An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash
Poetry by Diane Webster
From the sculptured
metal of the sunflower head
beads of rain
gather like ripe seeds
dropping to the earth
for next spring’s sprout.
Diane Webster‘s goal is to remain open to poetry ideas in everyday life, nature or an overheard phrase. Diane enjoys the challenge of transforming images into words to fit her poems. Her work has appeared in El Portal, North Dakota Quarterly, New English Review and other literary magazines.
Poetry by N.T. Chambers
It was a late
Spring morning
the sun barely reddening
a drowsy sky –
our dog restlessly
asleep in his corner –
a quiet universe
within the room
undisturbed by events
yet to be
or the Sunday
one-half hour away.
You were
a sepia photograph
in a semi-darkened space–––
contorted on the sheets
with pillow-combed hair
gently caressing one cheek –
a singular bead of sweat
drifting silently
down your neck
as you turned over –
offering a dream-laden smile
to no one in particular.
I found myself wanting
to draw you closer
to inhale your night muskiness,
feel your breath on my chest,
but chose to honor your slumber –
there was coffee to make,
a paper to be retrieved,
pancakes to be cooked
and a lifetime to be shared
N.T. Chambers writes about the emotions, events, and experiences intrinsic to the human condition. Numerous works have been published in several journals and magazines, among them The Banyan Review, Inlandia, The Orchard Poetry Journal, The Decadent Review, New Note Poetry, Quibble Magazine, and Share Literary Journal.
Poetry by Sharon Scholl
We meet in the dark kitchen
with separate hungers,
different aching joints,
each with reasons to be sleepless.
I switch on the stove light,
wince at sudden brightness.
You click off your flashlight,
stand mute, indecisive.
What will digest at this hour?
Something quick and harmless
that may invite sleep – at least
fill dull time until it comes.
Quietly we munch and sip, shuffle
by habit around each other.
It’s the company that satisfies.
Sharon Scholl is a retired college professor (humanities) who convenes a poetry critique group and maintains a website of original music compositions (freeprintmusic.com) for small churches. She is the patron for poetry and music composition contests for young creators. Her poetry chapbooks are available via Amazon Books.
Poetry by Clarence Allan Ebert
My daughter wears a hand-me-down shirt
tie-dyed with the stars, three sizes too big.
Her clothes arrange themselves
in psychedelic constellations.
Her face is a yellow rose through the light
of honey dollops dropping in milk.
She has never tripped and has no band-aids.
She makes no fuss and sleeps with a night light
She is barely aware I love her so much,
oblivious to her own impermanence.
Clarence Allan Ebert celebrated his 70th birthday recently and pledged to maintain some Baby Boomer relevance in the world through the fine craft of poetry. Read his poem from The Bluebird Word‘s January 2023 issue.
Poetry by Raymond Berthelot
The sailboats at anchor
are pulled in one direction
by the tide between the keys
Remember that woman
crazy or drunk, walking by the sanitarium
she too, refused assistance
What is it about moonlight and tropical flowers?
for a while at least
peace seems possible
But back to the sea
and the sun distantly setting, swollen
at a place we’ll never be
Raymond Berthelot is the Historic Sites District Manager for the Louisiana Office of State Parks. His work has appeared in publications such as Progenitor, Mantis, Peregrine Journal, Apricity Magazine, The Elevation Review, the Carolina Quarterly and DASH Literary Journal. A chapbook, The Middle Ages, is available with Finishing Line Press.
Poetry by Alice Collinsworth
When I was very young, my parents assured me
there were no wolves near our home, in spite of fairy tales.
Wolves lived in forests, in mountains, they said.
We had neither trees nor hills.
When I grew older, we visited a zoo, where I saw wolves
kept in cages, pacing, squinting through the insufficient bars
between us. Calculating.
Then came rumors of wolves roaming the plains,
sightings at local farms, small dogs
suddenly missing. I could hear them wail.
Then they came to live with me, right here in town.
They’ve built a den on the porch and they come inside,
helping themselves to sandwiches and wine,
sharpening the knives.
I no longer have a cat.
I slink upstairs and listen to their laughter
and the clink of silverware.
Helpless, I howl in anticipation.
Alice Collinsworth retired recently from a career involving journalism, writing, and media relations. Her poems have been published in several online journals, and she was twice selected as one of Oklahoma’s Woody Guthrie Poets. Her writing has won awards in numerous local and regional contests. She lives near Oklahoma City.
Poetry by Peter A. Witt
Bedroom closet is full of ghosts,
not the kind that lay siege with angst,
no, the kind that recall the warmth
of a spring day, when soon to be wife,
Sally, was the victim of my indiscreet kiss
as I wore my still favorite blue-green shirt.
An old skate brings memories of doing twirls
on the frozen pond until Mr. Smithers
chased us near teens off, afraid we’d
all plunge to our deaths, or worse yet,
having to rescue us.
Coin collection reminds me of Uncle Fred,
the dear old man, who used the tarnished gelt
as props to tell us endless stories about places
he’d visited, but really hadn’t, we listened anyway.
Under a shadow of dust is a painting,
the brush by numbers kind, done in third grade —
like the rest of my life, colors spilling
over the boundaries and mismatched.
Finally, a baseball caught on the day
Sandy Koufax pitched a no-hitter for the third time,
at least that’s what I told people, and would
pass onto my grandson without correcting the story.
Cleaned out the closet as I packed for the retirement home,
no room there for anything beyond a few faded pictures,
last year’s Christmas cards, my favorite reading chair,
a pile of books I’ve meant to read for years,
and a heavy blanket I’ll lay over my lap,
while I finish a painting with my unsteady hand.
Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a retired university Professor. He also writes family history. His poetry has been published on various sites including Verse-Virtual, Indian Periodical, Fleas on the dog, Inspired, Open Skies Quarterly, Active Muse, New Verse News and Wry Times. Read his poem “Garden Reading” from The Bluebird Word‘s January 2023 Issue.
Poetry by Esther Sadoff
All morning, sweat springs from Arnold’s brow
as he awaits the beatdown at the end of the day:
a pummeling between him and a huge kid
and everyone knows who’s going to win.
I’ve been lowered a few rungs by self-deprecation.
Folded myself into impressive origami-smallness.
I’ve thrown in the towel, waved a white flag, and run
for the hills but in this episode of Hey Arnold!,
Arnold actually starts to hit himself in the school yard,
a dizzying kaleidoscope of faces spinning round,
but what stands out most are their egg-shaped
eyes vacant and hungry for action.
Arnold gives himself such an insane beating
that he scares the bully into submission.
I’d like to think of myself exactly like that:
two sides of the mirror fighting each other,
a reflection that won’t quit, myself standing over
(or under) my other self and declaring it some kind of win.
Esther Sadoff is a teacher and writer from Columbus, Ohio. Her poems have been featured or are forthcoming in Little Patuxent Review, Jet Fuel Review, Cathexis Poetry Northwest, Pidgeonholes, Santa Clara Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, among others.
Poetry by G. Milton
The house, like my childhood, abandoned.
Withered, worn, and saddened.
The broken door hangs by its rusty hinges.
Once mighty, now only cringes.
The windows, like my dreams, shattered.
Shiny shards of glass tossed and scattered.
The ragged steps creak and sway
buckling under the stress of another torrid day.
The roof, like my life, dilapidated and leaking.
Much like the tears I’m constantly weeping.
The paint just peels and fades away.
Once vibrant, now, only a somber gray.
The foundation, like my soul, buckled and cracked.
Trembling like a kitten being attacked.
Once strong, stubborn, and sturdy.
Now, broken, weakened, and dirty.
The house, like me, has been through it all.
Beaten, battered, ready to fall.
Although we dread the next inevitable storm,
inside us both, it is still inviting and warm.
G. Milton is a part time writer and full-time grandparent.
Poetry by Robert F. Bradford
First, I hid my opinions
Nobody wanted to hear them anyway
Then, I hid my desires
Nobody wanted to fulfill them anyway
Next, I hid my plans
Nobody was interested anyway
Automatically, I hid my visions
Nobody shared them anyway
Of course, I hid my songs
Nobody wanted to sing them anyway
Always, I hid my stories
Nobody could grasp them anyway
Barely, I hid my art
Nobody could fail to distort it anyway
Finally, I hid myself
Away from all the nobodies.
Then I sought that hidden self
And all the lovely somebodies
Appeared.
Robert F. Bradford has won two Bay Area Theatre Critics Circle Awards (Best Play, Fringe of Marin Festival), and been produced in the Midtown International Theatre Festival (NYC). Stories in The Raven’s Perch and Slow Trains Literary Journal. He is an Adjunct Professor of English and Humanities at Dominican University of California.
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