Author: Editor (Page 16 of 62)

Christmas Comes

21 December 2024 / Editor

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.

Ode to My Favorite Christmas Spices

19 December 2024 / Editor

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.

Snapshot of Christmas Eve

17 December 2024 / Editor

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.

photo of lighted christmas tree — Photo by Francis Seura on Pexels.com

A Tree for Betty

15 December 2024 / Editor

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.

Christmas To Go

14 December 2024 / Editor

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.

Tilt

13 December 2024 / Editor

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.

A How-To Guide on Decorating Our Christmas Tree

12 December 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Andrea Figueroa-Irizarry

Look for the gardening gloves in the garage. There will be three pairs, and one has a hole in the palm where needles can enter. Your stepdad will usually volunteer to take that one.
Wrap your arms around the middle of the tree once it’s halfway off the back of the truck. Lift with your legs.
Walk it across the yard and through the front door. Some needles will scrape off the doorframe. Your mom will already be ready with the broom.
Your sister will hold the stand steady while you and your stepdad right the tree and lower it in. There will be four screw bolts on the sides—turn them clockwise until the metal connects with the trunk. Don’t stand up right away, though, as you might need to readjust until your mom and sister deem the tree straight enough.
Decide between two tree skirts. (You’ll always choose the red one.) Connect the Velcro on either side of the stand.
In the blue tub marked X-Mas Lights, you’ll find string lights bundled around a dozen paper towel rolls. Plug one into the wall. Once you find one that works, hold each end on your index fingers and follow your mom as she weaves the green cables through the branches. Start from the top. Be ready to bring the next roll.
Put the fragile ornaments near the top and the wooden ones near the bottom. The dogs will start to sniff the needles as Mom sweeps them; their nose will bring them to the bottom row of branches, and their wagging tails will likely knock a few down.
Most of the ornaments came from your grandparents, your mom will say. Some of them, like the brassy cherubs playing on lyres or the crystalline doves in mid-flight, will be pointed out more than others. Care for these the most.
End with the ornaments in the red and white boxes. One is dated for your parents’ wedding anniversary. Another shows a soccer ball and two hanging cleats from middle school. Two more have a cap and gown for you and your sister. You will not mean to, but the ones for the dogs will go up last. You will always make sure to bundle them close together on the tree.
Decide between the tinsel ribbon or the checkerboard ribbon. (You’ll always end up with the tinsel one.) Follow your mom around the tree as she pinches and curls the ribbon around the ornaments.
Place a few more ornaments. Change a few others. Make sure your name is near your sister’s.
Position the dogs under the tree. Take videos and pictures. They will move, and most of the photos will be blurry, but when you look back on those moments, you will hear your family’s laughter blend with the holiday music in the background.

Andrea Figueroa-Irizarry was born in Puerto Rico and raised with a North Florida accent. She writes fiction and nonfiction about mental health, family, and relationships, and she is currently studying for her MFA at the University of South Florida. When not writing, she can be found cuddling her basset hound.

Snowblind

11 December 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Stephen J Cribari

Launched with a shove (Do you remember the day?)
One by one on sleds we sailed away
In a wild flying descent of the frozen hill
Then gathered by a snow mobile until
A few kids at a time we were hauled uphill

But you, when your turn came, you had to tease
Your sled beyond the familiar way. Unchecked
You sped head first into the sun and the trees
But too fast -! This time too fast. You wrecked
Among the trees where snow hid the rocks and leaves.

I watched you struggle upright in the snow,
Collect yourself, and determined turn to go
Back uphill hauling your sled behind.
And I watched you watch us watching you: you saw
The way we stared at you – your parents, friends –
Squinting towards you into the sun snow blind.

Then you turned as you’d never turned before,
Turned and looked about you with a raw
Look of expectation, blind to us
As if drawn toward something endless. Thus
You turned, the child the man, who comprehends
That now is when he begins, or when he ends.

Stephen J Cribari’s poetry and plays have been performed in the United States and abroad. He resides in Minneapolis, Minnesota. His poetry has been published recently in Patterson Literary Review and The Bluebird Word. Still Life (2020) and Delayed en Route (2022) are published by Lothrop Street Press.

December Portrait

10 December 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Jennifer Susan Smith

Love waned atop clouds in August’s last dance,
above my reach, beyond my grasp, concealed
from eyes that believed in a second chance.
Summer ebbed lyrics my love song revealed.

As faded sun welcomed harvest’s first chill,
romance retreated when forlorn leaves fell,
and fall-frosted pumpkins circled morning still,
no love story that autumn’s moon could tell.

All soulmates do not whisper, sing, or write
verses vowing eternity through rhyme,
poems of ocean-drenched kisses at midnight,
October sonnets bound in words and time.

On solstice of winter, his blue eyes free,
my hues on canvas, artist painted me.

Jennifer Susan Smith, a retired speech-language pathologist, resides in northwest Georgia. Her writing is published or forthcoming in The Bluebird Word, WELL READ Magazine, First Literary Review-East, and Letting Grief Speak. She is chairman of Alpha Delta Kappa Pages and Pearls Book Club, and holds membership in Chattanooga Writers’ Guild.

Forever

8 December 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Susan Zwingli

I remember we came this way,
flirty, azure sports car filled to the brim,
old vinyl records, thick-lined winter boots, grandmother’s quilt
Full of the start of it all,
the beginning of everything
How is it possible that 30 years later,
I return this way, alone?
Is it just my imagination,
or does your laughter still echo in the winter wind?
Are those your footprints in the snow?
The sighing cornfields stir, crackled leaves rustling
All the endings press against my heart
Just then, a flock of snow geese startle
In feathered white waves, they lift upward, upward,
carrying my whispered goodbye, leaving a strange peace
I turn to leave, those old boots crunching snowdrift,
feeling new beginnings in my wings

Susan Zwingli has been published in the 2023 One Page Poetry Anthology and in the May 2024 edition of The Bluebird Word. She has a B.A. in English and a M.A. in Spiritual Formation. She lives in Richmond, VA, and writes about love, loss, survival, healing, and spirituality.