Tag: gratitude (Page 1 of 5)

moon in sky reflected in river — Photo by Brice Cooper on Unsplash

To Clare, Whose Name Means Light

1 October 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Ed Ruzicka

I see moon’s fingerprint in rills
that spread across black water,
to nudge and lift up lily pads.

I know, I know, that you are brave
and like the rest of our family
never one to hug. Nevertheless
I must do something. Anything. Maybe

place two fingertips to my third eye
because I am old and have become
afraid of seeing into the future.
Hold my fingers there so I become calm again
and close to you as moonlight on dark water.

When we were wee, sister
whose name means light,
mom would instruct you
to sit down upon our couch.
Then she’d place me, swaddled, in your arms.
You cooed to me, softly sang
fragments of nursery rhymes
and ditties that you’d learned at school.

Tonight I want to give back.
Not that you need it. You are stronger,
so much stronger, than I ever was.
Yet I would like to lift you.
Hold you, sister formed of light,
the way black waters hold the moon.

Ed Ruzicka’s fifth full-length book of poetry, The Invention of Dreaming, published in early 2026. Ed’s poems have appeared in the Atlanta Review, Rattle, Canary, and many others, and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He is president of the Poetry Society of Louisiana.

envelope with light purple flowers inside — Photo by Anita Austvika on Unsplash

Dear Dad

1 October 2026 / Editor

Nonfiction by Leslie Lisbona

Dear Dad,
I wonder if you are still 85. Although I’m not sure that’s the age you would want to be for eternity.

I have vague and sweet memories of you in your early 40s. I would wait for you to come home from work. It was the last thing I got to do before going to bed. You would squat down, open your arms, and hug me. I was so excited I could barely stand it. And I made you laugh, mixing up my French and English by telling you, “You are piquey.” Your face was too rough, and I should have said, “Ca pique.” But you knew what I meant, and your laugh felt like a rumble in my chest.

You had your own store by then, Ripley’s, right near the Park Avenue entrance to Grand Central. Ripley’s was small, the walls crammed with electronic equipment. It had a stool that you propped me up on while you and Mom shared a cigarette over my head and murmured to each other in French and Arabic.

Or maybe you are 50 years old. I remember your 50th birthday because I was 10. Debi and I went out to get you a card and a Carvel cake in your brand new car. Debi swung her long hair back as she reversed too fast. We hit a pillar in the garage of our building and the car was totaled.

Or you might be 60. That is when you had Spectra on Madison Avenue, still small but bigger than Ripley’s. Sometimes if Mom asked you for money, you would say, “I don’t have a penny.” I remember feeling confused, not knowing if we were on the brink of financial ruin.

A bit later you had the first of your open-heart surgeries. That was when I realized I could lose you.

I wonder if you and Mom are together again? I wonder what ages you are – maybe you are both in your 60s, even though you died 15 years after she did. Mom wouldn’t like that you married Nina. Debi slipped your wedding ring off your finger in the funeral home. She didn’t want Mom to see it, especially because you never wore one in all the years you were married to her.

Do you remember the trouble you gave me when I finally moved out? I loved my first apartment, on Eighth Avenue and 53rd. I had Aaron then but not yet Oliver. I still saw you every Friday night for a movie, and once a week you double-parked on 6th Avenue near my office and I would hop into the elevator, pressing the lobby button over and over because I couldn’t wait to see you. Sometimes I teased you and said, “Aren’t you glad you had me?” and you would laugh and laugh. Once you knocked on my apartment door at 7am with bagels and coffee. I knew you were missing me. I felt like crying, which made it hard to swallow my bite of bagel. After we ate, I got ready to go to work and you went home to Queens, alone.

Do you know that I am 61 years old and that I haven’t set eyes on you in almost two decades?

Now we live in a different house that reminds me of our house in Queens. We have a dog named Rhoda. Val lost his father a few years ago. We have started traveling together, just the two of us, and it is wonderful. Aaron is 28 and engaged to be married; Oliver is 25 with a serious girlfriend. They work virtually, from home.

This is new: You can work from home now.

I wish I had had that option. I ached for Aaron and Oliver while I was in my glass office in midtown.

Here are some things that have happened since you left:

We sold the Queens house a few months after your death.

Nina died a few years after you did.

Debi and Dorian are grandparents. Debi goes by Nonna like your mom, and Dorian goes by Gido like you. The three of us are close, talking to each other all day long.

Congestion Pricing: You have to pay $9 to drive into the city. It turned out to be a good thing – less traffic and fewer pedestrian deaths.

Electric cars: I have one. I can turn on the heat from my phone before I get in the car. I have a charger in my garage. We are not far from self-driving cars. Actually, I think mine can do it, but I’m not sure how.

I miss you iktir, a lot, especially when something really good happens and maybe an inch more when something awful happens.

Here is a good thing: I stopped working in a bank and now I am a dreamer like you.

Here is a bad thing: October 7. The attack nearly destroyed my family life and the whole world turned against us. I needed you so much then, Dad.

Even though parenting wasn’t your thing, you turned out to be a good parent to us when Mom died. I’m glad you and I had the chance to get close, to get to know each other, to enjoy time together: all those Friday night movies, a few Broadway shows, just you and me. Imagine that.

I love you,
Lozay

Aside from The Bluebird Word, Leslie Lisbona‘s work has appeared in numerous journals and magazines such as The Queens Review, Synchronized Chaos, JMWW, Smoky Blue Literary & Arts Magazine, and Welter. She was also featured in the Style section of The New York Times. She is the child of immigrants from Beirut, Lebanon, and grew up in Queens, NY. You can find her online at leslielisbona.substack.com

corn in husks inside basket — Photo by Sakshi Mohapekar on Unsplash

Contentment

1 August 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Nancy Kay Peterson

Late August hint of fall hides in
the pulsing breeze, scented dusty green.
Each time the wind pauses, the sun asserts
its waning summer strength, toasting
the back of my flannel shirt.

We two sisters stand on the foot bridge that
spans the dry creek between our parents’ house
and garden, silently shucking corn.
Soft silk threads tear away easily
from ears stunted by drought.

Cob tips have broken through
their green shells. End kernels
not gnawed away are mahogany colored.
We snap off spoiled ends,
toss them over the bridge rails.

Remaining bright yellow half-cobs
fill bags to be carried inside
and cooked within the hour.
My hands are sticky with milk,
the sweet smell of new corn.

I could do this forever.

Nancy Kay Peterson’s poetry is in The Bluebird Word, Dash Literary Journal, Earth’s Daughters, 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 authored two chapbooks, Belated Remembrance (2010) and Selling the Family (2021). See www.nancykaypeterson.com.

Next Time

1 July 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Brian Christopher Giddens

If I were to be granted reincarnation,
and the powers that be asked my opinion,
I’d choose to return as a Zinnia.

The flower dazzles in late summer,
when the earlier blooms are on life
support, parched and fading. The stem
stands tall and sturdy, not easily swayed
by a late season rainstorm. And the burst
of primary colors, whether orange, purple
or the sunniest of yellows, demand applause
from even the most cynical of gardeners.

Yes, bring me back as a Zinnia. Grace
me with a short, but brilliant life.

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 The New York Times (Tiny Love Stories), Passager, The Bluebird Word, Rabble Review, Hyacinth Review, Roi Faineant, Amazine, Glimpse, and other publications.

I Want to Be Kinder to Myself

1 July 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Arvilla Fee

less like frozen snow that crunches underfoot
more like tender purple blooms of crocus,
their heady scent perfuming sun-warmed air

less like bare branches scraping windowpanes
more like robins hopping through new grass,
red chests puffed out with sacred song

less like blue lips, shivering in winter’s shadow
more like buds bursting green from apple trees,
a kaleidoscope of tulips reflected in my eyes

Arvilla Fee lives in Ohio, edits poetry for October Hill Magazine, and runs her own online magazine, Soul Poetry, Prose & Arts Magazine. She is a widely published author and has three published poetry books available on Amazon. For more info: https://www.soulpoetry7.com.

Wonder Makes Me More Alive

1 July 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Carolyn Chilton Casas

How is it possible two juvenile
cottontails know how to play leapfrog?
Through the window, spellbound
I watch as they run back and forth
across our lawn jumping over each other.

On the other side of the road, young alpacas
are sporting first haircuts.
Like wet cats, these animals
look so thin without their plush,
camel-colored and chocolate brown fur.
They remind me of the bendable Gumbys
we played with in grade school.

And this morning, after an early rain,
I witness vultures perched
on the tops of telephone poles
and eucalyptus trees in the distance,
wings spread wide to dry their feathers.

I can’t remember a time when my body
didn’t vibrate with curiosity.
As a young girl the woods called to me
and despite being cautioned,
I was lured to explore,
gathering birds’ nests and walnut-sized,
broken blue shells left by their babies,
digging up arrowheads,
discovering flowers I’d never before seen.

My heart holds a tenderness for living things.

To exist on this fascinating Earth
without a full measure
of reverence and wonder
would surely be a life half full.

Carolyn Chilton Casas’ poetry has appeared in journals such as Braided Way, Grateful Living, and One Earth Sangha and in anthologies including The Wonder of Small Things and Thin Spaces & Sacred Spaces. Her website is www.carolynchiltoncasas.com, and her newest book of poetry is Under the Same Sky.

Sudden Picnic

19 June 2026 / Editor

Poetry by James Penha

enjoy life my husband says poolside
as he sets down the sandwiches
and salad he invented to help me
set aside the diagnosis rendered
the day before by a no-nonsense
doctor who prescribed an inhaler
to help me breathe for the rest
of the life my husband wants me
to enjoy as long as we both have it

Expat New Yorker James Penha (he/him🌈) has lived for the past three decades in Indonesia. His story collection Queer As Folk Tales was published by Deep Desires Press. His chapbook of poems American Daguerreotypes is available for Kindle. Penha edits The New Verse News, an online journal of current-events poetry.

Joy

4 June 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Alexandra Newton Rios

As the sun sets red behind river birch, oak and elm
still copper and yellow only across their crowns
and the sky opens its spaces
I thank God for my legs,
for my eyes, for my heart
that still cross distances and open them
still feel sorrow
and have turned to transform
it into joy over and over –
as the day knows how to depart
and return full of possibility
over and over
as love knows how to forgive and rejoice
over and over.

Alexandra Newton Rios was raised in New York City, holds an MFA in English from the Writers’ Workshop and MFA in Translation in Comp. Lit. (University of Iowa). Nueva York Poetry Press recently published Poemas de Georgia/The Georgia Poems, one long poem to Georgia O’Keeffe. Mother of five children, she ran the New York City marathon in November 2025!

This morning

28 April 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Elizabeth L. Merrick

I wake up early for no reason,
sit down to breakfast
just as one moment it’s dark,
the next it’s not.

Orange rays land on the pine table,
catching the round loaf,
lighting up its fresh crust.

A small crockery pot of strawberry jam
is bathed in apricot.

The polished bread knife reflects
celestial sparks.

Silently I give thanks for this light
from unimaginably far away,
this bread provided by unknown hands,
this dawning moment.

Elizabeth L. Merrick’s poems have appeared in journals including Gramercy Review, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Rue Scribe, and Muddy River Poetry Review. She has also authored scientific research publications and a guidebook on Boston’s historic house museums. She lives in Somerville, Massachusetts. Read more at ElizabethLMerrickPoetry.com

On the Cusp of Spring

1 April 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Stacie Eirich

She walks the river slow, savors
the soft touch of air and glow
of sunlight on her skin. Listens
to the rush and ripple of water,
watches squirrels climb trees and ducks
forage grass for worms. Feels the gentleness
of the coming spring, a space
in her mind, heart, lungs, womb
opening for it, welcoming it.

She leans into
this brightness, inhales—time blooming
into bursts of birdsong and promises
of what the world can still mend
and create anew. This season
of beaming gold, of riotous laughter,
of gentleness, of tenderness. Care-born
from love, love for windswept wings,
branches bright in April’s light.

Winter’s shadow trailing behind
the cusp of spring, gathering
to carry her—into buoyant light, into a song
brilliant with hope, burgeoning with wonder
promising this time
will be softer, this time
will be easier.

She begins to believe this might be true
as she walks: listening, letting what we feel come
then releasing it, letting the glow
of sunlit cyan waters, the slow burn
of gold and blue and green settle
into her, allowing space
for spring to crack open
like a robin’s egg, breaking open
joy, beginning anew.

Stacie Eirich is a mother of two, poet and singer. Hope Like Sunlight (Bell Asteri Publishing, 2024), is her memoir benefitting St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital & Ronald McDonald House. Her poems have recently been published in The Poetry Lighthouse, Soul Poetry, and The Amazine. She lives in Texas. Read more at www.stacieeirich.com

Tag: gratitude (Page 1 of 5)

To Clare, Whose Name Means Light

Dear Dad

Contentment

Next Time

I Want to Be Kinder to Myself

Wonder Makes Me More Alive

Sudden Picnic

Joy

This morning

On the Cusp of Spring

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