Category: Poetry (Page 2 of 46)

The Great Bear

23 March 2026 / Editor

Poetry by John Grey

He sits on a rock,
legs and arms folded
before him
in the last rays of daylight.

His brown fur
ruffles like prairie grass.
His eyes scan slowly,
see nothing more
than what he feels himself to be.

Such power, such strength,
held in at perfect peace –
if earth and heaven ever needed
a dividing line…

Any moment now,
I expect him to growl.

But my Buddha scratches instead.
Fine…so he itches…
that means something.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and Tenth Muse. Latest books, Subject Matters, Between Two Fires and Covert are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Paterson Literary Review, White Wall Review and Cantos.

A Small Memory

20 March 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Carolyn Chilton Casas

Some winter evenings, snow piled
against the door, my mother would open

the living room sofa bed in our one-bedroom
clapboard surrounded by woods

for us to watch TV, warm popcorn
in a blue plastic bowl, my infant brother

determinedly crawling over the blanket
to reach the treat. She taught me

to bite off the harder kernels
he couldn’t chew with just my front teeth,

place only the soft, milky pieces
in his baby bird mouth. Each time, he flashed

his big infant grin, making us laugh
over and over with abandon.

Carolyn Chilton Casas’ poetry has been published in multiple journals and in anthologies including The Wonder of Small Things, Thin Spaces & Sacred Spaces, and Women in a Golden State. More of her poetry can be found at www.carolynchiltoncasas.com and in her last book, Under the Same Sky.

a whatever-hair day

10 March 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Miguel Rodríguez Otero

i love to do my daughter’s hair before school,
give it a little brush, loosen the knots
that form during the night, then maybe braid it
so it looks neat and brand-new.

she’s too young to know,
so i explain to her that braiding is not a tie,
it’s more like a bond that can easily be undone
but is meant to hold the hair together,
like us holding hands to the bus,
untangled and brand-new.

as if together was something permanent
or even desirable.

she complains her hair is too frizzy,
but i’d love her to feel that such a bond exists,
that the connection is real and permanent,
desirable, even if one misses the bus
and is late to class.

the bus pulls up and the door swings open.
my daughter grabs my hand, then tugs me along.
i wave good-bye and await the moment
she comes home for dinner,
clothes dirty and hair all messed up.

Miguel Rodríguez Otero’s poems appear in Red Fern Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, Scapegoat Review, Last Leaves Magazine, The Bluebird Word, DarkWinter Literary Magazine, The RavensPerch and Feminine Collective. He likes walking country roads and is friends with a heron that lives in the marsh near his home.

bird dreams

7 March 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Jon Raimon

Waking to bird talk,
I wonder.

Did they wing into
my dreams?

Gather twigs and spring fluff to nest in
my wishes?

I stumble up, feel the fool,
yet sense they are on my side

with hoots and jests
coos and kindness.

They gossip and advise,
each note thrilled with care.

Thank you for swooping
into my hopes.

Know I will, clumsy and earthbound
as I am, try to always listen to

your love calls and unexpected tittering,
your joyous racket and grand laments.

Listen skywards, as you warble your way
into daymares and night longings

a feather touch so light we don’t even know how it heals
our wounds, soothes our grief

a clarion caw, warnings to feel, to
protect these skylands we breathe in

together,
a revelry we must heed and celebrate.

Jon Raimon teaches writing in Ithaca, New York. He writes along with his students, focusing on poetry and short fiction. His inspirations include his children and students, everything within, and all kinds of rocks.

Chipotle in Adobo

4 March 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Sharon Scholl

Two chilis, three tablespoons of adobo.
I measured them carefully, stirred them
into a pot with the vegetables prescribed

by an old recipe tucked inside
my deceased grandfather’s papers.
The label, Family Recipe, intrigued me.

When the simmering assembly seemed done,
I dipped a spoon, snagged a load, gagged,
and pronounced the dish inedible.

Now I’m on the phone with Mom, describing
my culinary disaster, begging to know
how it all went wrong.

Family Recipe? she snorts. None of us
would touch his concoctions. I swear,
that man had a cast iron stomach.

Sharon Scholl is a retired college teacher who convenes a poetry critique group and maintains a website of her original music free for download. Her poetry collections, Seasons, Remains, Classifieds, and Ghosts are available via Amazon Books. Her poems are current in eMerge and Yugen Review.

Not What I Came For

1 March 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Ellen Roberts Young

I yearned for Lyon, its medieval market,
signed up for a cruise to see what remained
—and discovered Arles, its white stone walls,
Roman ruins, town of Van Gogh, his hospital
garden kept as he painted it, now alive with
sellers of postcards, placemats, prints of his art.
By the old city gate, buyers crowded at booths
of farmers and crafters. That night, as the ship
sailed north, abundant brilliant stars appeared,
Van Gogh’s Starry Night made real.
Days later, Lyon’s old merchant city, its
magic muted by bistros, busy upscale shops
and wet cobblestones, could not match
the delight of nature’s art: that star-filled sky.

Ellen Roberts Young’s third chapbook, Transported, came out in 2021 with Finishing Line Press. She has two full-length collections, Made and Remade (Wordtech, 2014) and Lost in the Greenwood (Atmosphere, 2020). Recent publications include Slant, Oyster River Pages, Rockvale Review, and Caesura. www.ellenrobertsyoung.com

Enjambment

27 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Clarence Allan Ebert

True Japanese Maple saplings
sprout from innocent seeds of love
wine-red leaves that whisper their purpose
to the wind each new day
when passers-by on a stroll
in sunshine or shade all the same
delight themselves to wander
through a neighborhood unlike yesterday’s.

My poems as well derive a lyric or two
from the whisper of yesterday’s Delight
or Sarcasm all the same on a stroll
gathering one brief then longer verse
undisturbed until voices blow clearer
my purpose in a wind against my brow,
each new thought chooses not to wander,
the stanza’s wing is no longer innocent
breaks off in a twist, unlike Shakespeare’s pentameter.

Clarence Allan Ebert first published a poem in 1977. He writes what falls on his head and revises and revises and hopes one day he might be as good at this craft. He resumed his chair in the parlor to write poetry again during COVID.

The Blizzard

24 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Sheryl Slocum

hurls itself
at the storm door
bodies
of snowflakes
shatter

my shuddering porchlight
illuminates
a cacophony
of chipped sparks
glints of rainbow
that whirl back
into seething dark

I sense
a being that waits
just outside
the feeble light

too lovely
and terrible
for flesh
to bear

Sheryl Slocum, a retired English language teacher, lives in West Allis, Wisconsin. Her poetry appears in numerous literary publications, and her book, Leaving Lumberton, was published by Wipf and Stock in 2022. Sheryl is a member of the Hartford Avenue Poets and the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets.

The Poet’s Way

18 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Arvilla Fee

Some might say,
I’m in love
with this summer day.
That’s not the poet’s way.
The poet says—

I lie on my back,
indenting the meadow grass
with contented, contoured bones
as my eyes follow
freshly spun cotton-candy clouds

trailing across a turquoise sky,
as though clutched by unseen hands.
The sun blinks as they pass her face,
serene in her brief respite,
magnanimous in shaded grace.

There’s a low hum in the clover,
golden-brown bees
sticky with pollen and hope,
legs thick with yellow promises
of wheat, corn, and Black-Eyed Susans.

From a distance I hear
the ripple of water,
a river’s ceaseless mission
to join the salty sea
while coddling catfish and reeds.

And that’s why I lie here, the poet—
spine to earth,
a mouthful of clouds,
and blood that runs thick
with honey.

Arvilla Fee lives in Ohio, edits poetry for October Hill Magazine, and runs her own online magazine, Soul Poetry, Prose & Arts Magazine. She is a widely published author and has three published poetry books available on Amazon. For more info: https://www.soulpoetry7.com

The Gift Box

15 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Theresa Wyatt

My sister sends me
Charley Harper stickers
for my birthday

and a card
of his painting
Hawk Mountain.

At once the dominant
dark brown owl atop a pole,
staring straight at me, fixates
my gaze dead center – and I reason

the artist knows I’ll shift my glance
to track the blue sky and visually fly
east to west, then north & south
through this calm sanctuary

of whimsical hawks in profile – sporting
tuxedo style, well-dressed wing spans
in black, brown & white stripes
of impeccable spacing,

oh, these striking creatures –
immortalized now in soy-based ink
& magical realism – descendants of raptors,
millennia in the making.

Theresa Wyatt is the author of “The Beautiful Transport” (Moonstone Press) and “Hurled Into Gettysburg” (BlazeVox Books). Her writing follows the tug of history, nature, and art. Her poems have appeared in the Elm Leaves Journal, Norton’s New Micro, Spillway, and the Press 53 anthology, “What Dwells Between the Lines.”