The Bluebird Word

The Poet and the Pebble-Raker

3 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Stephen Cribari

White clouds, shredded
Like wool from sheep combed through thorn and gorse

I will sit here, under an endless sky
Until I am covered with falling in springtime snow
Of haw-blossom blown by the wind, until I am
White like the Cornwall hedgerow landscape, white
Like the beginning of time is white with first sunlight
Tumbling on the lilac and the rose

Then I will rise
And like the tide rake pebbles along the shore

Stephen Cribari resides in Minneapolis. His recent poetry appears in Writings from the Tyrrhenian Coast of Calabria (Rubbettino; English and Italian by Editors Margherita Ganeri and Maria Mazziotti Gillan); Voices Unbound; Freshwater Literary Journal; the Paterson Literary Review. The Grammar Lesson was featured in the January 14, 2025, edition of Passager’s podcast Burning Bright.

The First Monarch

1 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Katy Z. Allen

I caught a glimpse today of hope—
the first monarch of the summer
flitted past the window,
catching my eye with its bright orange wings.

A striking orange is on display as well in the wood lilies,
whose blooming each year reminds me of my Aunt Lorraine,
a crusty New England Yankee
who always knew what was what,
accepted me without question
no matter what was changing in my life,
and who so many years ago gave me bulbs from her garden.

Today, I stumbled on a picture of her that I didn’t remember,
sitting in her New Hampshire summer garden,
and another of her with my two sons,
smiling and laughing,
when they were much younger.

My Aunt Lorraine never gave up,
never gave in
and always kept her chin up,
and thoughts of her
remind me of the butterfly
and hope.

Katy Z. Allen is a lover of the more-than-human world. She founded and led an outdoor congregation and a Jewish climate organization. Her poetry has appeared in online publications and her poetic book, A Tree of Life: A Story in Word, Image, and Text was published by Strong Voices Publishing.

Crow Vision

1 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Ellen Roberts Young

Crows, who see both near and far, sky-wide view
or attention to the detail of seed and twig,

also can identify a human face—potential
predator or friend—and remember.

Crows confront more than a language barrier to teach
us, who make “birdbrain” an insult, their wisdom.

Living in fellowship, they can see clearly
that standing on two feet isn’t always enough.

Ellen Roberts Young’s third chapbook, Transported, came out in 2021 with Finishing Line Press. She has two full-length collections, Made and Remade (Wordtech, 2014) and Lost in the Greenwood (Atmosphere, 2020). Recent publications include Slant, Oyster River Pages, Rockvale Review, and Caesura. www.ellenrobertsyoung.com

Darling Point

1 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Nathanael O’Reilly

You took me down to McKell Park on a hot
Monday afternoon, shared your favourite
sanctuary, showed me the harbour views,
the bridge, the opera house, yachts, islands,
harbourside mansions. We sat on a wooden bench
in sunlight, ate a ploughman’s lunch, sipped Solo
while you described your life in the neighbourhood,
the countless hours spent reading, relaxing and meditating
in the park. We climbed down to the water’s edge
where you showed me the locals’ place for a secluded
refreshing dip, safe from sharks and tourists’ eyes.
I watched a ferry dock at the wharf, pausing on its way
from Double Bay to Circular Quay, while you stood
in a yellow sundress facing the water, one hand grasping
the fence while you talked to your brother on the phone.
You showed me the foundations of Canonbury House
while explaining the history of the park, walked
with me along the waterfront to its eastern limits
in the shadows of a mansion. We sat in the shade
on Gadigal country conversing about our past
lives, gazed out over the glistening water, stood
with arms around each other’s shoulders
squinting into the sun attempting to capture
a selfie, preserve a rare moment of union.

Nathanael O’Reilly is the author of fourteen poetry collections, including Terminals, Separation Blues: Poems 1994-2024, Dublin Wandering, Landmarks, Boulevard and Preparations for Departure. He is Associate Professor of Creative Writing at The University of Texas at Arlington.

Shutters

1 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Michael David Roberts

All but children and birds care
to live their lives with an end game.

We adults prefer to walk narrow paths
usually leading to destinations.

But something always happens—
a major distraction in which

the locks are changed or the knobs
don’t turn, even just a little bit, all

unexpectedly, nothing predictable,
as it should be. And you don’t even know

if you are locked in or out. Sometimes
it is hard to truly be adult about this.

Often in the mornings, when
the dew has soaked the grass

and all the houses have their windows
shuttered, I can hear birds, all in synch,

like a room full of children who
have just discovered a small surprise.

Michael David Roberts is a retired community college professor who currently lives in Tumwater, Washington and spends much of his time walking through nearby forests. He has been published in The Comstock Review, Chelsea, Slipstream, Versedaily.com, and others. His book, The Particulars of Being, was published in 2004.

The Gift Box

1 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Theresa Wyatt

My sister sends me
Charley Harper stickers
for my birthday

and a card
of his painting
Hawk Mountain.

At once the dominant
dark brown owl atop a pole,
staring straight at me, fixates
my gaze dead center – and I reason

the artist knows I’ll shift my glance
to track the blue sky and visually fly
east to west, then north & south
through this calm sanctuary

of whimsical hawks in profile – sporting
tuxedo style, well-dressed wing spans
in black, brown & white stripes
of impeccable spacing,

oh, these striking creatures –
immortalized now in soy-based ink
& magical realism – descendants of raptors,
millennia in the making.

Theresa Wyatt is the author of “The Beautiful Transport” (Moonstone Press) and “Hurled Into Gettysburg” (BlazeVox Books). Her writing follows the tug of history, nature, and art. Her poems have appeared in the Elm Leaves Journal, Norton’s New Micro, Spillway, and the Press 53 anthology, “What Dwells Between the Lines.”

The Poet’s Way

1 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Arvilla Fee

Some might say,
I’m in love
with this summer day.
That’s not the poet’s way.
The poet says—

I lie on my back,
indenting the meadow grass
with contented, contoured bones
as my eyes follow
freshly spun cotton-candy clouds

trailing across a turquoise sky,
as though clutched by unseen hands.
The sun blinks as they pass her face,
serene in her brief respite,
magnanimous in shaded grace.

There’s a low hum in the clover,
golden-brown bees
sticky with pollen and hope,
legs thick with yellow promises
of wheat, corn, and Black-Eyed Susans.

From a distance I hear
the ripple of water,
a river’s ceaseless mission
to join the salty sea
while coddling catfish and reeds.

And that’s why I lie here, the poet—
spine to earth,
a mouthful of clouds,
and blood that runs thick
with honey.

Arvilla Fee lives in Ohio, edits poetry for October Hill Magazine, and runs her own online magazine, Soul Poetry, Prose & Arts Magazine. She is a widely published author and has three published poetry books available on Amazon. For more info: https://www.soulpoetry7.com

Blue Sky

1 February 2026 / Editor

Fiction by Darlene Eliot

Unfurl the blanket and sit down. Lie back with your nose tipped to the clouds. Listen to Rainbirds sprinkle water on the grass. Let mist caress your shoulders and cheeks. Watch the bees flirt with open-faced roses. Run your hand over the damp grass. Get up and rush back to the house. Retrieve the Sumo orange you forgot when you ran outside, shoeless and expectant. Rest your head on the blanket. Let the sun warm your eyelashes. Pine and eucalyptus tickle your nose. Run your fingers over the orange rind. Cradle it the way you wish the universe would cradle you, if only for a moment.

Darlene Eliot’s work has appeared in Bellingham Review, Sundog Lit, Epiphany, and elsewhere. She lives in California.

The Blizzard

1 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Sheryl Slocum

hurls itself
at the storm door
bodies
of snowflakes
shatter

my shuddering porchlight
illuminates
a cacophony
of chipped sparks
glints of rainbow
that whirl back
into seething dark

I sense
a being that waits
just outside
the feeble light

too lovely
and terrible
for flesh
to bear

Sheryl Slocum, a retired English language teacher, lives in West Allis, Wisconsin. Her poetry appears in numerous literary publications, and her book, Leaving Lumberton, was published by Wipf and Stock in 2022. Sheryl is a member of the Hartford Avenue Poets and the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets.

Enjambment

1 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Clarence Allan Ebert

True Japanese Maple saplings
sprout from innocent seeds of love
wine-red leaves that whisper their purpose
to the wind each new day
when passers-by on a stroll
in sunshine or shade all the same
delight themselves to wander
through a neighborhood unlike yesterday’s.

My poems as well derive a lyric or two
from the whisper of yesterday’s Delight
or Sarcasm all the same on a stroll
gathering one brief then longer verse
undisturbed until voices blow clearer
my purpose in a wind against my brow,
each new thought chooses not to wander,
the stanza’s wing is no longer innocent
breaks off in a twist, unlike Shakespeare’s pentameter.

Clarence Allan Ebert first published a poem in 1977. He writes what falls on his head and revises and revises and hopes one day he might be as good at this craft. He resumed his chair in the parlor to write poetry again during COVID.

The Bluebird Word

The Poet and the Pebble-Raker

The First Monarch

Crow Vision

Darling Point

Shutters

The Gift Box

The Poet’s Way

Blue Sky

The Blizzard

Enjambment

Recent Posts

Archives

Categories