Tag: joy (Page 1 of 2)

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Laughter

26 October 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Sharon Whitehill

After Gerard Manley Hopkins, “Spring“

Nothing is so marvelous as mirth—
When breath, in spasms, splurges, spouts, and sweeps
Away all chance of words: attempts emerge in leaps
And gasps of sound, their content nothing worth.
More overwhelming still is laughter brought to birth
In formal circumstance; it can’t be quelled; it keeps
On bubbling up and out, like lava from the deeps
Wherein, suppressed, it flares from inner earth.

What human gain to all this greed and glee?
Our babies laugh unbidden, even deaf and blind;
Every era, every population, has its devotees.
Children learn to fake-laugh when they find
It wins them friends. Laughter is contagious as a sneeze:
Both speak our shared humanity, and we respond in kind.

Sharon Whitehill is a retired English professor from West Michigan now living in Port Charlotte, Florida. Her most recent chapbook, This Sad and Tender Time, appeared in December 2023; forthcoming in late 2025 is another entitled Putting the Pieces Together.

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If I Were a Bird

21 October 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Wesley Sims

I’d be a bluebird,
loved for its song,
its bold blue suit,
its habit of lingering
on limbs long enough
to thrill our mornings.
More than handsome icon,
a creature comfortable
with itself
who knows how to sit
in silence and wait
for the muse to call the song,
confident the music will come.
A bird with the discipline
of a serious writer,
who gets up early
and gets at his task,
living out the wisdom
that the early bird
gets the pick—
of worms, and words.

Wesley Sims has published three chapbooks of poetry: When Night Comes (2013); Taste of Change (2019); and A Pocketful of Little Poems (2020). His work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, and he has had poems nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.

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In My Father’s Backyard

7 October 2024 / Editor

Poetry by David Athey

There is a weeping willow
in sunrise

wild with ravens
singing in the crown,

a raucous song, a tantrum
of cries; and there is

a hint of a wind
like a gentling hand

brushing branches away
like hair from sorrow;

and there is silence
in the crown when the ravens hush

and the willow begins—and here
is my father—to laugh.

David Athey‘s poems have appeared in many literary journals, including Iowa Review, Poet Lore, California Quarterly, Seattle Review, and the Wallace Stevens Journal. Athey lives in South Florida on a small lake with large iguanas. His books, including the Florida spoof, Iggy in Paradise, are available at Amazon.

vibrant red poppies in summer field — Photo by Piotr Baranowski on Pexels.com

When the Column Blooms

1 October 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Jackie McClure

There are green things
we’ve planted here.
There are things that grew
which we never planted.

Had I weeded more
while my mother was dying
I would have never
discovered the poppies,
dormant in their seed-encased husks,
under the matting of grass,
masking an old garden spot.

So you see,
we did some good here:
ripping up squares
of thickly rooted sod
to unwittingly scatter
millions of seeds,
and, unknowingly,
we fed them.

When first they rose
above the weeds
in the new-broken soil
I was spending daylight
hours by my mother’s side,
urging her to eat,
helping her to move.

When I noticed they
were to be flowers,
she had gone home,
lonely, broken, and frightened.
It took longer to reach her.

When they burst
into scarlet bloom,
dwarfing the hearty weeds

I knew they were for her:
tall, lipstick-red poppies
garish, erect, unexpected,
floating
on the thin stems
upon which everything rests.

Jackie McClure writes poetry and fiction aiming to illuminate commonplace segments of our shared landscapes. She has an MFA from Goddard College and has published most recently in Humana Obscura and Hellbender. She lives near the Salish Sea in Northwest Washington State. Her preferred state of being is swimming.

Photo by Sebastian Coman Photography on Unsplash

Just Kids

1 May 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Susan Zwingli

deep summer bursts the wide garden gate
sweet freedom calls us from whitewashing fences
soon, the jilted brush slouches down the wall, bereft
but we take the hill and its warm, tickling grasses
your emerald eyes tracking the tickling path of a ladybug on my arm
she has her secrets, we have ours
race you, yeah! on the count of three?
running, breathless, our legs pumping pistons
laughing, landing double on your banana-seat bike
a playing card clipped to the tires, poppity-pop-popping
my hands holding onto your hips
we think we’re so grown up, you and I
but late-day thunder booms deep in the sky,
somewhere, far-off, our innocence is running out of time
the changing light chases us, softly laps at our ice cream
mint chip for you, raspberry sherbet for me
blushing my lips pink like the lipstick I’m forbidden to wear
I hope you’ll see
you smile, the freckles on your nose a sweet constellation that I want to kiss
when did you become something more
than just a boy I played with at recess?
I’m all of 11 now, one foot in, one foot racing ahead to some map-less place
but maybe today, we can just be kids, lost in the strange and the wonderful
wandering deep along the river bed, fireflies lighting the sweet-smelling rain
fingers and dreams entangled
while our mothers’ hearts are calling us home

Susan Zwingli is a poet currently living in Boise, Idaho. She writes about love, belonging, and loss, as well as the natural beauty of the Northwest, and exploring mystical spirituality. She holds a BA in English from Michigan State University and a Masters from the Portland Seminary (OR).

i touch this ripe tomato

1 May 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Amelia Díaz Ettinger

and marvel at how all things
soften—

his voice muted
to warm embers that avoid
scarlet overtones

and my old hands
carved to rice paper,
skin hulled away from bone

even this butcher knife
is dulled from over-care
now it cuts with tenderness

yes,
time’s own waltz,
mollifies all things

and i applaud these parenthesis
of my mouth, how
they enliven my sight

after all they are the repositories
of elapsed laughter

Amelia Díaz Ettinger is a Latinx BIPOC poet and writer. She has three books of poetry and two chapbooks published. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in many literary journals and anthologies.

If Not Glitter, If Not Gold

17 December 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Kersten Christianson

This early Sunday morning
my coffee mug steams.
A miniature Mauna Loa,
it resides within an archipelago

of trunk-top clutter: Solstice gifts,
dog-eared chapbooks, sun-bright
Satsumas. In this indigo light,
I scour Etsy for glitter-crusted

New Year banners, lunar calendars,
their moons of the year stamped
in bright gold, not just on paper,
but parchment. I can’t explain

this fiery December need for
glimmer & glam, twinkle & flash,
but I am ever the believer, searcher
for the harbinger of fortune & joy.

Kersten Christianson is a poet and English teacher from Sitka, Alaska. She is the author of Curating the House of Nostalgia (Sheila-Na-Gig 2020) and Something Yet to Be Named (Kelsay Books, 2017). She serves as poetry editor of Alaska Women Speak. Kersten savors road trips, bookstores, and smooth ink pens.

Another Christmas

17 December 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Rohan Buettel

That time of year has come again.
We brave the crowds in shopping malls
and search the shelves but look in vain,
the perfect gift not on these walls.
The hours we spend in kitchens hot
preparing food that tastes so good.
A Christmas meal will hit the spot,
enough to feast the neighbourhood.

The cheer of hearing from old friends,
the family gathers round at last,
repair the breaks and make amends,
a time to put away the past.
The effort worth it all to place
a smile upon a little face.

Rohan Buettel lives in Canberra, Australia. His haiku appear in various Australian and international journals (including Presence, Cattails and The Heron’s Nest). His longer poetry appears in more than fifty journals, including The Goodlife Review, Rappahannock Review, Penumbra Literary and Art Journal, Passengers Journal, Reed Magazine, Meniscus and Quadrant.

Bellflower

30 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Charlene Stegman Moskal

for Barnett

You were a surprise—
planted in early spring

in soil too dry
to hold the essence of you,

but there you were
digging in

like the Bellflower
that has ridden the wind,

dropped gently or tumbled
into a dark, moist, earth-spiced bed

to carry the generations
that shaped its destiny

to grow , bloom, offer itself
to the world as a spark of color,

royal purple heralding the summer
against a background green as hope.

And here you are,
my own unexpected Bellflower

just when I was sure
the field had gone fallow.

Charlene Stegman Moskal is a Teaching Artist for the Las Vegas Poetry Promise Organization. She is published in numerous anthologies, print magazines and online. Her chapbooks are One Bare Foot (Zeitgeist Press), Leavings from My Table (Finishing Line Press) with a third from Kelsay Books in Fall 2023.

Breaking Open Joy

1 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Stacie Eirich

Focus the flow, let the gentle waves glide and roll,
rippling across the velvet smooth surface
of sand. Feel the wind settle gently into twilight— golden, shimmering.

Find gentle respite in the cool relief of night,
welcome the peace of nature’s sounds, night’s embrace
of sleepful solace. Listen to the nightingale’s melody— golden, shimmering.

Follow the dawn into tomorrow, unloading grief and sorrow,
stress and struggle, letting happiness in, breaking open the boundaries
for joy. See it waiting in wings of light— golden, shimmering.

Stacie Eirich is a poet, singer & mother of two. Her poems have recently appeared in Last Leaves, The Journey (Paddler Press), Synkroniciti Magazine and Valiant Scribe Literary Journal, among others. Her home is near New Orleans, La; her heart is wherever a song can be found. www.stacieeirich.com