Tag: beauty (Page 2 of 2)

After the Blizzard

20 June 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Wally Swist

The fox prints puncturing the surface
of the snow after the blizzard
score its whiteness—
the same four notes pressing themselves
over and over again, in a meandering line
across a page, that is more silence
than music, but is still a melody that
can barely be heard,
shadows filling the tracks beneath
the pine branches shifting in the wind.

But it is the sound of the bells
that not so much startles me
as it offers me solace, ringing
from a distance, this soft chiming of sleigh
bells, until as it gets closer, it is more
of a whistle, the notes becoming distinct—
making me aware of its velocity, now
in flight, the tinkling call of a white-throated
sparrow, streaking close to my ear, melding
its voice with the streaming winter sunlight.

Wally Swist’s books include Huang Po and the Dimensions of Love (Southern Illinois University Press, 2012), selected by Yusef Komunyakaa for the 2011 Crab Orchard Open Poetry Competition, and A Bird Who Seems to Know Me: Poems Regarding Birds and Nature, winner of the 2018 Ex Ophidia Poetry Prize.

Photo by Richard Pasquarella on Unsplash

Shells

19 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Fred Miller

Like a federation of flowers
with slick, shiny faces,
they sparkle in the light from above.

And dance with tiny ripples
that lap up on the shore by my toes.
Are those conspiratorial smirks I see?

Could these new arrivals be laughing at me?
Maybe it’s a gurgling gathering of giggles or
woeful mothers weaving tales of youth lost at sea.

What’s with the frozen faces, I wonder?
And where on this vast planet have they been?
And where could these vagabonds be going?

No doubt, they slipped in on the morning tide.
Will they steal out when the new moon beckons?
Please pause and share tales of daring treks to afar,

And tempests you’ve chanced on the angry seas.
Paint pictures of huge fishes of the deep
you’ve encountered across the vast, blue sea.

And of melodies of whales soothing calves.
Peering up in silence, they gently nod.
Small waves kiss this congress tumbling about.

Another brings another and more as
they roll and toss and sway and nod again.
And in the blink of an eye, they are gone.

Fred Miller is a California writer. His poems and stories have appeared in publications round the world over the past ten years. Many may be seen on his blog: https://pookah1943.wordpress.com

Lines

9 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Christine Andersen

I don’t want to be the person
who colors outside the lines.

I want to be the one who lifts them from the page

scallops and twists and folds

until there is a butterfly
perched on my outstretched palm.

Be the one who blows the parting kiss.

Christine Andersen is a retired dyslexia specialist who hikes daily through the CT woods with her hounds. The changing New England seasons inspire her poems. Publications include Comstock, Octillo, American Writers and Awakenings Reviews, Glimpse, Dash, Months to Years and upcoming in Glassworks and Evening Street Press.

glowing firefly on a grass — Photo by Flash Dantz on Pexels.com

3 haiku

2 June 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Joyce Miller

The last leaves fall
from the weeping cherry—
the farmer sees the city.

Blade of green
sharp with spring,
in winter snow.

A firefly alights a light
of bioluminescence on
a moonless night in June.

Joyce Miller served as a senior editorial assistant for The Cincinnati Review and her work has been published in The RavensPerch, Crack the Spine, Serving House Journal, aaduna, and Venture; Ohio Voices. She currently teaches Italian in the Romance and Arabic Languages and Literatures Department at the University of Cincinnati.

blue and white boat on body of water — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

i am learning to be still

1 April 2022 / 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.

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 Ariel Chart International Literary Journal, Auroras & Blossoms Anthologies, Scarlet Leaf Review & Potato Soup Journal. She lives near New Orleans with three cats, two kids and one fish (www.stacieeirich.com).

Photo by Simion Andreea-Marina on Unsplash

Not Too Often

28 February 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Marianne Brems

It’s an ordinary day,
nothing to celebrate.
She puts on
just the right hat,
at just the right angle,
not for warmth
or to protect from sun,
one to blend perfectly
with the afternoon light
in a room
where heads might turn,
not too quickly,
not all at once.
No scarf over her shoulder,
no pearls around her neck,
just a hat,
not too new,
not too old,
a style seen occasionally,
but not too often.

Marianne Brems’ two poetry chapbooks are Sliver of Change (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and Unsung Offerings (Finishing Line Press, 2021). Her poems have also appeared in literary journals including Nightingale & Sparrow, The Sunlight Press, The Lake, and Green Ink Poetry. She lives and cycles in Northern California. Website: www.mariannebrems.com.

a jade plant on a brown pot — Photo by EKATERINA BOLOVTSOVA on Pexels.com

Succulent

9 February 2022 / 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.

Heather Bartos lives near Portland, Oregon, and writes fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. Her writing has been published in Miniskirt Magazine, Fatal Flaw Literary Magazine, Stoneboat Literary Journal, Porcupine Literary, You Might Need To Hear This, and The Dillydoun Review, and upcoming in Scapegoat Review and The Closed Eye Open.