An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Month: May 2023 (Page 2 of 2)

On Observing My Daughter At Breakfast

Poetry by Clarence Allan Ebert

My daughter wears a hand-me-down shirt
tie-dyed with the stars, three sizes too big.
          Her clothes arrange themselves
          in psychedelic constellations.
Her face is a yellow rose through the light
of honey dollops dropping in milk.
          She has never tripped and has no band-aids.
          She makes no fuss and sleeps with a night light
She is barely aware I love her so much,
oblivious to her own impermanence.


Clarence Allan Ebert celebrated his 70th birthday recently and pledged to maintain some Baby Boomer relevance in the world through the fine craft of poetry. Read his poem from The Bluebird Word‘s January 2023 issue.

What They Can’t Take Away

Poetry by Raymond Berthelot

The sailboats at anchor
          are pulled in one direction
                    by the tide between the keys

Remember that woman
          crazy or drunk, walking by the sanitarium
                    she too, refused assistance

What is it about moonlight and tropical flowers?
          for a while at least
                    peace seems possible

But back to the sea
          and the sun distantly setting, swollen
                    at a place we’ll never be


Raymond Berthelot is the Historic Sites District Manager for the Louisiana Office of State Parks. His work has appeared in publications such as Progenitor, Mantis, Peregrine Journal, Apricity Magazine, The Elevation Review, the Carolina Quarterly and DASH Literary Journal. A chapbook, The Middle Ages, is available with Finishing Line Press.

Wolves

Poetry by Alice Collinsworth

When I was very young, my parents assured me
there were no wolves near our home, in spite of fairy tales.
Wolves lived in forests, in mountains, they said.
We had neither trees nor hills.

When I grew older, we visited a zoo, where I saw wolves
kept in cages, pacing, squinting through the insufficient bars
between us. Calculating.

Then came rumors of wolves roaming the plains,
sightings at local farms, small dogs
suddenly missing. I could hear them wail.

Then they came to live with me, right here in town.
They’ve built a den on the porch and they come inside,
helping themselves to sandwiches and wine,
sharpening the knives.

I no longer have a cat.

I slink upstairs and listen to their laughter
and the clink of silverware.
Helpless, I howl in anticipation.


Alice Collinsworth retired recently from a career involving journalism, writing, and media relations. Her poems have been published in several online journals, and she was twice selected as one of Oklahoma’s Woody Guthrie Poets. Her writing has won awards in numerous local and regional contests. She lives near Oklahoma City.

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