Category: Poetry (Page 15 of 33)

After the Blizzard

20 June 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Wally Swist

The fox prints puncturing the surface
of the snow after the blizzard
score its whiteness—
the same four notes pressing themselves
over and over again, in a meandering line
across a page, that is more silence
than music, but is still a melody that
can barely be heard,
shadows filling the tracks beneath
the pine branches shifting in the wind.

But it is the sound of the bells
that not so much startles me
as it offers me solace, ringing
from a distance, this soft chiming of sleigh
bells, until as it gets closer, it is more
of a whistle, the notes becoming distinct—
making me aware of its velocity, now
in flight, the tinkling call of a white-throated
sparrow, streaking close to my ear, melding
its voice with the streaming winter sunlight.

Wally Swist’s books include Huang Po and the Dimensions of Love (Southern Illinois University Press, 2012), selected by Yusef Komunyakaa for the 2011 Crab Orchard Open Poetry Competition, and A Bird Who Seems to Know Me: Poems Regarding Birds and Nature, winner of the 2018 Ex Ophidia Poetry Prize.

The Dawn Chorus

15 June 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Ruth Holzer

House sparrows, dull smudges of brown and gray,
begin to chirp. Though they sound like dripping faucets
they’re welcome as the messengers of light,

for another night has passed and we’re still here;
for the day approaches when we won’t be roused,
but sleep on, unaware of them and every other thing.

Ruth Holzer is the author of eight chapbooks, most recently Home and Away (dancing girl press) and Living in Laconia (Gyroscope Press). Her poems have appeared in journals including Southern Poetry Review, Blue Unicorn, Slant, Poet Lore and Freshwater. She has received several Pushcart Prize nominations.

a close up of herbs in planter box — Photo by Ashley Levinson on Unsplash

John Greenleaf Whittier to the Root-Bound Marjoram

10 June 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Deborah Doolittle

Little bush, gone are the leaves we
lunched on. Gone, too, your green shrubby
symmetry. So like a tree you
stood in the windowsill to view
your cousins—fennel, basil, dill—
thrive then succumb to winter’s chill.
You alone saw the snow blanket
everything in white. Now to get
to this season of brittle twigs
that snap, not bend, devoid of sprigs
that we can eat. I pull your bottom
out, the dirt and roots all clotted
together in the shape of your
container, and I conjecture
on how we should all do so well
with our allotted spot to dwell.

Deborah H. Doolittle, born in Hartford, Connecticut, now calls North Carolina home. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of Floribunda and three chapbooks. Some poems have recently appeared in Cloudbank, Comstock Review, Kakalak, and Iconoclast. She shares a home with her husband, four housecats, and a backyard of birds.

close up photo of birds — Photo by Hal Moran on Pexels.com

Wizardry

5 June 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Susan Shea

While I was choosing a
casket for my father a bluebird
tapped on our front living room window
flew to the back window
kept tapping until my husband
stood up to join him
he flew to a nearby branch
making his tu-a-wee sound
sitting right next to a female

my husband immediately believed

it was my father making him know
that he was now with my mother again
tu-a-wee two are we

I mentioned this story to my niece

two days later I gave the eulogy
mentioned that my daughter
repeatedly noticed me singing “we’re
off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard
of Oz” while driving to visit my father

right after the eulogy my niece presented me
with a framed photo of two bluebirds on a branch
with the quote “somewhere over the rainbow
bluebirds sing…the wizard of Oz”
we all made the connection at that moment

tu-a-wee
tu-a-wee
tu-a-wee

you are here
out from behind the curtain
here from beyond the veil

Susan Shea is retired school psychologist who has been a poet since third grade. She has been published under her previous married name, Susan Townsend in Plainsongs, Pudding, Poetry Forum Newsletter, Oxalis, The Orange Review, and the Accordion Flyer. Poetry is what keeps her pilot light on.

colorful male specie of eastern bluebird starting flight — Photo by Skyler Ewing on Pexels.com

The Bird’s View

1 June 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Tarah Friend Cantore

I perch in my favorite maple tree outside of her home
Grateful to reach my most northern destination from the South.

I peer in through the window.
She is where I left her late autumn.
Writing at her desk
still
I am thankful that hasn’t changed.

What has?
She is wearing glasses. I don’t recall her having them before.
Is her hair more gray or is it just my imagination?
More wrinkles too

Her shoulders are elevated.
Does she recognize the stress within her body?
Should I let her know?
I leave my branch and fly to another nearby
hoping to get her attention.

I do.
She turns to look at me
saying “Hey, Blue! Welcome back!”
She looks back at her journal,
rubs her neck and sensing the tension
instinctively rolls her shoulders
Her chest rises and falls
She’s not coughing anymore. Wonderful.
Three cleansing deep breaths
and another
She likes even numbers.

At the other end of the room
I see more bright paintings
She’s been busy.
One in progress on the easel
Teal fence, blue sky
the Outline of a lighthouse?
Has she traveled recently
or is this a memory from her favorite place
and summer vacations in Maine?

The sun reflects off of her wedding rings.
Thank whatever higher power for that.
She has worked hard on her marriage.
Sparkle

She looks up from the page
out at me again
she wills me to stay
and ask my friends to join
Sunshine and warmth

She looks down
resuming writing
What emotion is she spilling onto the page?
Fiction or nonfiction?
A poem?

Her attention is drawn to the computer screen
She writes a few more lines
concluding with pen down

She looks at her reflection
adjusting her position.
Is her head on straight?
Literally- her posture has been called into question
Figuratively too- her sanity is questionable recently
Is she participating in another virtual writing group?
Does she finally see herself as a writer?

She nods to the other humans,
to me,
to herself.

She believes.

Tarah Friend Cantore has been writing for three years, starting with a non-fiction memoir incorporating her artwork in tough & vulnerable. She wrote and recently published her debut work of fiction, Spiral Bound. Her poetry has been published in the Telling Our Stories Through Word and Image Anthology in 2021 and 2022.

As Simple as That

30 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Dale Ritterbusch

My daughter sends me
a photograph of her cat, her lone cat,
lying on her bed next to two other
cats, her boyfriend’s cats
that have just moved in.

They seem to like being together,
no turmoil over the turf,
no petty jealousies
evinced as they lie there, resting
in a cat’s repose.

I think of times lying next to my wife,
just lying there, no movement,
merely an occasional touch,
a hand trailing lightly
along the arm, the shoulder.

It is as if we were cats;
nothing profound escapes our lips,
nothing of importance
to communicate, to fill the silence.

What is profound is the silence,
the touch, the recognition
that this space is filled,
that words are an unnecessary encumbrance
like an additional blanket
when we are already warmed enough.

Dale Ritterbusch is the author of four collections of poetry. He recently retired as a Professor of English at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater. His creative work is currently being archived in the Department of Special Collections at La Salle University.

Winter, Snow

28 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Luke Nadeau

I am a child of the North,
At the first signs of fall,
It’s like a switch flips,
I’m eager

And by the time those soft, white flakes fall to the ground,
My heart grows tenfold

My skin readily turns pink in that winter chill,
Curious,
That my face should flush the color of spring buds.
When the warmth of longer days is long forgotten,

I recall playing in the snow as a kid,
Making snow angels, snow men,
Doing cartwheels in the snow in my bathing suit,
Then jumping right back into my friend’s hot tub,

But somehow,
In the theater of my mind,
I am not cold

My chest, rather, is warm,
I find solace in these snippets of my past,
Where the biting chill of winter cannot reach me

I wrap myself in the coat of my memories,
Let the scarf of tethered dreams wrap around me,
Keep me safe

With any luck,
I shall never freeze

Luke Nadeau is a student studying Creative Writing at Anoka-Ramsey Community College living in Minneapolis, Minnesota. When they aren’t putting pen to paper, or hands to keyboard, they are trying desperately to find their next big CD.

Common Loon

25 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Debbie Theiss

Golden glow of aspen sandwiched between
spruce and pine cast shadows across the lake.
Summer wanes, dark comes early. Even loons
give up summer plumage of black-and-white
checked back, black head and neck iridescent.
Replaced with gray feathers, white breast— ready
for migration. The handsome waterbird
calls to its mate, lets out a haunting wail.

Like the formidable swimmer, I molt
throughout the seasons. Auburn, wavy hair
once thick, now gray streaked with white. Bright blue eyes
weary, plump lips drawn into narrow lines—
life’s winter. I let out a mournful cry
for my mate—but—there will be no answer.

Debbie Theiss is an award-winning poet and Pushcart Prize nominee. She finds inspiration for her poetry in the unfolding art of daily life and nature. Her chapbook Perfectly Imperfect was published in July 2021 by Kelsay Books. She has poems published in I-70 Review, River & South Review, and others.

photography of yellow hibiscus under sunlight — Photo by Khanh Le on Pexels.com

Reverie

23 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Peter McNamara

I interrupt a cockroach
attempting a backstroke
through the leavings of dinner stew;
he/she seems certain to survive
the age of man.

A guy comes to my door—all insistent
knuckles—with a petition for
improving peninsular life;
I muse as I turn him away . . .
have I thought to return his pen?

Yesterday’s hibiscus wither like
retirees languishing for a
fountain of youth. Lives crisp
beneath remorseless sun:
shadowless, unvarying days.

Roy Orbison renders “Crying” as
Montserrat Caballé paces the wings.
Does time come, or only go?
I should have taken this up
with the cockroach.

Peter McNamara’s “Eating Up Light” appeared in 2022. His work appears in such journals as Center, Main Street Rag, Pembroke Magazine, The Paris Review and Pleiades. He’s a former Wall Street financial editor and lyricist with Polyhymnia and the New York City Gay Men’s Chorus.

Hope like Sunlight

18 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Stacie Eirich

for Sadie

Sunlight rushes in a brand new day, heart lifting
with hope in the knowledge
of a day without clinic appointments, a day to play and create, a day
with no expectations, no decisions, a day to just be.

Slip into the slowness of the hour, sip a latte and leave the phone
tucked away. Let a breath out and listen, listen to the stillness
of the morning, watch the way the breath
rises and falls, contracts and expands.

Her beside me, wrapped in blankets, still asleep, face pressed
against the pillow, a soft whirring of breath reaching me.
I light a small lamp and dress quietly, wanting
to let her rest.

Outside, the day brightens with a promise that meets
my fledgling heart: today will be easier, today will be ours
to make and hold light in.

I stretch my fingers towards the sky, bending left, then right —
fingers open to the window, open to the light.

Behind me my daughter shifts, blankets rustling.
I turn to see her waking, eyes meeting mine
with the sun, morning written on her face
like the light, vivid, beaming—hopeful.

Eyes holding hope
like sunlight, face shining brilliant
as stars. She greets me softly, her voice keeping mine
in tenderness, her heart holding mine
steadily beside her: rising, rising.

Stacie Eirich is a mother of two, poet & singer. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Cantos Literary Journal, The Healing Muse & Remington Review, among others. She is currently living in Memphis, TN, caring for her daughter through cancer treatments at St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. www.stacieeirich.com