The ground we walk on
in its solidity, what is it
other than a place to exist?
What is existence
if it goes unnoticed—
if we, walking the grounds,
do not stop and hold firm
our bare feet
into wet soil?
To exist, is to feel,
taste, hear,
smell the summer air—
filled with prairie blossoms
and bees...
If bees are still alive,
taste them
with your ears;
reach out, now,
beneath the sun—
Touch them with your eyes!
Ahrend Torrey is the author of This Moment (Pinyon Publishing, 2024). His work has appeared in Denver Quarterly, storySouth, The Greensboro Review, and West Trade Review, among others. He lives in Chicago with his husband, Jonathan; their two rat terriers, Dichter and Dova; and Purl, their cat. Learn more about his poetry at https://ahrendtorreypoetry.wixsite.com/website
Tuesday, December 31, 2024
Friday, December 27, 2024
A Brief History of Schnickelfritz by Penelope Moffet
My mother named her Schnickelfritz,
mischievous child. A gray tabby
who hummed the world to sleep
with her sweet purr.
One of the pets who lived with us
until we moved and left them.
We moved a lot.
We shed those cats like fleas
and then hatched more. I swore
I’d care for future felines
their whole lives. The two
I live with now are 17 and 15
but they still whisk around
like Schnickelfritzes,
pratfalls and all. They bless me
with their biscuit-making paws.
Penelope Moffet is the author of the chapbooks Cauldron of Hisses (Arroyo Seco Press, 2022), It Isn’t That They Mean to Kill You (Arroyo Seco Press, 2018) and Keeping Still (Dorland Mountain Arts, 1995). Her poems and essays appear in Eclectica, ONE ART, Citric Acid, Calyx and other literary journals.
mischievous child. A gray tabby
who hummed the world to sleep
with her sweet purr.
One of the pets who lived with us
until we moved and left them.
We moved a lot.
We shed those cats like fleas
and then hatched more. I swore
I’d care for future felines
their whole lives. The two
I live with now are 17 and 15
but they still whisk around
like Schnickelfritzes,
pratfalls and all. They bless me
with their biscuit-making paws.
Penelope Moffet is the author of the chapbooks Cauldron of Hisses (Arroyo Seco Press, 2022), It Isn’t That They Mean to Kill You (Arroyo Seco Press, 2018) and Keeping Still (Dorland Mountain Arts, 1995). Her poems and essays appear in Eclectica, ONE ART, Citric Acid, Calyx and other literary journals.
Thursday, December 26, 2024
Keeper of the Keys by Penelope Moffet
Biscuit-colored fur
his ribs show through,
dark liquid eyes, Kai is
gentle as a doe but plants
his legs like stilts, looks sidelong
when I tug the leash.
Each day I’m here at one
to take him for a midday
pee and poop and amble.
Eager to go out,
once his bladder’s empty
he’s done with exercise
so we walk in circles, me
coaxing him on, him
pulling back. Sometimes
his white cheeks shake.
He walks up to a gardener,
stands as long as fingers rub
his head, his ears. More,
the chocolate eyes say. More.
Once he ran faster than a man
but now he’d rather meditate
than sprint. He contemplates
each bush, each grass clump,
bit of trailing ivy.
Then he sighs.
Kai means Shell in Japanese,
Sea in Hawaiian, Keeper
of the Keys in Welsh.
Dog built like a deer,
yearning for his bed.
He tries to lead me home.
Penelope Moffet is the author of the chapbooks Cauldron of Hisses (Arroyo Seco Press, 2022), It Isn’t That They Mean to Kill You (Arroyo Seco Press, 2018) and Keeping Still (Dorland Mountain Arts, 1995). Her poems and essays appear in Eclectica, ONE ART, Citric Acid, Calyx and other literary journals.
his ribs show through,
dark liquid eyes, Kai is
gentle as a doe but plants
his legs like stilts, looks sidelong
when I tug the leash.
Each day I’m here at one
to take him for a midday
pee and poop and amble.
Eager to go out,
once his bladder’s empty
he’s done with exercise
so we walk in circles, me
coaxing him on, him
pulling back. Sometimes
his white cheeks shake.
He walks up to a gardener,
stands as long as fingers rub
his head, his ears. More,
the chocolate eyes say. More.
Once he ran faster than a man
but now he’d rather meditate
than sprint. He contemplates
each bush, each grass clump,
bit of trailing ivy.
Then he sighs.
Kai means Shell in Japanese,
Sea in Hawaiian, Keeper
of the Keys in Welsh.
Dog built like a deer,
yearning for his bed.
He tries to lead me home.
Penelope Moffet is the author of the chapbooks Cauldron of Hisses (Arroyo Seco Press, 2022), It Isn’t That They Mean to Kill You (Arroyo Seco Press, 2018) and Keeping Still (Dorland Mountain Arts, 1995). Her poems and essays appear in Eclectica, ONE ART, Citric Acid, Calyx and other literary journals.
Thursday, December 19, 2024
After the Burial by A.R. Williams
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.
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.
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
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