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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.

Darjeeling Tea

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Shreya Datta

If you like your pleasures subtle,
and your caffeine lean,
I present before you
the delights of Darjeeling.

Not the tea bags — get the actual leaves.
No Earl Grey, sugar, or additives.
One teaspoon for a cup so fine
warrants a pretty tea set — I’ve got mine!

Steep, sip, savor —
the foothills’ Himalayan flavor.
Can you taste inspiration,
with a hint of salvation?
Inhale the mountain’s lessons,
let your tongue explore those Darjeeling sensations.

Improves your enjoyment of books,
gifts you a contemplative outlook.
This isn’t matcha or chai —
it’s its own serene high.

Like a woman, this tea blushes
in different hues with its seasonal flushes.
A handshake in a cup, the Champagne of all teas,
a quiet ritual so comforting.
Sip slowly, breathe with ease —
and fall in love with Darjeeling, please.

Shreya Datta is a Philadelphia-based poet whose work dwells in small beauties and quiet awakenings. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Lighten Up Online, Rue Scribe, Poets Choice, Wingless Dreamer Press, and Moonstone Press. She writes about tenderness, belonging, and the art of seeing.

New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Cecil Morris

Last day, first day, side by side. Please, no.
I’d like a break, a pause, a little intermission,
like school with that last day in early June
and the first day held off until late August
or early September, one a sunny swell
of promise and satisfaction at having done,
the other a sunny swell of promise, too,
another chance to do things right.
Please, don’t give me a sandwich of now and then
with filling to airy thinness beat, the merest hint
of butter, jam. Please don’t give me a restless
interval too brief for number, a wink,
a blink between who I was and who I want
to be—really just another slice
of white bread from the same old loaf.
Give me a chance to change.

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.

Infinity

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Jeanine Stevens

Here at the beginning of the year,
dinner of broiled scallops,
Sonoma Valley wine.

In twilight, Venus forever shy, wavering.
I sit in the redwood gazebo
goblet in hand

In my worn Uggs and infinity scarf
not allowed to go in just yet.
Faint starlight, orange slit of sun—
my hands folded.

A heavy presence, maybe a spirit,
even more than one, muscular
and brown, apart from the living.
Perhaps a thing unfinished,
still wanting.

And with intention
just this night, in the quiet
of late commuters I stay long
in the retreating hour.

Wind chimes hold zinnia’s dust,
each day alike, not exactly the same.

Jeanine Stevens has a number of poetry collections and award winning chapbooks. Poems have appeared in Rosebud, Poet Lore, Evansville Review, The McGuffin, Comstock Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, and Two Thirds North (Sweden), among many other publications. She is Professor Emerita at American River College.

Papa’s Garage

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Sarah Pouliot

I stood in your garage, inhaling sawdust
like incense as you unveiled the new altar:
a dove and an olive branch etched into peeling
cedar, curled shavings scattered on cement
like split ends at a barber shop.

“There’s a sculpture inside every sapling;
my job is to set it free,” you told me—
voice as rusty as the metal bench I leaned on.
I didn’t know you were quoting Michelangelo
until “Taps” resounded from a bugle

and two men folded an American flag
into a perfect triangle—the day New
Hampshire’s bleached sky became
an ocean of arctic terns, white wings
coalescing behind their captain.

Now, I stand in your garage.
It’s cleaner than ever.
No shavings stick to my soles
as I glimpse the sallow glow of Christmas lights
Dad hangs with your hammer.

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

Putting Christmas Away

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Lorraine Jeffery

When we’re on the end of the bell curve,
we’re slower to take the wreath off the door.
Reluctant to welcome the uncharted year,
without solving and mourning the past one.

We’re slower to take the wreath off the door,
remove the twinkling lights, number the
ornaments and put away the tree.

Reluctant to welcome the new uncharted year.
We’re hoping for a high standard deviation,
and we don’t want to move on

without solving and mourning the last one.
Knowing statistically, that more years
have been subtracted than will be added.

Lorraine Jeffery has won numerous prizes and published many poems in journals including Westward Quarterly, Clockhouse, Orchard Press, Halcyone and Tahoma. Her first book is titled When the Universe Brings Us Back (2022). Her two chapbooks titled Tethers and Saltwater Soul were published in 2023 and 2024 by Kelsay Books.

Retrieving the Mail in January

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Perie Longo

I wish the mailman Happy New Year
and tongue in cheek, he grins Merry Christmas
and I say Happy Presidents’ Day,
counting the hours until the next
long weekend still recovering from
holiday trappings and he laughs
Happy Valentine’s Day
and I counter Happy Easter
when along grinds the refuse truck.
My four-foot Christmas tree
looks like a top hat on the head
of Charles Dickens’ ghost
protruding from the grave
of the green recycle bin. “Just leave it,”
I say. “Christmas will be here in no time.”
The Mailman and I stand on the curb
enjoying our repartee. Meanwhile,
the Marborg man on a mission scowls,
“Yes or No?” I concede,
“It’s all yours,” pleased to think of
my tree’s mulch nurturing
a stranger’s garden,
and we wave off the past
as if it never happened. At my age,
Oh Happy Day!

Perie Longo (Santa Barbara Poet Laureate 2007-09) has published four books of poetry, her latest Baggage Claim, as well as poems in many journals. She teaches poetry at the Santa Barbara Writers conference as well as privately, and facilitates writing poetry for bereavement at Hospice.

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/.

The Bluebird Word

Page 2 of 62

Puck’s Paper

Darjeeling Tea

New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day

Infinity

Papa’s Garage

Putting Christmas Away

Retrieving the Mail in January

First Snow, Final Page

Poinsettias

Cheerful Misery

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