Tag: observation (Page 1 of 2)

mesh bag with fresh produce — Photo by Illia Bondar on Unsplash

Expert at the Checkout

1 November 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Bonnie Demerjian

The cashier scans the virtuous milk, sultry coffee, and tangle-haired carrots
not choosing, just grabbing and pushing on.
Spaghetti slides past and cha ching confirms it.
Crimson peppers are weighed and registered.

They wink as they’re shoved along and amass in a tumble
with a wedge of brie and the frozen peas all
ready for the bagger who, with easy banter to the clerk,
deftly sorts. First, dependable dairy, the anchors, then

jars of sauces, but not too much weight. Considerate he is.
Off to the side for later, tortillas and oversensitive avocados.
He finds a perfect slot for the tofu, eyeing that sweet spot
like a basketball star. No orphan soup left looking for a home

and all coronated with a crown of bananas.
Such easy confidence that all will come out right.
No wasted motion, he’s a gymnast who stuck his landing, then
with modest flourish, sets his masterpiece in the cart.

Bonnie Demerjian writes from her home in the Tongass National Forest, a place that continually nourishes her writing. Her poetry has appeared in Cirque Journal, Artemis, and others. Her chapbook, Flotsam and Jetsam, is newly published. She has also written four nonfiction books on Southeast Alaska’s human and natural history.

a brown leave with drops of water on stem — Photo by Adelio on Unsplash

When I Revisit the Nature Preserve and am Among the Trees, in Autumn

1 November 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Stacie Eirich

In thanks for the verses poet Mary Oliver gave us, a lifetime of paying attention & being astonished

I am sitting in the same space, on the same bench

surrounded by trees and branches, leaves and berries

and patches of sunlight — as I did six months ago in early spring.

The hum of cicadas, chirps of birds above, a hawk circling

overhead, limbs of branches stretching tall, leaves rippling

in light breeze, air shuffling, still warm yet cool enough not to sweat.

The distant rustle of cars on roadways beyond, whirr of air traffic

infrequent, chirps louder, longer, insistent as the pour of sun

through blue and green, as the fly who keeps interrupting my sack lunch

of potato salad and grapefruit, as the rise and fall of the cicadas’ song

which lasts the day — crescendoing and decrescendoing

as the hour lengthens.

A leaf floats in ripples to the thatch covered ground, nestling among bits

of branches, brown and tan and sprouts of green, sticks

and stumps and pinecones peppering this sanctuary.

Stillness and shadows descend, clouds covering the light, coolness ascending.

I wait for the sun to swallow the shadows, to peek out again and bathe

the sky, the trees, the ground, me — in warmth, but it does not come.

Instead, I’m left sitting with stillness, with my heart

waiting for light, watching as it creeps out to shine — first, on purple berries

perched upon so many branches, then on a brown thrush

of ground, patches lighting like connected stitches of quilts.

The golden glow is mottled, flecked in patterns, almost

reaching me.

I lean in, I hear Mary Oliver’s voice saying “Pay attention. Be astonished.”

I hear her reciting “When I am among the trees” and another voice saying

“We are all here for a brief time — a moment…”

What is this moment, and why does it matter? I ask myself questions

I don’t have the answers to. I ask myself why my child lives

when others do not, have not, will not.

I hear a friend and helper saying I carry grief and hope

together, praising me for it. I wonder how it is I earned such praise, I

who write poems and sing songs and sit in nature, listening.

The hawk circles slow above, wings spread, a majestic being

with laser eyes, killer instinct. My worth feels small

in comparison.

Smaller even more so than this earth and sky and these tall, bending

and connected, old and strong, resilient trees surrounding me.

Their lives large and infinite, their growth a thing slow, supple — amazing.

To feel the swell of the same breeze, a hitch of breath

in the same air, the same canopy of light (or is this peace?) as they do

is a moment to embrace, to give thanks, to realize a blessing of tenderness.

The blessing of tenderness in just sitting, breathing, listening

to chirps and chitters and hums — just being. Stillness

only interrupted by slight motions…the twirl of a leaf, the crawl

of an ant, the light of an insect on a branch, the moment

my pen rises and falls

across the paper — softly dazzled, quietly alive.

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.

lavender in sunset — Photo by Olga Prudnikova on Unsplash

I Believe in Purple

1 September 2026 / Editor

Nonfiction by Sherri Wright

I believe in purple, the perfect blend of blue and red. A mixture of cool and calm,
hot and spicy. Negotiating between red’s passion and anger, and blue’s bravery and wisdom, purple finds grandeur and dignity.

Purple needs just the right balance of pigments—too much red turns into muddy
maroon, too much blue takes on the look of a bruise. Too light and it gets girly like a princess, too dark it becomes like the uniform of authority or the wings of a purple emperor butterfly that feeds on rotting flesh and human sweat.

Originally purple was produced by crushing shells of rare sea snails, extracting
mucus and exposing it to the sun. It took over two hundred thousand mollusks to produce an ounce of the dye. So this “Phoenician purple” was expensive and in short supply – only available to the rich and royals. It came to be associated with wealth and pretentiousness. Roman emperors used it for their robes but forbade its use by citizens. The penalty was death. Only in the 1850s did a synthetic purple pigment become widely available. Rich and royal as purple is, democracy is blessed with an abundant supply.

I believe purple is an essential element of human wellbeing. Purple draws on all
the senses. Think sweet sour purple plum, fragrant April hyacinth, supple velvet robe, purple martin’s throaty chirp and creaky rattle, last arc of the rainbow, the amethyst’s crystal clear healing power.

I believe that nothing can go wrong when you are wearing purple. No podium is too scary when you stand up there in a magenta linen sheath, a lilac silk blouse, a tiny amethyst stud. Even under the most somber black suit, lavender underwear can save the day.

Purple is a lesson in moderation. Drawing equally from feminine and masculine,
earthly and spiritual. Purple doesn’t shout, purple whispers softly, waits for you to take it in.

You do not choose purple, purple chooses you. The “Violet” in your first box of
Crayolas. Iris blossoms you picked walking to school. Petunias printed on the feed sack your mother sewed into a skirt. Your grandmother’s gladiolas. The grape jelly beans. The lilac you hid under your pillow and made a wish. A belief in purple is as powerful as Sunday school.

Ubiquitous, omnipresent purple. You can find it everywhere. But one thing is true. There has never been, never will be, too much purple.

I believe in purple.

Sherri Wright‘s work has appeared in The Bluebird Word, Delaware Beach Life, RavensPerch, and Quartet. Kelsay Books published her chapbook “Winter of My Life.” Bay to Ocean Journal nominated her essay “Braiding Sweetgrass With My Daughter” for a Pushcart Prize in 2025.

hummingbird perched on a limb — Photo by Iesha Reyes on Unsplash

As a Hummingbird

30 August 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Emily Persichetti Schuster

I saw you today
With my first breath of canyon air
You were there

Meandering down the wide gravel path
I saw you as ferns
Edging against the trail

Gazing up at the brilliant cloudless sky
I saw you as a row of evergreens
Lining the rim of the canyon

As the river guided our hike
I saw you as the sparkling stream
Skipping over rocks on the valley floor

The softness of water shaping the valley
With years of patient persistence
Forgiving firmness

And I knew then this is where you belong
I wondered if you’d ever had a chance
To visit this heavenly place

Later, as the sun dipped behind the mountains
I saw you as columbines
Growing straight out of the cliff faces

Taking root in rock
Until I realized you were still the river
And those flowers were me

And I knew then I was here because of you
That so much of who I am still holds pieces of you
Guiding a path I can’t always see

You even came home with us that night
And perched in a tree in the backyard
As a hummingbird

Posted in the highest branch
Watching over my little boy
As he played on the slide and the swings

Emily Persichetti Schuster’s poetry and short fiction is published in Beautiful and Terrifying: Tales and Visions from the Edge of the Uncanny (Elderfly Press, 2026) and is forthcoming in Allium, A Journal of Poetry & Prose. She lives in Athens, Georgia with her partner and their two kids. Find her on Instagram: @empschuster_creative.

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.

In the Same Foggy Outline

1 July 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Eugene O’Connor

Dawn broke not early
but as usual, though the sun
will not shine today.

Some things merely
are unwilling to shine,
to glow, to experience
anything but hoary light

filtered through clouds
over gray water. But enough
for Matisse to have worked
day after day for years

painting the blocky spires
of Notre Dame, so recognizable
in the same foggy outline, each
of a slightly different color

as the day’s light changed
or else the artist’s vision
seemed to fail, but for
an inner sight or just a glimmer

of something else before night fell
which would scarcely be relieved
by the feeble street lamps
to create a different light.

Eugene O’Connor lives with his husband in Columbus, Ohio. His poems have appeared in the arlington literary journal, The Avocet, The Comstock Review, Connecticut River Review, Mead, OASIS Journal, Poetry Pacific, Pudding Magazine, and elsewhere. His chapbook “Wanderer at the World’s Edge” was published by Blue Light Press in 2022.

framed artwork and frames leaning against wall — Photo by Jackie Hope on Unsplash

What remains after the walls are stripped bare before the whole house is painted after thirty years

1 July 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Susan Hodara

The nails that held the artwork
The holes left by nails that once held different artwork
The chipped plaster wounds around nails improperly but relentlessly pounded in
The narrow strips of glue that ensured the tiny print wouldn’t fall off the wall that now won’t come off the wall themselves
The never-resealed square opening in the basement stairwell where my husband had to cut through to retrieve a dropped wire, forgotten until the vintage metal Ambre Solaire advertising sign was removed
The thumbtack in the window frame where I dangled a ceramic angel

The cracks that slash from floor to ceiling
The crumbling plaster that has broken through the paint on the lower corners of so many windows
The yellow brush-stroked circle with yellow rays that my then-teenaged daughter painted up near her ceiling
The shard of masking tape from an unframed poster replaced long ago by something framed
The flaking paint everywhere

The smudges of dirt from this bump or that, a box rubbing, a suitcase banging
The black scrapes made by straightening the corners of canvases, a little up on the right, now down to the left
The stinkbugs that congregated, then died, along the top edge of the window in our bedroom
The phone jacks emitting wires that no longer lead anywhere
The dust that clings to the backs of bookshelves and paintings and dressers and furs the walls and moldings behind them, like dirty gray clouds

Susan Hodara is a memoirist, journalist, and teacher. Her work has been published in The New York Times and assorted literary journals. She has taught memoir writing for nearly two decades. She is co-author of Still Here Thinking of You: A Second Chance With Our Mothers (Big Table Publishing, 2013). Read more at susanhodara.com.

Sunflowers

22 June 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Natasha Abell-Cwietkow

The thing about the sunflowers
Sat on the shelf, the ones that gaze at the street
From their tall pink glass house,
When they start to wilt and they start to fade
They will still be sunflowers though they may not be the same.
They will still be yellow and still called the same name.
The thing about the sunflowers
Sat on the shelf, wilting and wanting
From their tall pink glass house,
When petals are falling from minutes to hours
They may not be living but they are still
Flowers.
They may not be mine, but they were once ours.

Natasha Abell-Cwietkow is a poet and self-acclaimed adjective lover from a rural town in England. Her work explores love, grief, loss, and the ways we endure and change through life. She writes openly and honestly, showing little restraint with raw emotion, wearing her heart on her sleeve.

It’s the Kind of Thing

7 April 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Melanie Faith

if I wrote it you might
not believe me, but I’ll
write it anyway.

For a second, I mistook
riffs of an electric guitar
on the radio
of a passing car

for a stray cat or kitten
and looked up
from my book
for a tail and a lean cat needing care.

The breeze held ice and calm
and September hope in it,
though still plenty of August
in the sun, in the hot pink
of potted deck geraniums. It wasn’t

the velvety electric blue,
nor the soft ebony
of a dress, nor the yellow almost green
said to bring happiness,

but it did: the root-beer brown butterfly
with buff and dun and a patch of white
like a paintbrush smudge
on its one wing, as if made with

too-wide bristles and wrong for the job—
with flowers not a foot away, he landed
on my right kneecap
of my soft green velour pants—even when

I moved just slightly and uncrossed
my crossed legs, he kept his perch
astride my kneecap. Antennae, black
buggy eyes scanning sideways

as I studied him
wings at rest, he stayed at rest on me.
It is no small thing to be chosen
by a child or a gown person as a confidant,
as a particularly close friend, is no small thing.

To breathe out, to breathe in
watching a brown butterfly
with a white smudge like perfectly imperfect
paint and the music floating over and
the morning radio as a song ends,

another song begins. Was it five minutes
or twenty or a touch of eternity
until the butterfly
lifts up and away again?

Melanie Faith is a poet, writer, educator, photographer, and frequent doodler. Learn more at melaniedfaith.com. Her craft books for authors through Vine Leaves Press offer tips on numerous genres. Her latest poetry collection, Does It Look Like Her?, follows Alix, a forty-something artist and the famous painting of her.

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.

Tag: observation (Page 1 of 2)

Expert at the Checkout

When I Revisit the Nature Preserve and am Among the Trees, in Autumn

I Believe in Purple

As a Hummingbird

Wonder Makes Me More Alive

In the Same Foggy Outline

What remains after the walls are stripped bare before the whole house is painted after thirty years

Sunflowers

It’s the Kind of Thing

On the Cusp of Spring

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