
trembling in wind,
opening themselves
to the wonder that is rain.
Tamara Madison is the author of three full-length volumes of poetry, Wild Domestic, Moraine (both from Pearl Editions), Morpheus Dips His Oar (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions), and two chapbooks. Her work has appeared in the Writer’s Almanac, Sheila-Na-Gig, Worcester Review, and many other publications. Read more about Tamara at tamaramadisonpoetry.com.
with caution
across the grass
toward the fence
at the edge of the garden.
It is afternoon. He is alone.
I have seen him here before
I think, a yearling
behind a pregnant doe
walking slow. Yesterday
she was alone; I watched
her shadow move
into the dark woods
beyond the fence. Perhaps
she was seeking a place
to lie down in damp grass
to foal. Now her elder child
walks alone. I think I know
his loneliness, his puzzlement.
And I know her need
to do the hard, natural work
in solitude. In these woods
I've seen the wild apple trees
gravid with blossom, standing
alone among the birches
who have just given birth
to a new generation of leaves
glistening with dew,
trembling in wind,
opening themselves
to the wonder that is rain.
Tamara Madison is the author of three full-length volumes of poetry, Wild Domestic, Moraine (both from Pearl Editions), Morpheus Dips His Oar (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions), and two chapbooks. Her work has appeared in the Writer’s Almanac, Sheila-Na-Gig, Worcester Review, and many other publications. Read more about Tamara at tamaramadisonpoetry.com.
Saturday, October 19, 2024
Bones and Song by Jennifer Mills Kerr
Today I discover a pile of bird bones
near the chain link gate, licked clean
by my cat, embroidered by ants.
near the chain link gate, licked clean
by my cat, embroidered by ants.
An offering of pick-up sticks, a strategy
of careful tenderness–a game you
never played. I can’t decide if remembering
our distances draws you closer or
outlines your absence.
Maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe tangled
thinking is perfect, as daughter playing
mother, I learned the endless practice
of pulling apart your knots, trying to unravel
what I’d done or didn’t do to upset you
again. Now I bury the offered bones
beneath the front porch. The soil, never
touched by rain or sun, a silky sand,
transparent as the love songs you sang
alone in the kitchen every Sunday when
you thought no one was listening.
Jennifer Mills Kerr is an educator, poet, and writer who loves mild winters, anything Jane Austen, and the raucous coast of Northern California. Connect with Jennifer through her Substack, Poetry Inspired or say hello at her website.
of careful tenderness–a game you
never played. I can’t decide if remembering
our distances draws you closer or
outlines your absence.
Maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe tangled
thinking is perfect, as daughter playing
mother, I learned the endless practice
of pulling apart your knots, trying to unravel
what I’d done or didn’t do to upset you
again. Now I bury the offered bones
beneath the front porch. The soil, never
touched by rain or sun, a silky sand,
transparent as the love songs you sang
alone in the kitchen every Sunday when
you thought no one was listening.
Jennifer Mills Kerr is an educator, poet, and writer who loves mild winters, anything Jane Austen, and the raucous coast of Northern California. Connect with Jennifer through her Substack, Poetry Inspired or say hello at her website.
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