Category: Poetry (Page 1 of 41)

Winter

Poetry by Jeffrey Sommer

As trees go bare
As days grow dark
I look toward winter
When the snow will start

Soon the grass stops growing
Roses bow their heads
Stray cats are sleeping
In the flower beds

Then the snow clouds form
The sun goes to sleep
Farmers cover their crops
And shelter their sheep

When at last the snow comes
I rummage through the shed
Where I keep the shovel
And my rusty old sled

Before the sun breaks though
Until the snow begins to melt
I go sledding down the hill
To remember how it felt


Jeffrey Sommer enjoys writing poetry on social issues as well as relationships between people and the environment.

December’s Eve

Poetry by Kersten Christianson

I dream of dark crow
night, stars or snowflakes shimmer
their wan-lit path down,

down, down to wave-tossed
sea. Three weeks yet ‘til Solstice
when we turn a left

on a pitted road,
put ear to the ground, listen
for returning light’s

arrival. My skull
rattles from so much darkness,
echoes a tuneless

song. Split the wood, add
the tinder, build the bonfire
to welcome the sun.


Kersten Christianson derives inspiration from wild, wanderings, and road trips. Her newest poetry collection, The Ordering of Stars, will publish with Sheila-Na-Gig in 2025. Kersten lives in Sitka, Alaska. She eyeballs tides, shops Old Harbor Books, and hoards smooth ink pens.

Antipodes

Poetry by Laura Hannett

for Fiona

She has the fanciful idea
that the flowers that have vanished
for the winter have migrated,
not unlike the birds,
and are spending these cold days
in the antipodes.

They have packed their buds and leaves
and gone to balmy climes
to turn their faces to the sun
and reminisce about their times
in other gardens, far away—
to spread their leaves and petals
in a different summer’s day.


A native of Central New York, Laura Hannett relishes the distinct seasons in this beautiful part of the world. Other work has appeared in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Neologism Poetry Journal, Amethyst Review, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Mania Magazine and Verse-Virtual.

Two Little Jews on Christmas Morning 1971, with

Poetry by Lana Hechtman Ayers

breath of ginger, cardamom, peppermint,
a special holiday blend of ice cream we spoon up
for breakfast, watching Saturday morning cartoons
and movies where fire-mouthed Godzilla tramples Tokyo,
then foils three-headed winged Ghidorah, his fiercest
opponent, and being Jewish, I don’t know what Christmas
means, or the word grace, or which monsters are real.
For years, brother, you instruct me in the fantastical
ways of Star Trek and Battlestar Galactica,
Buck Rogers and Doctor Who, and it’s all such fun,
good guys winning in the end, but when you introduce me
to reruns of Outer Limits and The Twilight Zone we grow
up in a world where the space shuttle explodes before our eyes
and the twin towers go up in flames with no aliens to blame—
only human hubris and brutality. This week, I rode in a hot air
balloon and witnessed the curvature of earth, the edge of all we are,
and nearly tumbled out over the realization of how beautiful
life could be if only we would cease battling one other, brother.

[Author Note: This poem begins with a line from Patricia Fargnoli’s “Winter Sky Over Cheshire County, New Hampshire” and is dedicated to my brother Alan.]


Lana Hechtman Ayers shepherded over 150 poetry collections into print in her role as managing editor for three small presses. She lives in Oregon on the unceded lands of the Yaqo’n people, where on clear, quiet nights she can hear the Pacific ocean whispering to the moon.

What we give at Christmas

Poetry by Chantal Travers

Without fail, every Christmas Eve
her cracked winter fingers
would peel chestnuts for the stuffing
No matter how much soaking before the roasting
the hard rind of this festive victim would splinter into tiny sharp slivers
making their way inside thinning nailbeds
turning from pink to angry crimson
Without any attachment to this seasonal side
he would tell her it wasn’t worth it
But she refused his suggestion to forget about them
their hearthy scent, this fiery holiday flavour
Salted buttery slugs steeped in her body since childhood
and in mine


Chantal Travers, originally from London, has lived in Hong Kong, Singapore, Beijing, and currently Sydney. She is studying a Master of Arts in Writing and Literature at Deakin University, and she was recently published in Visible Ink. Chantal enjoys Qi Gong, Cacao and travelling but misses English Christmas.

Orange at Christmas

Poetry by Cecil Morris

The dwarf mandarin in the back yard is
so loaded with fruit it is more orange
than green, more fruit than tree, more and more,
an abundance beyond all eating
of our reduced family, children gone
to their own lives. We eat 8 or more
a day. We fill bags for neighbors right
and left and across the street, and still
fruit remains, grows soft, falls to the ground,
and rots, wasted. This lone tree presents
a bounty too great and makes me think of
“My Cup Runneth Over” and Ed Ames,
his rich baritone, and Psalm 23,
the goodness and mercy and plenty
and not the evil or shadow of death,
and my parents who told me oranges
were a luxury when they were young,
a treat, a Christmas gift and, some years,
the only gift. My parents, children
of the Great Depression, filled our lives
with gifts. On Christmas mornings before
we could play with anything, we had
to arrange all our gifts on our beds,
a display of how far they had come,
a proof of how they spoiled my sister
and me. When I see my mandarin tree,
its wealth of miniature oranges,
I see that embarrassment of riches.


Cecil Morris is a retired high school English teacher, sometime photographer, and casual walker. His first collection of poems, At Work in the Garden of Possibilities, came out from Main Street Rag in 2025. He has poems in The 2River View, Common Ground Review, Rust + Moth, Talking River Review, and elsewhere. He and his wife, mother of their children, divide their year between the cool Oregon coast and the hot Central Valley of California.

The Weight of Christmas Past

Poetry by Mitch Simmons

I remember the winters when the lights were few,
When Mama stretched a dollar till the silver shone through.
My sister and I would laugh by the tree so small,
Paper stars and dreams were our gifts, that was all.

We had no feast, no glittering store-bought cheer,
But love filled the cracks of each passing year.
Mama’s hands were weary, yet her smile never waned,
And my sister’s laughter was the song that remained.

Now the table is full, and the candles gleam bright,
But silence has settled where joy took flight.
The house is warm, the cupboards abound,
Yet echoes of yesteryear are the sweetest sound.

I’d trade all the gold, all the gifts, all the means,
For one more Christmas where love filled the seams.
For Mama’s soft humming, her voice pure and kind,
And my sister’s embrace, forever entwined.

The holidays come now with comfort and pain,
A blessing of plenty, a shadow of rain.
I stand in the glow of all I have earned,
But ache for the hearts that will not return.

Still, I light a candle for each of their names,
For the lessons they taught me through struggle and flame.
Love was our treasure when times were lean,
And even in loss, their spirits are seen.

Through every twinkle, each carol and prayer,
I feel them beside me, they’re still there.


Mitch Simmons is a writer who lives in Virginia.

Winter Solstice Pantoum

Poetry by Ruth Zwald

Sometimes it is like an ache, this longing
for a burst of new life. To ease my soul
and find respite from the wonderings,
I breathe quietly.

For a burst of new life to ease my soul
stained and strained and oh-so-weary,
I breathe quietly
when hope flickers like a candle uncertain.

Stained and strained and oh-so-weary,
the aroma of good coffee is often enough
when hope flickers like a candle uncertain
in the windowsill of winter.

The aroma of good coffee is often enough
when shared with a friend. Laughter dances
in the windowsill of winter.
My age is visible in the lines around my eyes.

When shared with a friend, laughter dances
in the face of my fears.
My age is visible in the lines around my eyes
to tell the stories of all I hold dear.

In the face of my fears
sometimes it is like an ache – this longing
to tell the stories of all I hold dear
and find respite from the wonderings.


On her farm in West Michigan, Ruth Zwald lives close to the earth through her lifestyle and spiritual practices. Upon retirement, she started to unearth words. Winner of the Michigan Writers Cooperative Press in 2024 for her chapbook, Bones And Breath, and recently published in Farmer-ish Journal and The Guided Weathervane.

Green, Green Christmas

Poetry by Brian C. Billings

I want a green, green Christmas
without a flake of snow.
I want a green, green Christmas.
’Tis better—don’t you know?—
to have a verdant reminder
of what this time’s about.
When greenery’s the scenery,
renewal’s bound to sprout.

I want a green, green Christmas
with wreaths in every shop.
I want a green, green Christmas
with pines at every stop.
Give me some rolls of holly
to thread each balustrade
and rows and rows of mistletoe
to see some tinsel made.

You can’t go wrong with sprigs of yew
festooned upon the walk,
and laurel framing windowpanes
will make your neighbors talk.
The clue to Christmas elegance
is emeraldine intelligence.

I want a green, green Christmas
with ivy in the eaves.
I want a green, green Christmas
like nobody believes.
I need a charge in spirit
that comes from leafy tints.
Where the green is growing,
you’ll find Christmas sentiments.
Where the green is growing,
you’ll find Christmas most intense!


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, The Bluebird Word, Confrontation, Evening Street Review, Glacial Hills Review, and Poems and Plays. Publishers for his scripts include Eldridge Publishing and Heuer Publishing.

Santa Claus Let the Dogs Out

Poetry by Paige Milatz

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and that much is true,
But there were creatures stirring, so we need a re-do:

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the town
Every canine was restless and would not settle down;
Border collies were whining, and beagles made haste—
Each breed with the zoomies couldn’t stay in one place.
The poodles they shivered, cocker spaniels astir,
And chihuahuas shook nervously beneath their short fur;
Even the coyote on this cold winter’s night
Let out a “yip yip!” at the moon shining bright.
The dogs were all anxious, deservedly so—
A big job loomed before them as they paced to and fro
For they knew the truth about chimneys and sleighs,
But have kept it a secret to this very day:
A big man like Santa, who slips down the flue?
How could you believe that? Impossible! Untrue!
‘Tis man’s best friend who brings Christmas each year,
Now I’ll tell you their story if you’ll lend me your ear.

He has elves in the North and wolves for his sled,
But St. Nick needs more help while you’re upstairs in bed.
He’d be stuck on the front porch with all the doors locked
And no way inside—couldn’t possibly knock!
No, he can’t wake a soul nor shimmy down pipes,
So he relies on your fur babies, all sizes and types!
For dogs are quite clever, you should know that by now,
And while you dream of Christmas they’ve figured out how
To let Santa in, through their own doggy doors—
They slide him the keys they retrieved from the drawers!
With a jingle and jangle, St. Nick turns the knob,
Wipes his boots on the mat and then sets to his job.
First he praises each dog: “Good girl! And good boy!”
Then he hands them a treat and a new, rugged toy.
The pouch on his waist? Packed with chicken and liver!
St. Nicholas is the most thoughtful gift-giver!

While he lays many presents beneath many trees,
The dogs are allowed to explore as they please;
They go out to sniff the sled parked the lawn
And visit the wolves who are hitched up ‘til dawn.
There’s six wolves in all, and they’re all fur and muscle
But they know how to temper their power to tussle!
The wheel wolves at back are Lupus and Thunder,
Then the pair in the middle are Sprinter and Hunter,
And to round out the team, tasked to guide Santa’s way
Are Lobo and Leader at the front of the sleigh!
When Santa is through laying trinkets with care,
His whistle rings out through the brisk, snowy air:
“Come in pups and rest, your job here is done,”
And the dogs settle down after having their fun.
Mr. Claus makes his exit, with the gifts left behind,
Each dog feeling grateful for treatment so kind.
“Ow-ooo!” Santa howls to his trusty wolf pack,
And the wolves bound away with a short holler back.

Now you may be wondering, What if no dog’s around?
It’s a shame you’ve forgotten about all the stray hounds!
Their work is important, sniffing keys for the locks
That are stuck under doormats or hidden in rocks.
To these furry helpers he gives the gentlest care
Since they don’t have a family; it just isn’t fair!
So he scoops them all up for a ride in his sled,
He pets them and thanks them with a kiss on the head,
And then his eyes twinkle, and with a magical nod
The strays change into puppies, so small and so soft!
He gives them a bed next to warm fireplaces
In homes needing love—a dog to lick faces.
A fresh start for the pups, no more paws in the cold—
The kindness of Santa Claus never grows old.

And at last when all dogs are snug and content
Santa sighs to himself after a long night well spent:
“Stay safe, my dear friends, and I’ll see you next year!
Thank you ever so much for helping spread Christmas cheer!”
As the wolves pull away and the dogs fall asleep,
They dream jolly dreams of their Christmas secret to keep.


Paige Milatz lives and writes in the Little Spokane River Valley. She is a graduate of Central Washington University’s Master of Arts in Professional and Creative Writing program. You can find more of her work on her Substack publication, Treat Her Right, at https://treatherright.substack.com/.

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