An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Category: Poetry (Page 16 of 34)

Ser Mujer 2023

Poetry by Alexandra Newton Rios

This is how a woman
grows into her own.
She takes the moon that for too long
she only saw in another hemisphere
hang full and white in the night sky
turning into day.
She takes the sun rises with which she runs
and the sun sets behind the Statue of Liberty
with which she ends her day.
She takes the students who suddenly smile
as she works each day
the fields of their hearts
as she once walked the moist earth rows
of her five children’s dreams.
She takes the man she is going to meet
who has been waiting and waiting
and waiting for her to free herself from her past,
from her present overflowing with possibility
to become finally open fully to him.
It is a busy life.
It is a woman’s life.
She takes the sudden focusing,
this giving herself a season
to learn more
to focus more
to do more
to reach a new plane
of being alive.
Change is real.
Real the ways of being in the world.
They should not be menospreciado,
belittled, thought any less of
while it snows the softest of flakes
across the day.


Alexandra Newton Rios, a bi-hemispherical mother of five, lives with her mother in New York City teaching Spanish, and English in San Miguel de Tucumán. She ran eight full Argentine marathons and the New York City Marathon for the joy of having her Argentine mother, a cancer survivor, at the finish line.


Author’s Note: Ser mujer in Spanish means to be a woman in English. The Ser Mujer poems are written once a year on March 8, International Women’s Day, written since 1996, and gather in a poem a definition that changes across time.

Last October

Poetry by John Surowiecki

The mountain laurel is as green as the
maples are orange. Deer visit as if on cue,
hoovering the seeds we left for doves
and newly arrived juncoes.

Anything to do with spring and summer, with lilacs
and irises and that wistful pneumonic yellow,
is long gone, escaped in the raw humidity of

night. The wigs of dead leaves
are already caught up in scattered whirlwinds.
It’s clear we don’t have much time together.

Rainwater that leaks from the driveway gravel
has pooled in unlikely places,
not the swales that engineering has intended.
The silence between a breath and the breath that

follows it seems to last forever. October
is no longer with us: you’ve taken its place.
It needs a new face, yours, a new voice, yours.

It needs your swallows and mourning gnats
your own phrase on the fiddle which everyone can hear:
you, the season of leaving, have your music too.


John Surowiecki is the author of fourteen books of poetry. His latest, The Place of the Solitaires: Poems from Titles by Wallace Stevens, was recently published by Wolfson Press. John is the recipient of the Poetry Foundation Pegasus Award, the Nimrod Pablo Neruda Prize, the Washington Prize and other awards.

Evanston in June

Poetry by Rosalie Hendon

The taste of sun-ripened mulberry
A two-hour rain delay
A deluge pouring over rows of white chairs
Homemade bagels, bowls of cut fruit

An elderly woman in a mask
hovering behind a glass door,
hand on her cane

Rings on my brother’s hands,
silver paint worn to copper
a purple stone found gleaming in the dust

Speeches in sunshine,
a sea of purple
Cheers of recognition
effervescent under the late afternoon sky

The future as tangible as a ripe fruit,
as a mulberry plucked from the branch


Rosalie Hendon (she/her) is an environmental planner living in Columbus, Ohio. Her work is published in Change Seven, Pollux, Willawaw, Write Launch, and Sad Girls Club, among others. Rosalie is inspired by ecology, relationships, and stories passed down through generations.

the Irish goodbye

Poetry by Christine Brooks

I was distracted,
looking this way and that
enjoying cocktails,
laughter & the company
of a stranger     just for a
moment

one moment

I knew you were there,
always, so I took
another sip, laughed another
laugh and turned my back
on you
     to dance

just for one moment

you had perfected it
though,
the Irish goodbye
and
I never saw it coming

sometimes, I still think
you will come walking back through the front door
and my heart
beats & a smile turns up

just for a moment

hello —
did you forget your cap?

I say to no one


Christine Brooks holds her M.F.A. from Bay Path University in Creative Nonfiction. She has two books of poetry available, The Cigar Box Poems and beyond the paneling. Her next two, inside the pale and the hook-switch goodbye, will be released in 2023.

My one true love is golden like the sun

Poetry by Riley Davis

My one true love is golden like the sun
With specks of green like the fresh morning grass
Truly, for me you are the only one
That I will want forever in my grasp

I greedily want you all to myself
Since of you, there is not a great bounty
Although you are also selfish yourself
When I’ve had more than my fill, you hurt me

I love you when you are warm and fluffy
As everyone deems you should always be
I love you when you are cold and greasy
For I love you in all states, I decree

You nourish my heart and keep my soul fed
My true love for all of time: garlic bread


Riley Davis‘s eyes were first opened to the world of fiction with Harry Potter when she was eight, and they have not closed since. Although most of her creative work for her college career has been writing for games, she enjoys writing short stories and poems as well.

After the Blizzard

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

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.

John Greenleaf Whittier to the Root-Bound Marjoram

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.

Wizardry

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.

The Bird’s View

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.

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