Category: Poetry (Page 5 of 46)

Snow

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Aidan Russell

While in the night we soundly slept,
A winter storm came by
and covered all the world in white,
With snow banks piled high.

So in the morning we awoke
And looked out at the sight,
Of all the city buried deep,
in snow so clean and white.

We dressed ourselves and wandered out
Into that wonderland,
And sought to find ourselves some fun,
Though nothing we had planned.

In trudging down the empty street,
We saw no other soul,
And so alone we went along,
A solitary stroll.

Then at the park we found a bench,
Beneath a bare oak tree,
Where we decided then to sit,
The snow-filled world to see.

So there we sat upon the bench,
Just you and me alone,
And watched the winter world grow still,
And heard the cold wind moan.

What sacred beauty there we saw,
As flurries seemed to grow,
The world without mistake or flaw,
White blanketed with snow.

Aidan Russell is an American poet and filmmaker. He was a finalist in the Unity in Verse Poetry Contest. He is also the writer and director of a number of short films, most notably: A Criminal Misunderstanding and The Legend of John Henry. He lives in Southern California.

Puck’s Paper

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Sarah Das Gupta

I scribble a note on a summer leaf
plucked from a beech or the bole of an elm.
In autumn I write a joke on a hazel nut shell
blown and tossed through the forest dell.
When playing tricks with Oberon,
the silvery bark from the delicate birch
is fit for regal missives borne on the breeze
from the magical mists of Fairy Land.
Secret messages written in dewy ink,
in velvet darkness below a gibbous moon,
emblazon the white mushroom tops
which mark the circling fairy feet.
When icicles hang from farmyard pumps,
I trace out my thoughts on virgin snow
which last till Boreas begins to blow.
On cottage roof tops I arrange the moss
to warn the small birds of impending doom,
the bird lime which awaits them in the gloom.
Nature, through the seasons of the turning year,
passes on my messages, mischievous, yet clear.

Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK who has lived in India, Tanzania and UK. Her work has been published in magazines and anthologies in over 25 countries. She started writing aged 80, when a disabling accident limited her mobility. Nominated for Best of the Net and Dwarf Star.

First Snow, Final Page

30 December 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Amber Lethe

The year ends quietly –
a book settling into its spine.
Snow falls in soft punctuation marks,
periods on windowsills, commas on evergreens,
ellipses hanging in the hush of afternoon.

Inside, the kettle clicks a familiar prayer,
a small applause for warmth still here.
We hold our hands to the steam and remember:
the burns, the blessings, the almosts,
the moments we meant to speak but didn’t.

Outside, the world turns blank, crystalline, kind –
as if offering us a clean margin,
urging try again, try softer, try braver.
We turn the page with mittened fingers,
ink still drying on our names.

Amber Lethe is an emerging writer whose work blends intimacy, atmosphere, and quiet surrealism. She writes about memory, seasons, and the small rituals that shape us. When not writing, she plays Vivaldi on piano, knits imperfect scarves, and reads classic books with her pug, Sir Merlin, snoring at her feet.

Poinsettias

29 December 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Kathy Pon

You wait three days on a pallet
for our return. I panic
about frost and your need
for a drink of water.
But when we open each box
red bracts burst and blaze
our home with your magic,
elegance draping each corner festive.
Our holiday breathes before us.

Years past, we drowned in excess,
gold garland and strings of blinking lights
crammed our Christmas house.
Sensory overload from rooms littered
with glittery noise that seemed
to muffle our seasonal joy.

When we found greenhouses bearing
your stalks, you brought us delight
in fields of matted crimson, candy cane
pinks and whipped-cream whites.
Your yellow-button flowers
seemed to smile at us.

Now, no need to shine up
these simple lives. Surrounded by quiet,
our orchard stitched in winter stillness,
we drink black coffee in the dark
of our winter bedroom, dogs dug in
blankets beside us — and you dance
in the hallway, poinsettia-children
lifting our spirits like a secret promise.
Each potted star radiates enough,
all the holiday we need.

Kathy Pon lives with her husband, a third-generation farmer, on an almond orchard in Central California. Her work has been featured in Passengers Journal, Canary, RockPaperPoem, The Closed Eye Open, and other places. Her chapbook, Orchard Language (Finishing Line Press) was published in October 2025.

Cheerful Misery

28 December 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Alexandria Wyckoff

Sweet cookies dip into milk, crumbs fall;
a soft clink, small sounds

that must not grow louder.
Expertly placed footsteps upon

plush carpet mark the way
as presents adorn the trees

underside; a new satin skirt.
One last glance and up the chimney;

once again prone to the elements.
Warm breath lodged in his lungs

releases itself to the bitter wind.
Snow crunches beneath his feet; not

even wool gloves protect against the
bite of metal sleigh railings. Reigns

creak against practiced hands, before
a swift snap leads eight pairs of antlers

back into inky, starlight skies.

Alexandria Wyckoff has a BA in Creative Writing from SUNY Oswego. She has one book of poetry titled The Pain Cycle, with work also appearing in BarBar, Kennings Literary Journal, The Bookends Review, and others. Find more of her work at https://www.alexandriawyckoff.com/.

Santa Claus Let the Dogs Out

24 December 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Paige Milatz

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and that much is true,
But there were creatures stirring, so we need a re-do:

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the town
Every canine was restless and would not settle down;
Border collies were whining, and beagles made haste—
Each breed with the zoomies couldn’t stay in one place.
The poodles they shivered, cocker spaniels astir,
And chihuahuas shook nervously beneath their short fur;
Even the coyote on this cold winter’s night
Let out a “yip yip!” at the moon shining bright.
The dogs were all anxious, deservedly so—
A big job loomed before them as they paced to and fro
For they knew the truth about chimneys and sleighs,
But have kept it a secret to this very day:
A big man like Santa, who slips down the flue?
How could you believe that? Impossible! Untrue!
‘Tis man’s best friend who brings Christmas each year,
Now I’ll tell you their story if you’ll lend me your ear.

He has elves in the North and wolves for his sled,
But St. Nick needs more help while you’re upstairs in bed.
He’d be stuck on the front porch with all the doors locked
And no way inside—couldn’t possibly knock!
No, he can’t wake a soul nor shimmy down pipes,
So he relies on your fur babies, all sizes and types!
For dogs are quite clever, you should know that by now,
And while you dream of Christmas they’ve figured out how
To let Santa in, through their own doggy doors—
They slide him the keys they retrieved from the drawers!
With a jingle and jangle, St. Nick turns the knob,
Wipes his boots on the mat and then sets to his job.
First he praises each dog: “Good girl! And good boy!”
Then he hands them a treat and a new, rugged toy.
The pouch on his waist? Packed with chicken and liver!
St. Nicholas is the most thoughtful gift-giver!

While he lays many presents beneath many trees,
The dogs are allowed to explore as they please;
They go out to sniff the sled parked the lawn
And visit the wolves who are hitched up ‘til dawn.
There’s six wolves in all, and they’re all fur and muscle
But they know how to temper their power to tussle!
The wheel wolves at back are Lupus and Thunder,
Then the pair in the middle are Sprinter and Hunter,
And to round out the team, tasked to guide Santa’s way
Are Lobo and Leader at the front of the sleigh!
When Santa is through laying trinkets with care,
His whistle rings out through the brisk, snowy air:
“Come in pups and rest, your job here is done,”
And the dogs settle down after having their fun.
Mr. Claus makes his exit, with the gifts left behind,
Each dog feeling grateful for treatment so kind.
“Ow-ooo!” Santa howls to his trusty wolf pack,
And the wolves bound away with a short holler back.

Now you may be wondering, What if no dog’s around?
It’s a shame you’ve forgotten about all the stray hounds!
Their work is important, sniffing keys for the locks
That are stuck under doormats or hidden in rocks.
To these furry helpers he gives the gentlest care
Since they don’t have a family; it just isn’t fair!
So he scoops them all up for a ride in his sled,
He pets them and thanks them with a kiss on the head,
And then his eyes twinkle, and with a magical nod
The strays change into puppies, so small and so soft!
He gives them a bed next to warm fireplaces
In homes needing love—a dog to lick faces.
A fresh start for the pups, no more paws in the cold—
The kindness of Santa Claus never grows old.

And at last when all dogs are snug and content
Santa sighs to himself after a long night well spent:
“Stay safe, my dear friends, and I’ll see you next year!
Thank you ever so much for helping spread Christmas cheer!”
As the wolves pull away and the dogs fall asleep,
They dream jolly dreams of their Christmas secret to keep.

Paige Milatz lives and writes in the Little Spokane River Valley. She is a graduate of Central Washington University’s Master of Arts in Professional and Creative Writing program. You can find more of her work on her Substack publication, Treat Her Right, at https://treatherright.substack.com/.

Green, Green Christmas

22 December 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Brian C. Billings

I want a green, green Christmas
without a flake of snow.
I want a green, green Christmas.
’Tis better—don’t you know?—
to have a verdant reminder
of what this time’s about.
When greenery’s the scenery,
renewal’s bound to sprout.

I want a green, green Christmas
with wreaths in every shop.
I want a green, green Christmas
with pines at every stop.
Give me some rolls of holly
to thread each balustrade
and rows and rows of mistletoe
to see some tinsel made.

You can’t go wrong with sprigs of yew
festooned upon the walk,
and laurel framing windowpanes
will make your neighbors talk.
The clue to Christmas elegance
is emeraldine intelligence.

I want a green, green Christmas
with ivy in the eaves.
I want a green, green Christmas
like nobody believes.
I need a charge in spirit
that comes from leafy tints.
Where the green is growing,
you’ll find Christmas sentiments.
Where the green is growing,
you’ll find Christmas most intense!

Brian C. Billings is a professor of drama and English at Texas A&M University-Texarkana. His work has appeared in such journals as Ancient Paths, The Bluebird Word, Confrontation, Evening Street Review, Glacial Hills Review, and Poems and Plays. Publishers for his scripts include Eldridge Publishing and Heuer Publishing.

Winter Solstice Pantoum

20 December 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Ruth Zwald

Sometimes it is like an ache, this longing
for a burst of new life. To ease my soul
and find respite from the wonderings,
I breathe quietly.

For a burst of new life to ease my soul
stained and strained and oh-so-weary,
I breathe quietly
when hope flickers like a candle uncertain.

Stained and strained and oh-so-weary,
the aroma of good coffee is often enough
when hope flickers like a candle uncertain
in the windowsill of winter.

The aroma of good coffee is often enough
when shared with a friend. Laughter dances
in the windowsill of winter.
My age is visible in the lines around my eyes.

When shared with a friend, laughter dances
in the face of my fears.
My age is visible in the lines around my eyes
to tell the stories of all I hold dear.

In the face of my fears
sometimes it is like an ache – this longing
to tell the stories of all I hold dear
and find respite from the wonderings.

On her farm in West Michigan, Ruth Zwald lives close to the earth through her lifestyle and spiritual practices. Upon retirement, she started to unearth words. Winner of the Michigan Writers Cooperative Press in 2024 for her chapbook, Bones And Breath, and recently published in Farmer-ish Journal and The Guided Weathervane.

The Weight of Christmas Past

17 December 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Mitch Simmons

I remember the winters when the lights were few,
When Mama stretched a dollar till the silver shone through.
My sister and I would laugh by the tree so small,
Paper stars and dreams were our gifts, that was all.

We had no feast, no glittering store-bought cheer,
But love filled the cracks of each passing year.
Mama’s hands were weary, yet her smile never waned,
And my sister’s laughter was the song that remained.

Now the table is full, and the candles gleam bright,
But silence has settled where joy took flight.
The house is warm, the cupboards abound,
Yet echoes of yesteryear are the sweetest sound.

I’d trade all the gold, all the gifts, all the means,
For one more Christmas where love filled the seams.
For Mama’s soft humming, her voice pure and kind,
And my sister’s embrace, forever entwined.

The holidays come now with comfort and pain,
A blessing of plenty, a shadow of rain.
I stand in the glow of all I have earned,
But ache for the hearts that will not return.

Still, I light a candle for each of their names,
For the lessons they taught me through struggle and flame.
Love was our treasure when times were lean,
And even in loss, their spirits are seen.

Through every twinkle, each carol and prayer,
I feel them beside me, they’re still there.

Mitch Simmons is a writer who lives in Virginia.

Orange at Christmas

16 December 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Cecil Morris

The dwarf mandarin in the back yard is
so loaded with fruit it is more orange
than green, more fruit than tree, more and more,
an abundance beyond all eating
of our reduced family, children gone
to their own lives. We eat 8 or more
a day. We fill bags for neighbors right
and left and across the street, and still
fruit remains, grows soft, falls to the ground,
and rots, wasted. This lone tree presents
a bounty too great and makes me think of
“My Cup Runneth Over” and Ed Ames,
his rich baritone, and Psalm 23,
the goodness and mercy and plenty
and not the evil or shadow of death,
and my parents who told me oranges
were a luxury when they were young,
a treat, a Christmas gift and, some years,
the only gift. My parents, children
of the Great Depression, filled our lives
with gifts. On Christmas mornings before
we could play with anything, we had
to arrange all our gifts on our beds,
a display of how far they had come,
a proof of how they spoiled my sister
and me. When I see my mandarin tree,
its wealth of miniature oranges,
I see that embarrassment of riches.

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.