Category: Poetry (Page 2 of 45)

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.”

Shutters

12 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Michael David Roberts

All but children and birds care
to live their lives with an end game.

We adults prefer to walk narrow paths
usually leading to destinations.

But something always happens—
a major distraction in which

the locks are changed or the knobs
don’t turn, even just a little bit, all

unexpectedly, nothing predictable,
as it should be. And you don’t even know

if you are locked in or out. Sometimes
it is hard to truly be adult about this.

Often in the mornings, when
the dew has soaked the grass

and all the houses have their windows
shuttered, I can hear birds, all in synch,

like a room full of children who
have just discovered a small surprise.

Michael David Roberts is a retired community college professor who currently lives in Tumwater, Washington and spends much of his time walking through nearby forests. He has been published in The Comstock Review, Chelsea, Slipstream, Versedaily.com, and others. His book, The Particulars of Being, was published in 2004.

Darling Point

9 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Nathanael O’Reilly

You took me down to McKell Park on a hot
Monday afternoon, shared your favourite
sanctuary, showed me the harbour views,
the bridge, the opera house, yachts, islands,
harbourside mansions. We sat on a wooden bench
in sunlight, ate a ploughman’s lunch, sipped Solo
while you described your life in the neighbourhood,
the countless hours spent reading, relaxing and meditating
in the park. We climbed down to the water’s edge
where you showed me the locals’ place for a secluded
refreshing dip, safe from sharks and tourists’ eyes.
I watched a ferry dock at the wharf, pausing on its way
from Double Bay to Circular Quay, while you stood
in a yellow sundress facing the water, one hand grasping
the fence while you talked to your brother on the phone.
You showed me the foundations of Canonbury House
while explaining the history of the park, walked
with me along the waterfront to its eastern limits
in the shadows of a mansion. We sat in the shade
on Gadigal country conversing about our past
lives, gazed out over the glistening water, stood
with arms around each other’s shoulders
squinting into the sun attempting to capture
a selfie, preserve a rare moment of union.

Nathanael O’Reilly is the author of fourteen poetry collections, including Terminals, Separation Blues: Poems 1994-2024, Dublin Wandering, Landmarks, Boulevard and Preparations for Departure. He is Associate Professor of Creative Writing at The University of Texas at Arlington.

Crow Vision

6 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Ellen Roberts Young

Crows, who see both near and far, sky-wide view
or attention to the detail of seed and twig,

also can identify a human face—potential
predator or friend—and remember.

Crows confront more than a language barrier to teach
us, who make “birdbrain” an insult, their wisdom.

Living in fellowship, they can see clearly
that standing on two feet isn’t always enough.

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

The Poet and the Pebble-Raker

3 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Stephen Cribari

White clouds, shredded
Like wool from sheep combed through thorn and gorse

I will sit here, under an endless sky
Until I am covered with falling in springtime snow
Of haw-blossom blown by the wind, until I am
White like the Cornwall hedgerow landscape, white
Like the beginning of time is white with first sunlight
Tumbling on the lilac and the rose

Then I will rise
And like the tide rake pebbles along the shore

Stephen Cribari resides in Minneapolis. His recent poetry appears in Writings from the Tyrrhenian Coast of Calabria (Rubbettino; English and Italian by Editors Margherita Ganeri and Maria Mazziotti Gillan); Voices Unbound; Freshwater Literary Journal; the Paterson Literary Review. The Grammar Lesson was featured in the January 14, 2025, edition of Passager’s podcast Burning Bright.

The First Monarch

1 February 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Katy Z. Allen

I caught a glimpse today of hope—
the first monarch of the summer
flitted past the window,
catching my eye with its bright orange wings.

A striking orange is on display as well in the wood lilies,
whose blooming each year reminds me of my Aunt Lorraine,
a crusty New England Yankee
who always knew what was what,
accepted me without question
no matter what was changing in my life,
and who so many years ago gave me bulbs from her garden.

Today, I stumbled on a picture of her that I didn’t remember,
sitting in her New Hampshire summer garden,
and another of her with my two sons,
smiling and laughing,
when they were much younger.

My Aunt Lorraine never gave up,
never gave in
and always kept her chin up,
and thoughts of her
remind me of the butterfly
and hope.

Katy Z. Allen is a lover of the more-than-human world. She founded and led an outdoor congregation and a Jewish climate organization. Her poetry has appeared in online publications and her poetic book, A Tree of Life: A Story in Word, Image, and Text was published by Strong Voices Publishing.

Darjeeling Tea

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Shreya Datta

If you like your pleasures subtle,
and your caffeine lean,
I present before you
the delights of Darjeeling.

Not the tea bags — get the actual leaves.
No Earl Grey, sugar, or additives.
One teaspoon for a cup so fine
warrants a pretty tea set — I’ve got mine!

Steep, sip, savor —
the foothills’ Himalayan flavor.
Can you taste inspiration,
with a hint of salvation?
Inhale the mountain’s lessons,
let your tongue explore those Darjeeling sensations.

Improves your enjoyment of books,
gifts you a contemplative outlook.
This isn’t matcha or chai —
it’s its own serene high.

Like a woman, this tea blushes
in different hues with its seasonal flushes.
A handshake in a cup, the Champagne of all teas,
a quiet ritual so comforting.
Sip slowly, breathe with ease —
and fall in love with Darjeeling, please.

Shreya Datta is a Philadelphia-based poet whose work dwells in small beauties and quiet awakenings. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Lighten Up Online, Rue Scribe, Poets Choice, Wingless Dreamer Press, and Moonstone Press. She writes about tenderness, belonging, and the art of seeing.

New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Cecil Morris

Last day, first day, side by side. Please, no.
I’d like a break, a pause, a little intermission,
like school with that last day in early June
and the first day held off until late August
or early September, one a sunny swell
of promise and satisfaction at having done,
the other a sunny swell of promise, too,
another chance to do things right.
Please, don’t give me a sandwich of now and then
with filling to airy thinness beat, the merest hint
of butter, jam. Please don’t give me a restless
interval too brief for number, a wink,
a blink between who I was and who I want
to be—really just another slice
of white bread from the same old loaf.
Give me a chance to change.

Cecil Morris is a retired high school English teacher, sometime photographer, and casual walker. His first collection of poems, At Work in the Garden of Possibilities, came out from Main Street Rag in 2025. He has poems in The 2River View, Common Ground Review, Rust + Moth, Talking River Review, and elsewhere. He and his wife, mother of their children, divide their year between the cool Oregon coast and the hot Central Valley of California.

Infinity

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Jeanine Stevens

Here at the beginning of the year,
dinner of broiled scallops,
Sonoma Valley wine.

In twilight, Venus forever shy, wavering.
I sit in the redwood gazebo
goblet in hand

In my worn Uggs and infinity scarf
not allowed to go in just yet.
Faint starlight, orange slit of sun—
my hands folded.

A heavy presence, maybe a spirit,
even more than one, muscular
and brown, apart from the living.
Perhaps a thing unfinished,
still wanting.

And with intention
just this night, in the quiet
of late commuters I stay long
in the retreating hour.

Wind chimes hold zinnia’s dust,
each day alike, not exactly the same.

Jeanine Stevens has a number of poetry collections and award winning chapbooks. Poems have appeared in Rosebud, Poet Lore, Evansville Review, The McGuffin, Comstock Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, and Two Thirds North (Sweden), among many other publications. She is Professor Emerita at American River College.

Category: Poetry (Page 2 of 45)

The Poet’s Way

The Gift Box

Shutters

Darling Point

Crow Vision

The Poet and the Pebble-Raker

The First Monarch

Darjeeling Tea

New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day

Infinity

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