An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash
Poetry by M.L. Lyons
Pine trees of winter
Burlap warms the cedars
Deer licks green needles.
Year end ritual
Snow geese cry fleeing winter
Beeswax candles glow
M. L. Lyons is a poet, writer, editor and co-editor of the anthology, “Raising Lilly Ledbetter: Women Poets Occupy the Workplace.” Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart and her poetry collection, “Songs from the Multiverse” is forthcoming in 2025 from Finishing Line Press.
Poetry by Lo Riddell
Here comes nature’s peace
offering: pale landscapes
with feather-brush forests
licking the first snowflakes
straight from the sky.
Invisible sun shines through
shadow-bellied clouds, turning
blue skies white with promise
of more snow. My grandmother
alchemizes the last of her summer
blackberries into cakes that fit
kindly in my open hands.
Dusk comes early once again,
creeping in through kitchen windows
to steal a piece of fresh-baked bread
from the stovetop. The holly berries
light up the roadside like string lights
for families of deer trotting by.
At last, December takes her stage
and exhales the passing year.
Lo Riddell is a lesbian writer from southern Ohio, currently based in New England. She received her BFA in Creative Writing from Bowling Green State University in 2022, and now spends her free time writing poetry, prose, and essays on pop culture. You can find her on Instagram at @vintagelouisa.
Poetry by Wesley Sims
Early morning, a gloomy Christmas day,
with only mild expectations,
noisy birds gathering for breakfast outside.
I trudge to the kitchen for morning tea,
pull the blinds, put out some feed.
Within minutes three bluebirds arrive
and perch the porch rail near the patio door.
Their bold blue feathers seem to shine
like robes in the beam of brightening sky.
They seem not in a hurry to eat,
peer at me for a while as if
to ask a question. I ponder how three
is a perfect number so fitting this day.
They fly away but leave their gifts—
beauty and hope and a helping of cheer.
One soon returns to sit, and lingers.
Here for seconds or to tell me something?
If a bird could talk what would it say?
He tilts his head up toward the sky,
sits motionless for five full minutes.
Finally lowers his little blue head
and gazes at me through the glass.
Sits almost still for five minutes more.
I’ve fed the birds in winter for years
but never before witnessed such a scene.
I bow my head, and offer thanks.
Wesley Sims has published three chapbooks of poetry: When Night Comes, 2013; Taste of Change, 2019; and A Pocketful of Little Poems, 2020. His work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, and he has had poems nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.
Poetry by Brian Billings
When we reach December,
the sounds begin to change.
The steady hum of daily life
moves to a higher range.
The beats become staccato
while chording starts to swell.
These are the sounds of Christmas I know well.
The Santas manning city blocks
collect the coins that clink.
Laughter spills from coffee shops
where good friends share a drink.
Bags of presents crinkle.
Chimes on front doors tinkle.
Swishing brooms push flakes away
where snow’s begun to sprinkle.
Cheery fires crackle
where families abide.
Wintry breezes howl and hiss
while lovers kiss inside.
There’s a fizz within the whiz
of shoppers all pell-mell.
These are the sounds of Christmas I know well.
An organ roaring “Allelu!”
will leave you feeling jolly; you
can hear good tidings when the rafters ring.
The glockenspiel and carillon
will help high spirits barrel on
when either instrument begins to sing.
The snap of bursting popcorn
locked in a box of glass.
The piping of a cardinal.
A greeting as you pass.
Not one of these dear novelties
is just a bagatelle.
These are the sounds of Christmas I know well.
Brian C. Billings is a professor of drama and English at Texas A&M University-Texarkana. His work has appeared in such journals as Ancient Paths, Antietam Review, The Bluebird Word, Confrontation, Evening Street Review, Glacial Hills Review, and Poems and Plays. Publishers for his scripts include Eldridge Publishing and Heuer Publishing.
Poetry by Terri Watrous Berry
Like well-rehearsed mice, we
grumble through a mall maze,
hoping just to find the perfect
tie, but whether the bathrobe’s
bought or not, Christmas comes.
And all is not merry and bright
holly jolly Christmas folly for
we just have far too much to do!
Until the magic moment, for
there’s always that one magic
moment, when Christmas gifts
itself to us again. It may happen
in the twinkling of a small child’s
eyes, or a carol keyed within
a lock hidden in your heart.
Or a perfect stranger’s change
clangs, into a copper kettle, and
your own bone-weary spirit is
renewed. No, Christmas doesn’t
come to us, it just sits there
on the calendar. We are the ones
who finally come to Christmas.
Terri Watrous Berry’s prose has received awards from venues as diverse as Hemingway Days Festival and Des Plaines/Park Ridge NOW Feminist Writers Competition. Nonfiction pieces this year were included in Wayward Literature, The The Bluebird Word, and The Terry Tribune; fiction in Wising Up Press, Persimmon Tree, and University of Alabama.
Poetry by Patricia Hope
Oh, ye brown and velvety purveyor
of best-smelling houses, sometimes
rolled in icing-covered rounds or mixed
with pumpkin for a pie or sprinkled
over sugar cookies—you are cinnamon,
king of Christmas spices.
Oh, poignant sage, rubbed, of course,
mixed with cornbread crumbs, chopped
celery and onion, broth from a roasted bird,
eggs and black pepper, spread into a pan
and baked as dressing, your warmth
wafting through the house.
The world could not get through Christmas
without your herb tea or candied pieces. From
your rhizomes to your yellow-purple flowers,
we must have ginger for our ginger ale, ginger beer
or cakes, cookies, or mixed with molasses
for an irresistible gingerbread.
You grow in the islands but your warm sweet
flavor says Let it Snow when sprinkled over
creamy eggnog or sistered with cinnamon in apple pie.
From the Middle Ages to the 2020s, nutmeg,
your nutty aroma is a Christmas staple.
Our homes would smell empty without the pungent
fragrance of snickerdoodles, cornbread dressing,
gingerbread, and eggnog. Wise men and women know
without spices, there would be nothing but an overgrown
evergreen and odorless mistletoe to point us
home for the holidays.
Patricia Hope’s award-winning writing has appeared in The Bluebird Word, MockingHeart Review, Anthology of Appalachian Writers, Guideposts’ Blessed by His Love, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Agape Review, Spirit Fire Review, Dog Throat Journal, American Diversity, and many newspapers, magazines, and anthologies. She lives in Oak Ridge, Tennessee.
Poetry by Christine Andersen
We could take the car
to deliver gifts to the neighbors—
the wind chill is below zero,
but my father likes a brisk walk,
and so do I.
It’s an icy mile to our destination
past snowy fields put to bed for the winter
and a frozen pond where rainbow trout
swim sluggishly at the bottom.
The silent moon hangs overhead
like a misplaced ornament,
its opal light casting a shadowy labyrinth
of barren branches across the lane
and onto low drifts rippled into a white foam sea.
Gusts of opaque December wind
cut our foreheads in a rain of shards
as we curl ourselves into woolen scarves,
chins tucked tightly to our chests.
I clutch a holiday bag in one hand
and loop my other arm around my father’s.
Together we march through
the maze of tree shadows,
harmonizing a muffled chorus
of Santa Claus is Coming to Town.
Christine Andersen is a retired dyslexia specialist who hikes the Connecticut woods daily with her five dogs, pen and pad in pocket. Publications include the Comstock, Ocotillo Review, The Awakenings Review, Gyroscope Review, The Bluebird Word, and Glimpse, among many others. She won the 2023 American Writers Review Poetry Contest.
Poetry by Susan Miller
The tiny tree and its sparkly
needles never smelled of pine
or rode the roof of a family’s
SUV. It never towered and
awed from a department store
window with folds of fluffy
cotton unfurled at its feet.
It was plucked by my mother
from its perch on a sad,
overstocked shelf at CVS
next to a leftover ice-skating
Snoopy, fading blue bulbs
and depleted bags of tinsel.
Where I saw half off, my
mother saw magic: It could
be the perfect tree for Betty.
I watched her arthritic, tender
hands weave brightly colored
beads, bells and cardboard
snowflakes through the tree’s
pint-size branches. Miniature
Grinches, Drummer Boys and
Rudolphs sat elbow to elbow,
seemingly unaware of their
table-top calling in this labor
of love by an angel determined
to bring a piece of Christmas
to her decades-old friend.
Days later we would carry
our precious cargo down
a fluorescent hall crammed
with walkers, tired nurses
and blank stares of those
trapped inside their heads.
Into a corner room, the
12-by-12 universe where
a graying woman often
mumbled and shook. Betty
didn’t know us last time;
she didn’t know us then.
But her eyes blinked and
beamed, a crack of light
in the darkness. It was
the perfect tree for Betty.
Susan Miller is a journalist for USA TODAY whose off-the-grid passion is poetry. Her work has been published in Under the Bridges of America, Common Ground Review, Gemini Magazine, Months to Years, Sandy Paws, Written in Arlington, Whimsical Poet, Dillydoun Review, Goat’s Milk Magazine, The Bluebird Word, and The Raven’s Perch.
Poetry by Carol Barrett
Barely after six on a cold December morning, I pull into
my favorite drive-through and order my usual—hazelnut
truffle mocha with whipped cream and caramel drizzle, wait
for the steaming hot cup to glide through my open window.
Suddenly a worker crashes through the front door of the shop,
arms raised, swatting wildly, yanking down all the green
and red foil fringe wafting from rafters. What’s gotten into him?
Some scrooge out to ruin Christmas? Disgruntled employee
bent on revenge? He is determined to eradicate the bling, despite
the company logo Love Abounds bold on his sweatshirt back,
while the two pouring shots and flavors ask, What on earth
are you doing? They too like the giddy décor, pampering spirits.
I overhear his reply, though I am sure they are trained to keep
such revelations to a whisper, so as not to distract the regulars
in urgent need of a wake-me-up, or a soothing hot chocolate.
Turns out the fringe has been blowing all night, yards and yards
of frothy wonder dancing in the warm draft from the furnace,
16-inch silvery slivers shimmering despite absent baristas.
The manager had to call someone four times in the middle
of the night to check on the place, as the motion detector
suspected an intruder making off with state-of-the-art
equipment, high-grade Columbian coffee, or Santa’s tip jar,
red-capped teddy on the handle. She couldn’t imagine
the source of disturbance, finally recalled the seasonal
motif authorized the day before. She hadn’t picked it out
personally, or might have put two strands together sooner.
The choice was what the seventeen-year-old night crew
came up with, naturally prone to glitz and drama. They delivered.
The place now back to bare essentials, my creamy restorative
ready to sip. No bat in the belfry. We can ring in a new day.
Carol Barrett has published three volumes of poetry, most recently Reading Wind, and one of creative nonfiction, Pansies. An NEA Fellow in Poetry, she teaches for Antioch University and Saybrook University. Carol’s poems appear in venues in seven countries, and in over sixty anthologies.
Poetry by Kersten Christianson
Under the Falling
Yellow Cedar moon
we solstice. Beef roast
in the slow cooker,
ham bakes in the oven.
Stars and moon align,
twinkle in cavernous
bookshelves, where
the printed word basks
in the spoken. My dad
and brother taste test
each other’s pickled fish,
banter over the better.
Gloria’s cake sports
jingle bells, boughs
from last weekend’s
tree falling in a windstorm.
We have come together
before and will again
to celebrate the U-turn
in darkness; name those
no longer with us
in this life, but within
memory’s reach.
Kersten Christianson is a poet and English teacher from Sitka, Alaska. She is the author of Curating the House of Nostalgia (Sheila-Na-Gig, 2020) and Something Yet to Be Named (Kelsay Books, 2017). She serves as poetry editor of Alaska Women Speak. Kersten savors road trips, bookstores, and smooth ink pens.
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