Category: Poetry (Page 5 of 41)

Gold Scattered on Grass

1 August 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Laura Hannett

The toad and crisp leaf are twins on the bricks.
Old milkweed pods flock with the sparrows.

Dandelions and finch, bright gold against green:
One swoops, and dips, and it seems as if
a flower’s been launched, a brash
and brilliant illusion of flight—

the moment winks at the indistinct edge,
catches you short

with the delighted confusion such mix-ups can bring,
living similes playing between wild things.

Laura Hannett is a native of Central New York and a graduate of Hamilton College and the College of William and Mary. Other work can be found in Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Neologism Poetry Journal, Verse-Virtual and Mania Magazine.

Following Fireflies

1 August 2025 / Editor

Poetry by KB Ballentine

A dream in midsummer lures
each of us to those thin places
where we abandon our fear
as sun and moon slip into their dance
of lights. We adore the mock-orange
sweetness anchored in our memories—
ones we neglect through busy-ness.
Weary, we welcome this longest day,
grumble of darkness faint for now.
Soon, Hercules will usher Scorpius
across the night horizon. But tonight,
if we listen, we can hear the dead speak.

KB Ballentine’s newest collection is All the Way Through (Sheila-Na-Gig Inc., 2024). She has eight previous poetry collections and was recently awarded Poetry Society of Tennessee’s 2025 Best of the Fest and Writer’s Digest November 2024 PAD Chapbook Challenge. Learn more at www.kbballentine.com.

Photo by Vincent van Zalinge on Unsplash

At 6 AM

1 August 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Arthur Ginsberg

birdsong
pours through the open window.

I cannot know
if the suet I hung yesterday
fills them with joy,

or if, the handsome male in the maple
is wooing the female
in the condominium next door,

or if, it is simply
dawn that fills them with happiness—
nuthatch and goldfinch

perched on the feeder,
orchard bees swooning,
deep in trumpets of columbine,

the way I am lifted
out of darkness by a Mozart aria
to a place of rapture.

All these avian melodies
soaring from the throats
of feathered angels

that make a man want to fly.

Arthur Ginsberg is a neurologist and poet. He earned an MFA at Pacific University and has published five books of poetry. He teaches a course titled, “Brain and the Healing Power of Poetry” in the honors program at the University of Washington.

i am learning to be still

25 July 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Stacie Eirich

i am learning to be still,
to pay attention to each breath, its slow rise and fall,
to feel the soft spring breeze on my skin, its gentle rush and play,
to listen to the song sparrows in the air, cooing and calling
in the bright yellow sunshine of morn.

i am learning to be still,
to watch the dance of the butterflies, their colorful frenzy and flight,
to admire the grace of the bald eagle, silent and watchful from his perch,
to gaze upon the splendor of the mountains, their peaks rising against a vast expanse
in the warm orange glow of afternoon.

i am learning to be still,
to savor the taste of a tender strawberry, sweet and tart,
to let the rain wash over me in ripples, cool and refreshing,
to hear the harmonies of the juncos and thrushes, repeating and resonant
in the waning lavender light of evening.

i am learning to be still,
to seek a path of peace and wonder, intention and reflection,
to find the calm within each moment, blithe and smooth,
to experience the echo of the Earth’s heart, beating and thriving
in the endless blue waves of time.

Originally published in The Bluebird Word in April 2022.

Stacie Eirich is a writer, singer & library associate. A former English Instructor, she holds a Masters in English Studies from Illinois State University. Her work has appeared in multiple publications, and her latest book Hope Like Sunlight (Bell Asteri Publishing, December 2024) shares her family’s journey to fight her daughter’s aggressive brain cancer at St. Jude Children’s Hospital. Read more about Stacie and her writing at www.stacieeirich.com.

Memories of Old Things

22 July 2025 / Editor

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.

Originally published in The Bluebird Word in April 2023.

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.

flowers during golden hour — Photo by Irina Iriser on Pexels.com

Sunrise Dances

19 July 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Hawke Trumbo

My mother taught me to slow dance.

She placed my left hand on her shoulder,
my right hand in her left.
Her right palm rested on the curve
of my spine.

Pre-fab flooring supported our steps
as my feet shadowed her glide.

We swayed in a Virginia valley
to the tune
of a Rocky Mountain hiiiiigh Colorado.

We saved time in a bottle,
lulled by the easy silence
of our pine and oak audience.

We twirled in kitchens,
perfected our timing to strums
’bout poems prayers and promises.

We pivoted as a teenager
found her feet and a mother learned
to loosen her grip.

Our arms stayed firm,
so we never lost each other.

Originally published in The Bluebird Word in November 2022.

Hawke Trumbo (they/them) is an East Coast writer and graduate of Chatham University’s Creative Writing MFA program. Their work has appeared in Coffin Bell and for the Western Pennsylvania Disability History & Action Consortium.

lapis lazuli

13 July 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Chris Talbott

Today I saw the bluebird—
no, really—lapis lazuli:
Krishna’s blue, medicine Buddha,
Mary’s robes, the sky kasiṇa—
the one we call happiness—
It flew from the ground
in front of me,
straight out and away
into the noon-time woods,
into the aspiring trunks,
the newly fleshed leaves
lit from above

Originally published in The Bluebird Word in March 2022.

Chris Talbott has been writing poetry on & off for many years. After a career as a business writer, he worked at the non-profit Barre Center for Buddhist Studies for a decade. He continues his study & practice, along with writing poetry.

Succulent

10 July 2025 / Editor

by Heather Bartos

Jade plants will never win beauty contests.
Snub-nosed, squat, solid-thighed,
Pudgy limbs and squinty little blossoms.
But deep roots and thick flesh
Gather what guarantees survival,
What grants longevity.
Absorb every drop of hope,
Each ray of encouragement,
All words of praise.
Slice a leaf, snap a branch
And it will heal itself whole again,
Scar and stump the only sign.
Its own replenishment, resource, retreat,
A deep, wide wealth of well,
A barn full of grain for swallows in the snow.
Current life from yesterday’s rain,
From last summer’s sun,
Dense from receiving and holding of the giving.
How amazing to hold within and inside
Memories of kindness
To shade and shield from the heat
To insulate and inoculate against the cold
Until without and outside
Become a friend once more.

Originally published in The Bluebird Word in February 2022.

Heather Bartos writes both fiction and nonfiction. Her essays have appeared in Fatal Flaw, McNeese Review, HerStry, LitroUSA, and elsewhere. Her flash fiction and short stories have appeared in Baltimore Review, Ponder Review, Rappahannock Review, Relief: A Journal of Art and Faith, and other publications.

food healthy wood nature — Photo by Yulia Ilina on Pexels.com

summer season

1 July 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Erin Lorandos

you
pulled the folded
pocket knife from even
older denim
as you looked towards
the horizon of this life –
saying nothing

and now you open
the knife with one hand
deftly pushing the blade
out and away –
one thumb resting
against that sharp edge

for just a moment
my eyes are pulled to
your left hand –
that’s palming the red,
delicious apple

so fresh
the tree limb
still sways in protest

[Originally published in The Bluebird Word in March 2022.]

Originally from Wisconsin, Erin Lorandos is a librarian and writer living in Phoenix. Some of her recent poetry can be found in Drifting Sands, The Avocet, the 2021 Poetry Marathon Anthology, and in The Purposeful Mayonnaise.

The Hydrangea

22 June 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Celine Bach

The hydrangea hangs heavy,
a secret soft as shadow,
its petals pulse in quiet hues—
blue to violet, like a bruise
that lingers, unnoticed.

Roots reach beneath,
hidden hands clutching
at the hush of earth.
Grief grows in its gentle folds,
strong in its silence.

No sun can coax its bloom—
only time, only the weight
of waiting, weaving slowly.
Then, the garden whispers,
color spilling, soft and strange.

Celine Bach is a writer and poet based in New York City. She has won numerous awards in regional contests and is currently working on a new poetry collection.

Category: Poetry (Page 5 of 41)

Gold Scattered on Grass

Following Fireflies

At 6 AM

i am learning to be still

Memories of Old Things

Sunrise Dances

lapis lazuli

Succulent

summer season

The Hydrangea

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