Category: Poetry (Page 12 of 33)

gray metal candle lantern on boat dock — Photo by Burak The Weekender on Pexels.com

A Good Night

22 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Paul Cummins

Already with thee, tender is the night.
John Keats, “Ode to a Nightingale”

Not fancy, not a dream—truly, Nancy kissed me goodnight,
Her lovely face lifting tenderly to meet mine,
That magical midnight, that innocent June,
Yes, she kissed me on the lips and I knew.

Then, with a strange new lightness to my gait,
I glided down her lawn to my moonlit Chevrolet,
Dizzying home in a popular-song sort of bliss—
Recalling a lifetime later the sweetness of that kiss.

So say to me whatever you may and know,
Say Paul, that day over half a century ago,
And I shall reply with enduring delight,
Beautiful Nancy kissed me that good night.

Paul Cummins is an educator, writer and social entrepreneur. From classroom teaching he went on to the founding and co-founding of six schools—including independent schools and a Public Charter School. From educational outreach programs to groundbreaking ventures, Cummins champions quality education, especially for at-risk, foster and incarcerated youth.

Reminder

22 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Travis Stephens

Scattered around town,
bolted to the backs of benches
or bus shelters or appearing
without apology in free magazines
are well composed photos of
a couple, plus the sans serif
“It’s time to talk about Alzheimer’s.”

Yes, you say, while we can.
Before we forget to, I offer,
teaming for another joke.
Or talk about it again, you smile,
Because we don’t remember
we already did.
We are walking to the taco truck
on Pico, the one with the dollar tacos.
Not big, but tasty. Plus cans of Coke
or Sprite or milky horchata.
You order for both of us, the men
at ease with your dark-eyed loveliness
& tolerant of my gray hair.

I’ve always looked older, fooled even you.
But I see that the back of my arm
now looks crepey, the spots on my
hands not freckles or ink. We sometimes
run the numbers to calculate what your
parents were doing at our age, living
in Palm Springs or travelling abroad.
Grandparents many times over & both
retired early—something I am reminded
of in my daily commute. Grandpa Tug,
the little one says, & points at the stencil
on my shirt. His small body
lodged between us on the couch as we read.
The daily arrival of joy, eyes fresh with wonder.
If we stumble over names, what to call
that thing, you know…thing, don’t worry.
We will talk about it later,
vow to remember, try not to forget.

Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who resides with his family in California. Recent credits include: Gyroscope Review, 2River, Sheila-Na-Gig, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Raven’s Perch, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, Gravitas and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Read his earlier poems in The Bluebird Word from April 2022 and September 2022.

Walk a Block

22 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Brian Christopher Giddens

The brace of wind
Belies the broad blue sky
And puffs of clouds above me.

I walk, briskly,
To clear my head.

But let’s be honest.

My head is as empty
As a vacant room,
Dull, devoid of detail.

I need an image.
An image that gives birth
To a first word, then a series of words,
Forming sentences, creating a theme,
A theme that leads to a poem.

Or perhaps a story.
An idea that sparks imagination,
A bursting star in a black sky,
Creating a world, a place,
Out of nothing.

A world of words that
Make my fingers fly ‘cross the keyboard
Stopping at times, mid-flight,
To wipe my eyes,
Or laugh out loud.

Lost, in a new land.

Brian Christopher Giddens writes fiction and poetry from his dining room table in Seattle. Brian’s writing has been featured or is pending in Raven’s Perch, Litro Magazine, Silver Rose, On the Run Fiction, Glass Gates Collective, Roi Faineant, Flash Fiction Magazine, Hyacinth Review, and Evening Street Review.

Wild

22 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Christine Andersen

A master of stealth and ambush.
It was surreal to see the big cat
running through the woods
in late morning,
his spectacular tail floating behind him
as he dashed beside the river—
deft, tawny, muscular,
his head seeming too small for his large body,
the gait measured and smooth
as if padding the air instead of the ground.

A mountain lion in Connecticut 30 feet from where I stood

with a face like I’d seen in pictures,
read about in National Geographic,
gazed at behind the bars in zoos.

My fear was quick to rise.

But he never looked my way.
He ran toward the Gurleyville Bridge,
toward a hollow of 19th century houses
and the historic gristmill.
He ran toward the town library,
the shopping center, the nearby mill town.

In my dreams,
he still runs—
attacking my dog one night,
the next, pacing outside my front door.

As the days pass,
he glides like a specter
near the barn,
up the road from my mailbox,
beyond the fence in the backyard.

He grows larger, stronger, sleeker.
Almost imaginary.

What it must be to instill awe.
To be respected
for power and prowess.
To run swiftly and pounce for your supper
down cliffs and rocky terrain.
To creep under the moon
through tall grass and deep woods
and sleep in caves or brush.
To nurse your own wounds,
travel wide for a mate,
swim in rushing rivers.

To become mythical
to an old woman
in a small New England town.

What it must be to be wild.

Christine Andersen is a retired dyslexia specialist who hikes daily through the Connecticut woods with her hounds. The changing New England seasons inspire many of her poems. Publications include Comstock, Octillo, and Awakenings Reviews, Glimpse, Dash, Glassworks and Evening Street Press. Winner of the American Writers Review 2023 Poetry Contest.

On Schedule

22 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Peter A. Witt

Wild geese announce their arrival with gusto
as the air feels chilled and the winter sky
fills with pumpkin and apple spice hues.
I wait each year for their arrival, honking
like grandpa used to do when he and grandma
pulled up at the house in their overstayed
Ford, with its slight wisp of tailpipe smoke
and a finish in bad need of polishing.
There was something dependable about
the grain eating geese and my grandparents,
both on a well-worn schedule, both happy to be with us,
but knowing when it was time to take their leave.

Peter A. Witt is a poet, family history writer, active birder and photographer. He took up writing poetry in 2015 from a 43 year university teaching and research career. He lives in Texas. His work has been published in several online and print publications.

Wednesday in the Neighborhood

22 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Bonnie Demerjian

Because my dearest friends are dead or distant
I eavesdrop on the sparrows’ whispered conversation in the blue-green grass.

Because the red-hot scream of chainsaws makes the forest weep,
I bury my face in the cool fountain of lobelias.

Because the flag is like a furious fist,
I melt into the marbled eyes of my old-lady dog.

Because lies multiply like hawkweed on the highway,
I harvest the truth of blueberries.

Because the longed-for heat of summer became instead a fiery furnace,
I rejoice in rain and the chance to pull on socks again.

Because the whirling hulla hoop of years slows and settles,
I putter among exuberant late-blooming lilies. They have no foretaste of grief.

Because these burdens must not win the day,
I beckon to the easeful gulls to lift our weight.

Bonnie Demerjian lives in Southeast Alaska and much of her writing is flavored by this place of forest and ocean. She has written four non-fiction books about the region and her poetry has been published in Blue Heron Review, Pure Slush, Tidal Echoes, and Alaska Women Speak, among others.

Late Aspen

22 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Burt Rashbaum

The aspen whispering,
color of late afternoon sun,
deepening in shadow
and the breeze’s
sibilance,
fading gold
washing bliss
upon us,
slowly coming
to sleep, to shed
their currency,
no urgency,
no memory
of spring.

Burt Rashbaum’s publications are Of the Carousel (The Poet’s Press, 2019), and Blue Pedals (Editura Pim, 2015, Bucharest). His poems have appeared in The Antonym, The Seventh Quarry, Storms of the Inland Sea (Shanti Arts Press, 2022), Boats Against the Current, The Ravens Perch, and Valiant Scribe.

autumn leaves placed on ground — Photo by Tim Samuel on Pexels.com

The Rains of November Have Come Again

13 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Lisa Ashley

nailing the metal roof. It falls steady on,
clicking like a bad wheel bearing.

The brilliant reds and golds
are getting battered, drenched
until they drown, mush up underfoot.

I want more of the sun’s colorcalling,
less of its slantburn in my squint here
where day gives way to black night by five.

I want to clutch that low down fire dazzle
before the clouds lower themselves over me,
a wet blanket disgruntled.

I want more sweet melancholy
autumn stretched over more days,
days that could bring back the siblings

that once surrounded me with noise,
sheared off like widowmakers
under winter’s snow-weight,

yet still moving about their lives—pinioned
in time, some strangers to themselves, one dead,
all lost to me.

I want more of our childhood games,
jumping in piles of leaves we raked,
undoing our work without care,

the lift of the leaps, the screams,
the soft landings we banked on without question.
I want to walk along small-town streets

lined with brilliant red maples,
leaves so blazed I can’t pick out singles.
Whole trees, torched and engulfed.

Lisa Ashley (she/her) Pushcart Prize nominee, descends from Armenian Genocide survivors and supported incarcerated youth for eight years as a chaplain. Her poems appear in Last Leaves Magazine, Amsterdam Quarterly, The Healing Muse, Blue Heron Review, Thimble, Snapdragon and others. She writes in her log home on Bainbridge Island, WA.

Circumlocution When Speaking of Water

13 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Sharon Whitehill

I don’t want to talk about water.
How it feels on the body, or in the mouth:
the salty surprise of a first ocean swim;
or bathwater swaddling your body in heat
on a wintry day; or such crystal clear springs,
filtered through sand, as Michigan’s Kitch-iti-Kipi.*
I don’t want to talk about iron-tinged water
tasting of blood, of snow creeping into the mittens
and chapping the wrists; or of the lake
that swallowed and swallowed and swallowed
that girl until the lifeguard dove in. Nor about water
as currents that roil the rapids or crest into waves;
or pond water swirling with creatures that shock school children.
Truly, I don’t want to talk about water.

Rather, I want you to notice what springs to your mind
about trees, clouds, or water: these are yours,
yours alone, to express. Which will free me
to sit here in silence, looking back on my personal trees,
looking out through my window at Florida clouds,
looking inward to contemplate water—
that power that governs my zodiac sign,
that mutable element pulled by the moon into tides,
that sustainer of life and relentless dissolver—
in my own way.

*Ojibwe for Big Cold Stream

Sharon Whitehill is a retired English professor from West Michigan now living in Port Charlotte, Florida. Apart from poems published in literary magazines, her publications include two scholarly biographies, two memoirs, two poetry chapbooks, and a collection of poems. Her chapbook, This Sad and Tender Time, is due Winter 2024.

Feeding Time

3 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Stephen J. Cribari

I hang my poems on the kitchen wall, each one
A balanced meal providing nourishment
From the artist’s pallet of essential food groups:
Danger, beauty, wisdom, insight, rage.

I say I hang these poems as my defense
Against obscurity but truth be told
I’m peckish. I’m just providing for myself.
I nibble here and there and snack and munch
On feelings and thoughts, on metaphor and rhyme,
The fiber and oats and hay and supplements
Of the controlled diet unique to this animal.

My poems: feed buckets hanging in the stall
Of a horse that would bolt given half a chance.

Stephen J Cribari has been writing poetry for over sixty years. In a parallel life he was a criminal defense attorney and law professor. He resides in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Still Life (2020) and Delayed en Route (2022) are published by Lothrop Street Press.

Category: Poetry (Page 12 of 33)

A Good Night

Reminder

Walk a Block

Wild

On Schedule

Wednesday in the Neighborhood

Late Aspen

The Rains of November Have Come Again

Circumlocution When Speaking of Water

Feeding Time

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