An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Category: Poetry (Page 4 of 31)

Peregrine

Poetry by Stephen J. Cribari

Two years ago we had peregrine falcons here.
They bred in a nest under a nearby bridge
That spans the Mississippi River. I
Stood riverside the day the three chicks fledged
Dropping from the bridge’s understructure,
Falling in a wild, flailing descent
And finding just before they hit the river
What wings mean, solving the secret code
That opened a doorway into the halls of the sky.

A month later curious I returned.
The empty nest, but there up in the sky
High up in the sky a black speck
Like a piece of protein floating across the eye
But reaching speeds that edged beyond my vision.
Like a thunderbolt loosed from the sky it bolted down,
Leveled to a plane above the river,
Screamed through the bridge’s latticed understructure
Then turned as bolting horse will dead stop turn

And flaring into the bridge’s latticework
Settled on the beam where its nest had been.
And there it began to preen, as if nothing at all
Let alone something utterly extraordinary
Had just happened. And I thought of you.


Stephen J. Cribari has been writing poetry for over sixty years. In a parallel life he was a criminal defense attorney and law professor. He resides in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Still Life (2020) and Delayed en Route (2022) are published by Lothrop Street Press.

Something Different

Poetry by Emily Lacey

You’re not even mad
that you’re bundled in a pink snowsuit
or that your hands are swallowed
by your sleeves and mittens.
You don’t care that your boots
are stiff or that your hat is strapped tight
below your chin
or that your nose is dripping,

but you’re enraged
that the snow is blocking
the sidewalk,
your mittens now little purple fabric fists
because you can’t go for your
daily walk.
You trudge your body
forward—into the mound—sink.
Mama,
make this go away,
Mama
.

You wave at the snow falling,
like it’s something different.
You even try to kiss it.


Emily Lacey lives in Danvers, Massachusetts. Her work appears in Evening Street Review, Medical Literary Messenger, The Broken Plate, and Freshwater.

A Life Lived in Common

Poetry by Robert Harlow

They don’t think much about it,
I suspect, the horses, the snow.
Probably wonderstruck the first time
they stand in it, as it falls on and around them.
As long as they have something to eat,
mostly hay, unbaled, strewn, disheveled,
they are fine, it seems. Nonchalant.
At least that’s what they look like. Their pose.
And there’s always one, isn’t there,
who is off by himself, looking
to the distance he can’t get to.
Even though he’s never been there,
he wonders if there’s a way he can.
Somehow, he’ll have to convince the others,
nodding into the feed, to cover for him
by creating one of their famous diversions
as he tries to figure out how to open the gate,
because he has to live with the mistake he made
of not learning how to be a jumper
as I tried to teach him to be.
And he can’t secretly disassemble the rails
without me seeing him, catch him in the act,
putting on the “What? I wasn’t doing nothing” face.
Even though he is dark-gray, intermittently rain-smooth
when he needs to be, snow won’t help hide him,
as he thinks it will, or fill in his hoof prints
on the other side if he somehow remembers
what I tried to teach him about going over obstacles
one might encounter in this often-puzzling world.
So, he’ll have to be content,
or at least pretend to be, with his lot in life.
We have so much in common, he and I, don’t we?
He staring off into his distance.
Me staring off into mine.


Robert Harlow resides in upstate NY. He is the author of Places Near and Far (Louisiana Literature, 2018). His poems appear in Poetry Northwest, RHINO, Slipstream Magazine, and elsewhere.

Sparks

Poetry by Daphne Riddle

A night in September
surrounded by water
that’s when we first sparked

gentle as ever
I never felt better
meeting your light with my dark

your hands in my hair
that shirt that you wear
our love summed up in parts

the sparks aren’t there
and I wish that you’d care
I’m lost here in the dark

I look for you everywhere
and you just carry on
I’m questioning all those years
but all I really want
is floating in September

with all of the fish
and the stars
and the songs
and the sparks


Daphne Riddle is an artist from Southern California. She is a music student at CSU Long Beach and an active songwriter. She is largely influenced by her study of international art song and her career as a musician. Writing is her foundation to heal.

At the Lakefront, beside Sunshine

Poetry by Stacie Eirich

Glittering waves in wind
sunlight high in the sky
beaming into blue
you marvel at the beauty
in a dandelion, proclaim it
not a weed but a flower
pick its yellow head
put it in my palm.

My hand in yours, you skate past
girls on scooters, boys on bikes
a dog you call Toast.
We listen to the roar
of a mower, the slap-slap of water
the cries of shorebirds
from beyond the beach, where two kids play
in cold waters, brave in bathing suits.

You turn on pop songs, sing along beside me
dance a jig, weave your arm in mine, say thank you
for bringing us here, stop to swing, then ask
for snowballs & ice cream.
We savor mint chocolate and cherry chip
in the warmth of the shop, you watching and listening
to a little brother and his sisters, me watching you
quietly spooning cold sweetness to our lips.

I finish first, sit content, tell you
to take your time.
That it’s what we came for
to take time.
To hold and warm each others’ hands
to find and follow sunlight
the rush of the wind, the sweetness
of this life.

A gift to open slowly
you singing like starlight
you next to me, beside the water
your fingers pressed
into mine, time shimmering
like waves on sand
tall white sails
rising into the distance.

I touch the dandelion head
in my tote pocket
spread its yellow cup
in my fingers
feel the sun
feel you
beside me
still shining.


Stacie Eirich is a mother, poet & singer in Louisiana. Her work is forthcoming in Synkroniciti Magazine. Her poem “Blossoms” published in Susurrus Magazine in 2023 was nominated for The Pushcart Prize. In 2023, she lived in Memphis while caring for her child through cancer treatments at St. Jude. www.stacieeirich.com

The Birdhouse

Poetry by Christine Andersen

for the sparrows

In retirement,
my partner built a birdhouse from cedar
to withstand the New England winters.
Twelve inches high,
four by four at the base,
hinged roof for cleaning.
The entrance hole measured 1¼ inches
seven inches above the floor—
no perch for crows or magpies
to devour eggs or hatchlings.

He hung the birdhouse on a giant oak
facing east from prevailing winds
to be bathed in sun on brisk mornings,
shaded in the afternoons.
The wood was left unpainted to blend
into the October landscape.
He had thought of everything
in the way a man researches,
makes detailed lists, follows specifications.

The wait for a pair of sparrows began.

Today I lift the roof
and clean out an abandoned nest
for new mates to move in.
My partner has been dead
more than a year now.
He never saw the first sparrows
or watched their young fly free—
the one thing he didn’t plan for.
The one thing we never saw coming.

I close the top
and search the empty sky.
New sparrows will arrive in due time,
become part of my love story.


Christine Andersen is a retired dyslexia specialist who now has the time to hike in the Connecticut woods with her three dogs, pen and pad in pocket. Publications include Comstock, Awakenings, Evening Street and Gyroscope Reviews, Slab, and Glimpse, among others. She won the 2024 American Writers Review Poetry Contest.

I drove him back to the airport

Poetry by Penelope Scambly Schott

hoping he wouldn’t tell me, his old mother,
that I ought not to still be driving.

I didn’t turn the car key until I couldn’t see
his blue shirt through the revolving door

and then I drove the 100 miles back home
past cliffs we had just passed together.

Here is his unfinished coffee still in the cup.
I will go lie down in the guest bed

before I strip off his wrinkled sheets.
I will imagine they are still warm.


Penelope Scambly Schott’s most recent book is Waving Fly Swatters at Angels. Forthcoming is gOD: A Respectfully Divergent Testament. Penelope is a past recipient of the Oregon Book Award for Poetry.

Bookmark

Poetry by John Hoyte

I grabbed it from the bookcase, to read before bed.
The Problem of Pain, a two shillings and sixpence
Fontana paperback, from my college days.
It tackles the question, If there is a loving God,
why does He permit pain?
I chose it to see if C.S. Lewis’s writing
still resonated for me.
A bookmark fell out.
The Grand Hotel, Taipei, Taiwan.
Pain came surging back, engulfing me
in sorrow, though bitterness had gone.

The year my wife died had been a year of devastation.
To get away, Lisa, my daughter, and I flew
to Taiwan on a business trip.
We stayed at The Grand Hotel, and felt like royalty.
External opulence, internal grief.
I look back over thirty years.
My daughter’s daughters are in college
and I have just turned ninety-one.

I went to sleep in gratitude, thinking of my daughter
who has stood by me with love, grace and courage.


John Hoyte is a retired engineer, artist, and explorer.

Spring

Poetry by Nancy Byrne Iannucci

My cat ran when Hedwig’s Theme began.
I thought cats were in tune with all things witch
and supernatural. Or can he sense the change?
House finches are all the teeth-chattering rage.
He spent the afternoon trying to destroy a toy hummingbird in celebration.
He fell asleep with the bird beside him like a teddy bear.
Hedwig’s turn will come when the mood shifts the sun,
the day loses light, and the night howls for the owl.
But for now, spring is here, filled with frantic nest building.


Nancy Byrne Iannucci lives in Troy, NY with her two cats: Nash and Emily Dickinson. She has been published in multiple literary journals and is the author of three chapbooks: Temptation of Wood (Nixes Mate Review, 2018), Goblin Fruit (Impspired, 2021), and Primitive Prayer (Plan B Press, fall 2022). Visit www.nancybyrneiannucci.com or on Instagram: @nancybyrneiannucci.

Swing

Poetry by Rachel Beachy

Pushing her swing back and forth
with the baby on my chest
I do not know
the day the time or how
to finish a thought
all the hours go into something like this
returning to baseline
a pendulum swinging from
mess to order
hunger to fullness
chaos to calm, repeat.
And all along
they are growing —
I see it now
her hands wrapped tightly around the chains of the
big girl swing
she could not reach last week
how I watch her flying forward and yet
going nowhere at all
these days
thank god
thank god
how they always come back
to me.


Rachel Beachy is a graduate of the IU School of Journalism (2014) and worked in broadcast radio/tv before several years in marketing. Since 2020, she has worked from home and has enjoyed finding an enthusiastic community of writers and readers. She resides in Louisville with her husband and two daughters.

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2024 The Bluebird Word

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑