Category: Poetry (Page 7 of 41)

Instructions on Chivalry

19 May 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Nancy Kay Peterson

Hold the door open
and honor “Ladies First.”
Pull out the chair
when she seeks a seat.
Walk on the street side
to shelter her from splashes.
Stand up when she enters
or leaves a room.
Lend her your arm
when the going gets rough.
Don’t leave bruises
that have to be explained.

Nancy Kay Peterson’s poetry has appeared in The Bluebird Word, Dash Literary Journal, Last Stanza, RavensPerch, Spank the Carp, Steam Ticket, and Tipton Poetry Journal. She co-published Main Channel Voices: A Dam Fine Literary Magazine (2004-2009). She has authored two chapbooks, Belated Remembrance (2010) and Selling the Family (2021). See www.nancykaypeterson.com.

tree

16 May 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Miguel Rodríguez Otero

the tree at the back of my yard is scheduled
to be felled by the city in the coming days
its roots spread well into the wildflower patch
then outward and deep
eventually intersecting with fiber cables

my father planted it soon after i was born
in the black-and-whites he is digging a hole
while mom is breastfeeding me

half my life is scattered around this tree
playing fetch with dog
first cigarettes at night at the swing

the other half is buried
childhood thoughts and teenage obsessions
that have hidden away
inert like cables that intertwine with adult fears
which i always say i’ll unearth
and get rid of in the winter

but all of them – roots and fears –
have continued growing

the tree remains quiet
probably considering whether
to change colors and shed leaves
as if nothing was to happen

my feet are now restless
waiting for a sign
unsure how to say goodbye
to mom and dad
raising me away from fears

Miguel Rodríguez Otero’s poems appear in The Lake, Book of Matches, Red Fern Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, Scapegoat Review, Last Leaves Magazine, The Bluebird Word, DarkWinter Literary Magazine, and The Raven’s Perch. He likes walking country roads and is friends with a heron that lives in the marsh near his home.

This morning, I woke early

13 May 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Stacie Eirich

This morning, I woke early, stepped out
when eastern light was rising. A cool breeze
brought goosebumps. Two blue finches
flew fast, diving and calling from tree to tree.
The thick hanging branches of palms swayed,
hiding flashes of feathers beneath green tents.
The rumble of motors began to whir as the hour
turned, the roar of engines breaking through air
as titanium wings soared above, over and over
hulking giants of steel passing in dawn’s light.
The day bright with golden sun, the noise
of so much life, so much commotion.
My heart beats small, silent, my ears unable
to stifle the sounds throbbing around me.
I go back inside, sip my coffee, read a few lines.
Listen to the sounds muted, watch the light creep
over the trees, the rocks, the pool’s edge.
Watch how the water almost stills, its flow
small and constant, a moving blue-green mirror.
Feel how time moves slowly, how in this space
there is only air and light, cool and warmth,
flowing water and rough-hewn rock.
How they live and breathe in the midst
of our human clutter and noise and need
of so much, of more, of everything.
How the only thing they need is the rising
of rays to ascend heavenward— how the branches
reach the light, fingers of fronds dancing
beside a blue jay’s quick winged perch.
How when I step outside once more, my fingers
can’t quite reach, touch, my skin can’t feel
this brightness. My heart moored elsewhere, my soul
seeking peace in a place that can’t be mine. Even with
all this light, all this life— all these things.
What is enough? I wish to be a bird, to fly and call,
fleeing and free, quick and light as dawn, rising
with silver-tipped wings into golden sunlight. Here
then gone — bright, beautiful. A small burst
of feathered joy in golden sunlight, a brush of dawn, a rush
of feathers, a voice ringing loud, blue-silver streak
of a bright, exuberant heart.

Stacie Eirich is a mother of two, caregiver, and poet. Her book, Hope Like Sunlight (Bell Asteri Publishing, 2024), is an illustrated memoir benefitting St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. Her poems have recently been published in The Amazine, The Bluebird Word, and Synkroniciti Magazine. She lives in Texas. Visit her at www.stacieeirich.com

Mothers Carrying Things

10 May 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Rachel Beachy

We begin by carrying the car seat,
the diaper bag, the pump parts
and pacifiers.
Then they grow and bring us
collected rocks, Lego blocks,
remains of snacks,
dirty tissues.
All of this
we take in
so they will know:
whatever you hand to me,
I can handle
no matter how heavy it gets.
Remember, I once carried
my whole world
in the crook of my elbow.
There is nothing I cannot hold
for you.

Rachel Beachy lives in Kentucky with her husband and children. Her poems have appeared in Ephemera, Freshwater, The Orchards Poetry Journal, The Rising Phoenix Review, Sky Island Journal, Steam Ticket and others. Her debut collection “Tiny Universe” will be published by Kelsay Books.

Making Beds

7 May 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Alexandra Newton Rios

I throw the clean sheet up into the air
that my mother bought us
from the United States
to stretch it across the wide algarrobo bed
and as I center the white-and-light gray striped top sheet,
tuck each side along the bed
with the tips of my fingers
because the top sheet has not held bodies,
cradled them across the years
unlike the bottom fitted sheet grown threadbare
and sewed back into life several times,
I think of my mother before she is gone.
I have been doing this a lot lately
and wonder if the memory of her
will remain in the sheet
when I fly it into the air
and let it down on my bed.
Will memory cover me and warm me
when I need to be warmed?
How do we suddenly stretch memories
so that out of the old the new may come?
My mother taught me to fold
hospital bed corners at the end of the bed
holding sheets and blanket together.
I gained a Housekeeping badge
as a Junior Girl Scout.
We are so different.
Throughout my years in another land
where she was born I have only needed
to know she is still living.

Alexandra Newton Rios is the mother of five children and a marathon runner. Nueva York Poetry Press published Poemas de Georgia/The Georgia Poems, one long poem in 34 parts as a dialogue with American artist Georgia O’Keeffe in November 2024.

Unbridled

1 May 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Rachel Beachy

When the horses run, they run
wildly without pre
amble – the gates open
the gun sounds
they go as if their lives depend on it
and they do
They were born so they walk
and they walk so they run –
I used to find it remarkable, how at two years old
they could be their fullest force
then I watch you at the same age,
your short legs carrying you
down
the
hill
as close to flying as falling
and so free you do not fear the difference.

Good Night, Jasper

27 April 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Brian Christopher Giddens

At the end of the day, I go downstairs to where Jasper lays sprawled across the cushions of the couch he claimed ten years ago when he first arrived, shaking with fear, pressing himself into a corner against the armrest. But now he knows the nighttime ritual: he stretches his legs, rolling to the side to expose his white-fur chest. I perch on the edge of the couch, rubbing his belly, his eyes open, still not fully trusting, my touch gentle, slow, as Jasper doesn’t like surprises. One final rub and I move to the kitchen, the treat jar. With the clang of the pottery lid, he rouses from his bed for three small biscuits, gently taken one by one from my fingers. I walk to the stairs, stop on the landing, turning back to see him standing near his bed, watching me. “Good night, Jasper, be a good boy,” I say. His deep brown eyes stare back, as if he’s saying the same thing to me, making sure I’m on my way, before returning to his couch and an undisturbed slumber.

Brian Christopher Giddens writes fiction and poetry from his home in Seattle, where he lives with his husband, and Jasper the dog. Brian’s writing has been featured in Sequestrum, Litro, Roi Faineant, Raven’s Perch, Hyacinth Review, Rue Scribe, Glimpse and Evening Street Review. His work can be found on https://www.brianchristophergiddens.com/

Sestina for a Beloved Son

24 April 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Alice Collinsworth

I start the journey to see him before dawn, a long stretch
of interstate highways and two-lane roads to follow,
traveling alone a long distance with only the voice
of my mapping app for company. I turn
on the radio for a while, looking for distraction, but time
passes slowly nonetheless. I turn it off again. Straight

ahead is the entrance ramp to I-35. “Drive straight
for 148 miles,” Google instructs me. This stretch
is well known, comfortable, traveled many times
to class reunions or family gatherings in Kansas. “Follow
the yellow brick road,” as they say there. I turn
my mind to autopilot and talk to myself, my voice

rising above the hum of the tires; the only voice
answering is the one in my head (not always on straight,
I admit, muddling conversations). I can turn
that inner voice off sometimes, but not today. It’s a stretch
to engage with it, honestly, but we reminisce together. I follow
a red Peterbilt to Wichita, making good time.

From there it’s a less-familiar route, traveled only a few times,
northeast to Kansas City to see my son. His voice
on the phone had sounded so earnest, beseeching – so I follow
the compass of my heart, though our relationship was never straight-
forward. There were years we barely spoke, long stretches
of distance and silence. He has reached out now, so it’s my turn

to make the effort, to reach back. We had issues, but he’s turned
out so very well, and I yearn to be there now. This time
I’m determined to connect, to build that bridge. I stop to stretch
my legs and buy coffee at a truck stop, where the cashier’s voice
reminds me of my own late mother – a strait-
laced woman if there ever was one, who followed

her Bible’s rules doggedly. One of the rare, true followers
of Christ, she called herself. “You must turn
from your evil ways,” she would admonish my son. “Strait
and narrow is the gate, you know.” She railed at him so many times
that we stopped going to her, stopped calling. I don’t want my own voice
to sound like hers. Love needs to bend, to expand, to stretch

and embrace. I follow the guidance of the GPS and not my mom this time,
turning onto the last highway that leads to the voice of my dear son,
heading straight to him, stretching out my arms.

Alice Collinsworth worked in journalism, writing and media relations during her career and is now happily retired with her cat, Cookie, to keep her company. Her poems and stories have appeared in several online journals and local collections. She has won numerous awards in regional contests. She lives in Oklahoma.

Baby Mama in Autumn

17 April 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Laurie Didesch

For my Mom

The radiant light intensifies the blue sky. It filters
down from on high. Baby Mama and I are walking
through the kaleidoscope of colors. Baby Mama

stops awestruck. With hand to mouth, she points
to a fiery maple tree and a sunburst locust with
golden leaves. Excited, she declares, I’ve never

seen such beauty. What has happened to these
trees? The day is bright and clear in contrast to
her memory. But this moment offers a glimmer

of hope that all is not lost. Baby Mama can still
experience wonder—the pure simple joy of a
child in a moment of discovery. She reminds

me that regardless of our plight, we can still
celebrate life. We rarely stop to notice the new
in every moment. She sends a message despite

her dementia. We need only look with fresh
eyes to experience delight. However, I still
mourn her illness and it’s devastating effects.

Baby Mama and I head home. We both have
a skip in our steps knowing that the mist some
times lifts and gives us a glimpse of eternity.

Laurie Didesch has poetry appearing or forthcoming in Ibbetson Street, The Comstock Review, The MacGuffin, California Quarterly, Third Wednesday, Young Ravens Literary Review, The Ravens Perch, and Stone Poetry Quarterly, among others.

The Sound of the Rain

12 April 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Steven Deutsch

My grandmother liked nothing
better than to walk in the rain.
On days when most were calculating
how best to stay dry while getting from A to B
she would don her old gray raincoat
and even older brown umbrella
and walk a few miles down Church Avenue
past a hundred store fronts
to nowhere in particular.

She never wore a watch
and I often wondered
how she knew to turn back
or if she always would.
It would not have been that hard,
it seemed to me,
to find a better place to live.
I watched for her,
as if the watching were a magnet
to draw her back home.

I only walked with her once.
At first, I blabbered and struggled
to keep up—my stride
half of hers.
But I soon settled, realizing
the sound of the rain
didn’t need the accompaniment of my voice.
That very wet March Day
she took me into one of the corner candy stores
that dotted our path
for a burger and vanilla malt.
Grandma had tea with milk and sugar.
The trip back was half as long
and twice as quiet—in the best way
I could imagine.

Steve Deutsch is editor of Centered Magazine. He has published six poetry books of which Brooklyn was awarded the Sinclair poetry prize by Evening Street Press. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prizes and the Best of the Net.