An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Month: April 2024

A Necessary Pause In Transmission

Poetry by Peter Devonald

Solace has a song for you, waiting, waiting, amongst the torrent.
If you don’t choose a day to relax your body will choose one for you.

Noise corrupts and absolute noise corrupts absolutely,
loud whirr of technology never stops, incessantly, ceaseless,

Instead sit in nature, listen, listen, to bird song and insects
reaffirm connections beautiful and obscure.

Take time to read, enjoy and endure your deeper self.
Be someone else, briefly, brilliant and captivating, memory.

Reconnect with friends, remember, remember, the times before
it all changed with vibrant neon, obsequious pleasures, glinting.

Recall the times before you weren’t connected to the miracles,
when simple pleasures were miracles enough to live exquisite.

You know what you really need, you always did, glimpsed
through endless noise and rain, you saw yourself, standing there.

The noise can wait a week without you, trust me, believe in me,
believe in silence, the seas, sagacious shift to embrace serenity.


Peter Devonald is winner of two Heart Of Heatons Awards, Waltham Forest Poetry and joint winner of FofHCS Poetry Award 2023. He has been published extensively and has two Best Of Net nominations. Poet in residence at HAUS-A-REST. Visit www.scriptfirst.com or https://www.facebook.com/pdevonald.

Blue Jay

Nonfiction by Liz deBeer

A blue jay landed in a planter by my window with something in its mouth. Not wanting to frighten it away, I froze, watching the indigo bird dancing around in a circle —tap, tap, tappity, tap —with what? A peanut?

Why the hell is a blue jay flying around with an unshelled peanut? Google knew: Apparently blue jays adore peanuts. Whole peanuts. In the shell, which they peck open, often gluttonously.

But this blue jay who landed in a planter by my window couldn’t crack the peanut shell. His head shook up and down, trying to puncture the peanut against the plastic planter’s edge: Tap, tap, tappity, tap again and again.

Finally, he turned to face me, peanut still intact. Looked me in the eye and spat out the nut before flying off.

I got up to inspect the planter by my window where the blue jay landed. Nestled among the roots of an almost dead pink petunia lay an unbroken cork-colored peanut hull.

Why the hell did the blue jay leave the nut, supposedly its favored treat? Was it merely a lazy blue jay who couldn’t penetrate the shell of a stubborn peanut?

Or was this a sign, this bird who landed in the planter by my window? A symbol of a guardian angel or my ancestors’ spirit with a message about longevity, fertility, or wealth?


Liz deBeer, an English teacher who resides in New Jersey, divides her time among many passions, including reading, beach walking, volunteering, and experimenting with different writing genres. Although Liz has published primarily in newspapers and teaching journals, she is working on writing YA novels and flash. Liz’s website is www.lizdebeerwriter.com.

The Block

Poetry by Richard Higgins

The keyboard avoids my fingers’ touch
          as if words I need are in its clutch.

My pen sits unused without a care
          and lined notebook pages blankly stare.

Neurons fire on an unrelated task
          ignoring the questions that I ask.

I have a great story here to tell
          but too many memories to quell.


Richard Higgins retired from the nuclear operations business after 50 years and became a writer. He lives in the Detroit Metro area. This is his first published poem.

This April

Poetry by Michael Carrino

Time can be a gentle quiz a dissonant tin drum
          Songbirds are silent

It continues to rain    Every village road is now
          a branch of the river

The past is a vintage red wine
          in some dark cellar

The future might only be
          black grapes

wasting on a vine as another
          ash-stained cloud

creates an illusion    Beyond
          the slate gray lake

every mountain must be burning


Michael Carrino was co-founder and poetry editor of SUNY Plattsburgh’s literary journal, Saranac Review. He has had nine books of poetry published, most recently, In No Hurry (Kelsay Books, 2021) and Natural Light (Kelsay Books, 2023), as well as individual poems in numerous journals and reviews.

Everything You’ve Ever Loved

Poetry by Robin Greene

Forty years have passed, and this morning you find yourself
alone at sunrise—red and orange overtaking the forested
mountain in front of you, as you sit there, as early light
opens the day, turning it into something mutable.

Most of your life is behind you, but sitting there
on that old wicker chair, you hear a mourning dove’s
coo from a distant tree as a murder of black crows
sweeps the sky. Only then, you remember the midwife

lifting your firstborn from your body—his initial cry marking
the next two decades of your life—a life now almost over.
Then, you’re at a hospital, hearing your mother’s labored
breathing as she lies there, covered in white blankets,

mouth open, eyes closed, and you encourage her release.
Forty years dissolve into weightless memory on this chair,
as you realize that everything you’ve ever loved will leave you,
and that the cooing of the mourning dove is not so premature.


Robin Greene is a former English professor and current part-time yoga and writing instructor, living in NC. She’s published five books: Real Birth: Women Share Their Stories (nonfiction Kindle bestseller); A Shelf Life of Fire (novel); Lateral Drift (poetry); Memories of Light (poetry); and Augustus: Narrative of a Slave Woman (novel).

Full Circle

Nonfiction by Sheila Rittenberg

Nose

The first time I really saw it, I was ten or younger, looking into a hand mirror while standing in profile in front of a bigger mirror. My nose. It was hookish. Not just a kink. All of it. Short but bent. Like someone started something and forgot to finish.

I stared and stared. Until then, I’d believed everyone who’d said I was so cute, such a lovable face. And that was what I’d always seen in the mirror. Their praise lifted me in the mornings, tucked me into bed at night.

My sister had a straight, slightly turned-up nose. Not a ski jump. It was trim and neat, like a sweet goodbye or the perfect toast at a party. Flawless. My parents told me I had to be more like her, keep it up, and while you’re at it, be even better! I tried. I was at the mirror every night, searching. Would my nose change? Would it grow as I grew? I daydreamed myself into my sister. Compared my every move in sister terms – boys, friends, athletics. All beyond me. She was older. Teenage older. Cheerleader. Homecoming Queen. Agile figure skater and skier. Girlfriend of redhaired Bad Boy, Johnny F.

I faced up to the mirror always avoiding my profile. But that side silhouette was one of those things you can’t un-see. In frontal view, I was a little Irish girl with big eyes. Sideways, I was Barbra Streisand but without the allure, or the voice.

Mouth

When I was twelve and getting braces, the orthodontist told me my top lip would always look something like an upside down “U.” In the space from the base of the nostrils to the top lip there is a groove, he pointed out, and mine was too short. So my lip, whether I wanted it or not, lifted up above my teeth. My braced teeth.

“Start doing these exercises now,” the orthodontist warned as he showed me how to stretch my top lip down over my teeth, “or you’ll never be able to close your mouth.”

I looked up at him – mouth wide, elastic bands about to snap – and nodded. I didn’t care if my mouth was forever open. My bared teeth would be straight ones. No more taunts of Moose or Hey, Bugs Bunny as I walked the school halls. No more ducking behind opened locker doors.

The nose, the lip, and oh yes, the inclination to pudginess, were a lot to concentrate on. Every day. Between classes. During classes. After school. I walked the hallways, eyes racing from skinny girls to golden girls to those popular girls surrounded by friends and fans. Then home to my sister and the prom date she’d snagged, or the new cheerleading routine, or the simple certainty of her beauty. Her braces were long gone. One look at her and I’d well up. There had to be a reason I was inadequate. I just didn’t know what it was.

Brain

In university, I guzzled from the intellect of others. I, the girl from the suburbs, asked a million questions of new friends with cigarettes dangling from brooding faces. What’s behind Power to the People? Was Marx a good guy? What exactly is wrong with capitalism? We analyzed. We studied. Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, every lyric, joints passing freely, the room a sweet musty void. I joined the student occupation to protest faculty racism. Blankets and sleeping bags lay side by side, students strummed guitars, organizers hammered talking points through bullhorns. The world was at stake.

I’d show up at my sister’s in a bright gauzy blouse, torn jeans, beads and bangles, paisley bandana folded across my forehead. She and her blond bob and three kids, dog and harried husband, would’ve fit right into The Brady Bunch. I’d talk about the outrage of government. She was consumed with menus for the week.

The ’60s and You Say You Want A Revolution were calling. And I answered. I tackled slum landlords, drug use in high schools, inferior pay for corporate women. My parents thought I was radical. I liked that.

Heart

Babies. My babes. Now staring into infant eyes made me high. By my late thirties, pediatrician visits and weight gains, gurgles and chortles were all it took to be happy. I made baby food from scratch and talked nonstop to my little ones, explaining the world, even when all they could say was “Mama.” I played peek-a-boo and made goofy faces. I floated. Motherhood was a prize. First Prize. My sister made faces, strained ones, she too young with too much to care for.

I didn’t stare at myself in the mirror these days but I was okay with looking. I enjoyed the curls around my forehead, my skin, silkier than I’d known. I liked my blue-eyed moon gaze. A smile – no overbite – filled my face. All together my look was … well, evidently not so bad. The badass kid checking out groceries looked at me with desire. Same with the wild-bearded gas station guy, and the twenty-something cop who came to bash in my car window when I locked my son inside along with the keys. Maybe they’d been right long ago. Maybe I was cute, so lovable.

My face had made friends with my nose. I no longer tried to be just like my sister, or better. She was still older. I tried not to remind her.


Sheila Rittenberg retired in 2019 and became a member of the Pinewood Table, a critique workshop facilitated by mentors. She became a two-year Fellow at Atheneum, a masters level writing program at The Attic Institute in Portland, OR. Sheila writes short stories and “flash” creative nonfiction.

The Nest

Poetry by Barbara Santucci

For years I’ve watched the towhee build a nest
in the oak tree outside my kitchen window.
She weaves and weaves and never rests
until her home is tightly bound.
Where soon her eggs will lie in a perfection
only this master weaver can create.
Interwoven twigs rest in the branches
ready to shelter the wings of a newborn generation.
In winter, I cup the nest in my hands
and wonder how she knew the composition
that would fashion a home at her breast.

Does this mother know that her weaving
will be the wellspring for her young leaving?


Barbara Santucci has a Masters in Writing for Children from Vermont University and has published three picture books with the W. B. Eerdmans Books for Young Readers. She also has several poems in poetry journals.

Churning

Poetry by Robbie Hess

The sun will rise again tomorrow,
but I’m thinking of my dad tonight
churning the butter of my sorrow.

He beamed a peppery amber glow,
and knew words that made broken hearts all right:
The sun will rise again tomorrow.

He taught me about the bayou willow,
and that gravy rests on the onion’s might,
churning the butter of my sorrow.

Now he is gone, and I am hollow
as an egg without a yolk or white.
The sun will rise again tomorrow.

I sprinkle his ashes in shallow
swamp water and begin to write,
churning the butter of my sorrow.

I wish we’d had more time to borrow.
My heart weeps over this forlorn fight.
The sun will rise again tomorrow,
churning the butter of my sorrow.


Robbie Hess is a Southern poet, and a recent graduate of The University of Alabama.

Her September Familiar

Poetry by Sharon Whitehill

Now is the season when hummingbirds vanish,
daylight dwindles, and the leaves fall,

a strange season of endings and losses,
colors fading to gray with a blackness behind.

A particular sorrow for her, this heartache,
even if shared by many, akin to the sky grief we feel

at losing the stars, even the brightest invisible now
everywhere but the most rural night skies.

Though more personal, too: a growing awareness
of how fragile her loved ones, family and friends,

this lingering grief for those absent, now or forever,
her people. As precious and ever-present as the invisible stars,

essential to her as signal fires in a storm,
yet everything seems, everything is, so precarious.

Each year it comes, this melancholy, her familiar,
not with the surprise of a window thrown suddenly open

to weather but as her September companion.
Until one day, down the road, it departs to the rattling call

of sandhill cranes overhead, a flurry of cedar waxwings,
and a pair of fawns still dressed in their white polka dots.


Sharon Whitehill is a retired English professor now living in Port Charlotte, Florida. In addition to poems published in various literary magazines, her publications include two scholarly biographies, two memoirs, two poetry chapbooks, and a full collection of poems. Her chapbook, THIS SAD AND TENDER TIME, is due winter 2024.

Lucky Girl

Nonfiction by Carol E. Anderson

It’s 1950. I’m three years old, standing in our backyard next to a patch of wildflowers as tall as I am. My tiny right fist peaks out from the sleeve of my oversized double-breasted coat with crisscrossing lapels. Chubby knees extend into sturdy legs that lead to small feet housed in white anklet socks and polished white tennis shoes. Whisps of blonde hair flow back in the wind. My bangs, short and choppy, look like I took the shears to them myself. Atop my head is a tiny woolen cap.

My face is turned up. Eyes squint as I smile at my mom with the camera—my gleeful expression punctuated by a slight suggestion of a dimple in my left cheek. I’m anticipating something wonderful. The zoo? The circus? A birthday party?

I’m unaware that by the end of my fifth year, my father will suffer a visual disability wrought by incompetent doctors. He will never work again. My mother, a secretary, will numb her fingers typing away in a tiny cubicle to support our family, working for a boss half as smart as she. I will wish her to be like all the other moms and stay at home, fix me snacks after school, and teach me how to ride a bike. My brother will withdraw into a world of thoughts and books. We will never be friends.

Standing on the lawn in my miniature peacoat, I don’t realize that by the time I’m fifteen, I’ll be rejected by the Baptist church for loving a woman. I’ll begin to understand the word hypocrite. I’ll believe my parents’ teachings of love, kindness, generosity, and fairness are principles everyone strives to live by—tenets issued by God. I won’t know these tenets have exclusionary clauses invisible to innocent eyes, that I will witness Christian fundamentalism grow in twisted power and gird its flocks to act with naked cruelty on the belief that difference is a sin.

I don’t realize that at the age of twenty-one, I’ll be outed by my college classmates, introducing terror into my daily life. I’ll be astonished that all my efforts to guard this secret are as useless as a sheet of transparent tissue paper.

I am unaware that at age twenty-six, in my attempt to be straight, my boyfriend will dump me on our six-week road trip to be with a woman he met at his brother’s wedding the week before—and he will not repay the $800 he owes me.

Looking up at the camera without knowledge of the need for hope, I don’t know that my father will die one month before my twenty-eighth birthday, and that I’ll survive—that I will remain wrapped in the shimmering cords of his love even decades after he’s gone.

I am unaware that at age thirty-two I’ll start my own business as an organizational consultant and will coach leaders to inspire people rather than control them—that this work will help me understand the complexity of human beings, and their scars.

I don’t know that on my fiftieth birthday I’ll start a non-profit called Rebellious Dreamers to lift up women to reclaim their dreams—that it will last twenty-five years and eventually fund microloans for women in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

I don’t realize that when I turn fifty-four, I’ll meet my great love, each of us destined for the other, that knowing her will smooth the jagged edges of terror and loss, that we will build a home on nine acres of land surrounded by trees and be rich in our chosen family of friends.

Standing with my beloved, in our own garden now, I’m anticipating something wonderful.


Carol E. Anderson is a life coach whose passions are travel and photography. She holds a doctorate in spiritual studies, and an MFA in creative nonfiction. She is the author of You Can’t Buy Love Like That: Growing Up Gay in the Sixties. Carol lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

© 2024 The Bluebird Word

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑