Category: Poetry (Page 6 of 41)

Neah Bay

19 June 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Ursula McCabe

Gull noise was always abundant
for the Makah People
even when they labored over
red cedar baskets
in their plank houses.

They lived by beaches
lined with purple-blue mussel shells.
Summer sunsets turned the sea
melon colors and behind their camp
ridges of conifer crowns
glowed hunter green
from the yellowish cast.

Since ancient times
Makah peoples have had the ability
to navigate places where
they cannot see land.

And even now when they return
to the rocks closer to shore,
there are the gulls—
calling them home.

Ursula McCabe sold wine in Portland, Oregon for many years. Her work can be seen in Piker Press, Oregon Poetry Association’s Verseweavers, Lit Shark Magazine, The Bluebird Word, and The Ekphrastic Review. She likes the ocean, forests, lots of birds, and shopping at thrift stores.

No Small Thing

16 June 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Lana Hechtman Ayers

from the size and shape
I can surmise

that it’s a lady bug plodding
across my window screen

black polka dots &
flame orange autumn wings

though only this bug’s
dark underbelly faces me

I know for certain
beauty is out there

ready to be seen

ready to fly off

Lana Hechtman Ayers has shepherded over a hundred forty poetry volumes into print in her role as managing editor for three small presses. Her work appears in Rattle, The London Reader, Peregrine, and elsewhere. Her newest collection is The Autobiography of Rain (Fernwood Press, 2024). Visit her online at LanaAyers.com.

Found a poem

13 June 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Burt Rashbaum

I walk alone in pre-dawn lantern light
sometimes two golden
eyes stare back
other times a hundred
tiny golden orbs all
different heights on the move
a heard of elk
most times a sky of stars a sliver of moon
as the morning light still sleeps
as the bloodshot horizon teases
dawn from the night
a small circle of silver visibility leads the way
beyond its edges the darkness mute unknowable
like a dream.

Burt Rashbaum’s publications are Of the Carousel and Blue Pedals. His poems have appeared in Storms of the Inland Sea (Shanti Arts Press, 2022), Boats Against the Current, The Ravens Perch, Valiant Scribe, The Bluebird Word, The Seraphic Review, and The Nature of Our Times.

Photo by José Luis Rodríguez Martínez on Unsplash

Chocolate Skies

10 June 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Peter A. Witt

In the twilight, the sky drips chocolate,
a velvety hue, soft as a lover’s caress,
filling the horizon like melted dreams.

Clouds loom, thick and rich,
floating like frosted truffles,
each a promise wrapped in dusk.

I savor dark pieces, bitter and sweet as memories,
each morsel a kaleidoscope of comfort.

Stars prick the canopy, tiny sugar sprinkles
against the night, while the moon blushes,
a creamy ganache, pouring tranquility
over weary eyes, chocolate in the clouds
and on my tongue, molding time into moments,
indulgent and fleeting.

Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet, twice nominated for Best of the Net. Peter also writes family history, is an avid birder and photographer. His poetry has been published on various poetry sites and appears in several anthologies.

Kingfisher

7 June 2025 / Editor

Poetry by John Grey

A dazzle of blue
skirts the green-water pond,
merges with a fish
in its squat beak.

He is a king.
No other bird sits so squat,
so regally, on a tree branch.

And a fisher of course.
His catch is inhaled
neatly down his gullet.

He flies off
and other birds arrive
in his wake.

They land
in a wave of salutations,
in a homage
to his feathery crown.

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.

First Light

4 June 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Sam Barbee

Snow surrounds the wide pond.
Squirrels bound edges.
Silence begotten by still water.
Catalyst for green leaves,
and April hymn.

Crystal glaze bursts open in sun–
ice will submit, sepia dispelled
with winter’s consent.
Trees resemble
black keys against white horizon,
flats and sharps to swoon the rabbit
down the slope.
Chill abides
with brown bear and cub.
Downey woodpeckers tap notations.
Nature’s fresh overture
spills treble,
underlies with bass notes–
morning song
and dirge alike.
A red fox waltzes
extinction. Toppled trunks and stumps
ossify, and
shadows absorb imprecise
light. A lively etude evolves
with the immaculate meadow.

Evergreens sway, fallen cones
freckling drifts. Each impact
an apostrophe
to this frozen canticle.
Dwindling imprints reminding
we dance alone.

Sam Barbee’s newest collection is Apertures of Voluptuous Force (2022, Redhawk Publishing). He has three previous poetry collections, including That Rain We Needed (2016, Press 53), a nominee for the Roanoke-Chowan Award as one of North Carolina’s best poetry collections of 2016; he is a two-time Pushcart nominee.

Lessons from Fire and Water

1 June 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Diane Melby

Fish jump in the canal behind the trailer park where I rest
my feet on a plastic bin, let the sun warm my neck.

This is not a park on the outskirts of a declining town but a haven
for those fleeing winter winds, returning each year to this community

where friendships grow as days melt over cocktails
and the sun sets over western lands.

I visit my sister whom I haven’t seen since fire stole her home in Lahaina
and she seems ok, enjoying activities with neighbors

and in quiet times, knitting hats to sell in her daughter’s shop, except
for a certain lassitude that has settled in the depths of her eyes.

They used to sparkle with the same blue green of the ocean
but now have darkened, reflecting the change in tides.

We launch paddleboards in a quiet cove of the Indian River. Accustomed
to the feel of shifting waters, she leads us through mangrove forests

into a tranquil lagoon. Later, I lose my bearing as mercurial winds
threaten to sweep me into turbulent waters. Every muscle tightens,

fear drives my breath away. I dig my paddle frantically into the water
as if I can dig myself a tunnel out of trouble. She comes to my rescue,

reminds me to stay calm when navigating rough waters. With a gentle push,
she returns me to the safety of the cove.

Diane Melby’s poetry has appeared in Gyroscope Review, Quartet, and Thimble, as well as in other print and online publications. She was recognized for literary excellence in 2024 by the Poetry Society of Virginia. She is the founder of the Salon for Creative Expression @ www.dianemelby.com, an intimate online arts community.

Enthusiasm for the Smell of the Sea

29 May 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Allan Scherlen

Open the car windows
and feel
the sea breeze blowing
through seats—
thick with smell
of salt and sand;
we drove over rice fields;
seagulls swarmed
the field’s grain;
and we crossed a causeway bridge—
seeing birds soar
over mirrors of water fields,
our family singing to the radio,
with enthusiasm for the sea.

Allan Scherlen’s experience is rooted in San Antonio and exploring roads along the Gulf of Mexico; eventually he moved to the Appalachia mountains. Along the way, poetry arose. And some friendly animals stuck around. Trips to Mexico and China influenced his writing. Being a librarian brought him close to books. For a specially-created video of this poem, please visit YouTube.

Above Omena Lake

26 May 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Sarah G. Pouliot

We lounge on the ledge of your grandfather’s dock
with two poles and a punctured cup of crickets,
watching snow geese ascend in an arrow,
black-tipped wings slicing dawn,
bellies blurred in billows.

Saltwater taffy cements to our molars;
toes wiggle in ripples, the whip
of your translucent line cracking
Omena’s mirror—when I tell you,
“I’m afraid of heights but not falling.”

Catapult me in the air—
a diving gannet searching for sardines,
a leaping Devil Ray, the sway of an oak
surrendering to wind like the smoke
from your after-breakfast cigarette.

Falling is familiar:
a scraped knee and sideways bike,
a plugged nose and cannonball plunge,
the plop of your soaring bobber brushing
the water like a sloppy morning kiss.

Sarah G. Pouliot is a poet and editor from Titusville, Florida. She believes that poetry has the power to bring stillness and meditative reflection in the midst of life’s chaos, and she hopes that her writing can do this for you—even if only for a moment.

The Ghost Light Greets the New Company

22 May 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Lois Anne DeLong

Standing watch during the intervals
When the applause has faded
A single bulb keeps guard
In this sacred space

A safety measure of course,
This unadorned ghost light.
No more than a bulb on a stand
Yet, perhaps something more

A welcome to those who
Would not tread earth’s boards again
What shadow plays might these
Restless thespians choose to stage?

Unfettered from the constraints
Of printed word, melodic forms,
Physical limitations, or living imaginations.
Free at last to share their dreams

On this side of
The undiscovered country
The word “Places” can be heard
And the replacement cast now take their places

Lois Anne DeLong is a freelance writer living in Queens, New York, and an active member of Woodside Writers, a literary forum that meets weekly. Her stories have appeared in Dear Booze, Short Beasts, and DarkWinter Literary Journal, and her poetry is found in Literary Cocktail.