An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: reflection (Page 6 of 6)

i am learning to be still

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).

Catch and Release

Nonfiction by James Callan

The tug of a taut, invisible thread. So thin. Unseen, it reflects on the gray water, so I suppose. At the far end a silver barb has found the silver mouth of a silver fish that has seen better moments, by far, again, so I suppose. Static water undergoes a savage transformation of violent thrashing, splashing. Like cheerleader pompoms in a gesture of exaltation for the winning touchdown, only inches below the surface of the lake. Liquid confetti tossed in celebration.

My arms hold on, barely, to the device that has snagged an agitated leviathan, or so it seems in my struggle. It’s probably a muskie. And when I finely pull the slick, scaled thing that weighs as much or more than a toddler into the canoe, onto the aluminum floor, I confirm, yes, a muskie.

I look into a mouth that looks like a perfect way to lose a finger, or a hand. This pink abyss, a downward spiral of open-heart surgery, scalpels and all. So many scalpels, needles waiting for their payback. I remove my wedding ring, just in case, and I go in reckless and brave, the last of which I like to think the more prominent. I had to be more than a little firm. I mean, fingers, hands, these are things I want to keep for myself. But in being firm, on the edge or perhaps over the edge of being rough, I remove the barb. I free the beast. And with one last wild gesture of courage, I shovel out what in that moment seemed to me to be the marriage between porpoise and a good way to get hurt.

The splash was surprisingly subtle. A non-splash, almost. Like a vacuum sucking in only the air around it, but quiet. The dark of the depth took the image of the muskie with it. Gone. Free. I caught a prize fish. And then I let it go.


James Callan grew up in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He lives on the Kapiti Coast, New Zealand on a small farm with his wife, Rachel, and his little boy, Finn. He likes toads and frogs and polliwogs, but he LOVES cats. He believes when he says that When Harry Met Sally is the best Rom-com of all time, he is not offering his opinion, but is merely stating a fact. He has been fully grown for a long while, but still has some growing up to do.

This should’ve been an Urdu ghazal instead

Poetry by Uday Khanna

While being buried I thought why spare me space for breathing,
I should’ve been wound in white and cremated instead.

Waking has taken up the place of life,
I should’ve been nostalgic for a time which passed me by instead.

Living has come disarmingly too fast lately,
I would like a stern word instead.

Someone asked me how I write so beautifully of terrible things,
I should’ve been a keeper of chopped meat instead.

I was named ignorant far too many times,
I should’ve been left blissfully unaware instead.

I keep meeting myself on different horizons for novelty,
The mystery of time is repetition instead.

This circle tells me I’m merely a handful of mistakes,
I should’ve been a fistful of wasted sperm instead.

Soon poetry will become unattainable,
I should’ve gone back to plucking flower buds instead.

O poet, you’ve spent all your life seeking to write about an ungrateful ant,
You should’ve stepped on it instead.


Uday Khanna is a research scholar currently pursuing his MPhil from the University of Delhi. His research interests lie in the fields of postmodernism, media theory, cyber-culture, and 20th century short-story genre.

Primitive Prayer

Poetry by Nancy Byrne Iannucci

I go outside at sundown,
pinning the stained-glass trail
to the Earth with ice cleats,

glorious snow under my feet.
The hawk screams above Creek Road.
Does anybody live in that blue house?

Hopper lonely, so Hopper lonely.
The snowbank at the side of the road
sits in the shape of a pew,

but I’d rather move with the mallards
slapping their wet feet, ready to fly.
I’m ready.

A songbird pounds
his pipe organ in the sky,
calling me up the hill.

I climb
breathing in the night air,
revived by this primitive prayer.


Nancy Byrne Iannucci is a widely published poet and the author of two chapbooks, Temptation of Wood (Nixes Mate Review, 2018), and Goblin Fruit (Impspired, 2021); she is also a teacher, and woodland roamer. Nancy can be found at www.nancybyrneiannucci.com

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