Tag: beauty (Page 1 of 3)

May We Still Sing?

26 October 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Anne Makeever

Winter blows in late, its inevitability until now unsure. What relief
to watch a pristine obliteration of snow nearly bury the summer chairs
and limn the bare oaks that frame the cold cove.

I want to sigh over the softness, the muffling depth that quiets the day,
to feast on the fineness of black and white that turns O so heartbreakingly,
lavishly purple at dusk. Look, my eyes say, here’s beauty. I want to forget

that life is erasing. Bees, darkness, glaciers, monarchs can’t carry our weight.
The seasons shift, from white to green to orange, each a gift undeserved,
a psalm to savor.

Yes, my mother’s face was beautiful when she died, but the rupture remains.
Consolation comes in what will continue, in the scab that forms at the edge
of the tear then gives over to eventual scar.

Anne Makeever’s work appears in the Eliot Review, Plant Human Quarterly, RavensPerch, and River Styx. She holds an MFA from Washington University in St. Louis, where she also taught poetry and essay writing. She lives in Brunswick, Maine, with her partner and exuberant dog.

Charles Reznikoff Appraises the Zinnia

20 October 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Deborah H. Doolittle

These days the zinnias in the garden
awake at dawn and await the sun
to open up before them
like the one blossom they’d all like to become.

Let other flowers bloom as dreams
beneath other people’s windows
and rise up from their cultivated beds
in clumps of ordinary color.

These zinnias leap into the air
and broadcast their ambition across the lawn,
not a petal out of place
but has known the touch of dew.

Deborah H. Doolittle has lived in lots of different places, but now calls North Carolina home. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of Floribunda, and three chapbooks No Crazy Notions, That Echo, and Bogbound. When not editing BRILLIG: a micro lit mag, she is training for road races or practicing yoga.

Bright Prospects

1 September 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Andy Oram

Free from guile or prejudice, snow
Casts a rarified grace.

It fills the land with crisp equity,
Assured monument to the Earth’s greatest artifice,
The tip in axis that brings us appointed seasons.

Crystal, by breeze-sculpted crystal, fasten atoms
Poised to bestow the promise of
Our existence.

Each waterous orb, spritz of the universe’s most fertile molecule,
Hugs its drop until the Earth’s bias turns once again
So that the crocus and hyacinth wake to its flow.

If you take the snow to you,
If you survey its bright prospects,
Stride into its treasured potential,
Run hands through its sharp intensity,
Taste its porcelain presence,
You can glory in the working of the world.

Andy Oram is a writer and editor in the computer field. His editorial projects have ranged from a legal guide covering intellectual property to a graphic novel about teenage hackers. Print publications where his writings have appeared include The Economist, The Journal of Information Technology & Politics, and Vanguardia Dossier.

Like a Tree Planted by the River

1 August 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Rochelle Shapiro

As if summoned by a dream to this bench
along the Mohawk where cherry trees weep
pink and white blossoms that spill into the river,
I hear a congregation of birds:
an oriole whistles and chatters,
a blue jay performs its whispery song.
Hidden among the reeds, a bittern
thrums its low heartbeat like words
that take shape as if spoken before.

This is my cathedral:
a roof of sky, a river edged with sedge,
the swordlike veined leaves of Sweet
Flag, the white bell-shaped flowers
that dangle from the arcing vines
of King Solomon’s Seal,
and the Fiddlehead Fern
that curls like my granddaughter’s hair.

[Author Note: Poem title from Psalm 1:3]

Rochelle Jewel Shapiro has published in The New York Times (Lives). Nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, her short stories and poetry have been published in Prism, The MacGuffin, Euphony, The Iowa Review, The Atlanta Review, and more. Find her at http://rochellejshapiro.com, @rjshapiro, and @rochelle.j.shapiro.

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.

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.

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.

Robin Bathing in Puddle

26 March 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Russell Rowland

The puddle was available, because
it rained last night. Drought means a long time
between birdbaths.

Only a quick dip and flutter. Overindulgence
takes time away from foraging.

I relate to the hygienics
of a backyard bird, for after all, we too are songs
bird-caged in bodies for a while—

though we have bathed in the Jordan
with some others, to wash away shortcomings;

restore our voices. The robin
meanwhile simply rises, refreshed and cleansed,
to a nest with its three promises.

Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire. Recent work appears in Red Eft Review, Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry books, Wooden Nutmegs and Magnificat, are available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust.

Because It’s Beautiful

1 June 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Beate Sigriddaughter

She does not believe in obedience to complications. When she plays her flute, she doesn’t play because it’s hard. She plays because it’s beautiful, like singing, even if it is ridiculously easy. Explaining this to experts is a challenge. Sometimes it takes days before she can resume reality with unassuming confidence. She is old enough to follow her own rules, but often still hesitates at the door of permission without knocking, and she still has trouble finding a safe haven for her longing. Once upon a time she woke up celebrating trees outside her window or the scent of cedar after rain and sparkles at the tips of junipers. She contemplates the lord of good intentions with a trembling candle in her hand, like Psyche looked at Eros long ago. Just like a simple tune, she finds him beautiful, and bravely whispers to herself: Let him sleep. He needs his rest, trapped in his fears. Every restraint, though, makes the future harder, like incessant rain as summer fades into the dreaded shapes of insignificance. She gathers scents and music, fragments of herself. People parade in her dreams, harmless like conundrums. Sometimes she dreams of perfume and all her misery is nothing more than being reasonably well loved. She readily admits she might have liked God but never got a chance. She never steals from others, not intentionally anyway. Now she must simply learn to master not stealing from herself.

Beate Sigriddaughter, www.sigriddaughter.net, lives in Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment), where she was poet laureate from 2017 to 2019. Her poetry and short prose are widely published in literary magazines. Recent book publications include a poetry collection, Wild Flowers, and short story collection, Dona Nobis Pacem.

Full Circle

1 April 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Sheila Rittenberg

Nose

The first time I really saw it, I was ten or younger, looking into a hand mirror while standing in profile in front of a bigger mirror. My nose. It was hookish. Not just a kink. All of it. Short but bent. Like someone started something and forgot to finish.

I stared and stared. Until then, I’d believed everyone who’d said I was so cute, such a lovable face. And that was what I’d always seen in the mirror. Their praise lifted me in the mornings, tucked me into bed at night.

My sister had a straight, slightly turned-up nose. Not a ski jump. It was trim and neat, like a sweet goodbye or the perfect toast at a party. Flawless. My parents told me I had to be more like her, keep it up, and while you’re at it, be even better! I tried. I was at the mirror every night, searching. Would my nose change? Would it grow as I grew? I daydreamed myself into my sister. Compared my every move in sister terms – boys, friends, athletics. All beyond me. She was older. Teenage older. Cheerleader. Homecoming Queen. Agile figure skater and skier. Girlfriend of redhaired Bad Boy, Johnny F.

I faced up to the mirror always avoiding my profile. But that side silhouette was one of those things you can’t un-see. In frontal view, I was a little Irish girl with big eyes. Sideways, I was Barbra Streisand but without the allure, or the voice.

Mouth

When I was twelve and getting braces, the orthodontist told me my top lip would always look something like an upside down “U.” In the space from the base of the nostrils to the top lip there is a groove, he pointed out, and mine was too short. So my lip, whether I wanted it or not, lifted up above my teeth. My braced teeth.

“Start doing these exercises now,” the orthodontist warned as he showed me how to stretch my top lip down over my teeth, “or you’ll never be able to close your mouth.”

I looked up at him – mouth wide, elastic bands about to snap – and nodded. I didn’t care if my mouth was forever open. My bared teeth would be straight ones. No more taunts of Moose or Hey, Bugs Bunny as I walked the school halls. No more ducking behind opened locker doors.

The nose, the lip, and oh yes, the inclination to pudginess, were a lot to concentrate on. Every day. Between classes. During classes. After school. I walked the hallways, eyes racing from skinny girls to golden girls to those popular girls surrounded by friends and fans. Then home to my sister and the prom date she’d snagged, or the new cheerleading routine, or the simple certainty of her beauty. Her braces were long gone. One look at her and I’d well up. There had to be a reason I was inadequate. I just didn’t know what it was.

Brain

In university, I guzzled from the intellect of others. I, the girl from the suburbs, asked a million questions of new friends with cigarettes dangling from brooding faces. What’s behind Power to the People? Was Marx a good guy? What exactly is wrong with capitalism? We analyzed. We studied. Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, every lyric, joints passing freely, the room a sweet musty void. I joined the student occupation to protest faculty racism. Blankets and sleeping bags lay side by side, students strummed guitars, organizers hammered talking points through bullhorns. The world was at stake.

I’d show up at my sister’s in a bright gauzy blouse, torn jeans, beads and bangles, paisley bandana folded across my forehead. She and her blond bob and three kids, dog and harried husband, would’ve fit right into The Brady Bunch. I’d talk about the outrage of government. She was consumed with menus for the week.

The ’60s and You Say You Want A Revolution were calling. And I answered. I tackled slum landlords, drug use in high schools, inferior pay for corporate women. My parents thought I was radical. I liked that.

Heart

Babies. My babes. Now staring into infant eyes made me high. By my late thirties, pediatrician visits and weight gains, gurgles and chortles were all it took to be happy. I made baby food from scratch and talked nonstop to my little ones, explaining the world, even when all they could say was “Mama.” I played peek-a-boo and made goofy faces. I floated. Motherhood was a prize. First Prize. My sister made faces, strained ones, she too young with too much to care for.

I didn’t stare at myself in the mirror these days but I was okay with looking. I enjoyed the curls around my forehead, my skin, silkier than I’d known. I liked my blue-eyed moon gaze. A smile – no overbite – filled my face. All together my look was … well, evidently not so bad. The badass kid checking out groceries looked at me with desire. Same with the wild-bearded gas station guy, and the twenty-something cop who came to bash in my car window when I locked my son inside along with the keys. Maybe they’d been right long ago. Maybe I was cute, so lovable.

My face had made friends with my nose. I no longer tried to be just like my sister, or better. She was still older. I tried not to remind her.

Sheila Rittenberg retired in 2019 and became a member of the Pinewood Table, a critique workshop facilitated by mentors. She became a two-year Fellow at Atheneum, a masters level writing program at The Attic Institute in Portland, OR. Sheila writes short stories and “flash” creative nonfiction.