Tag: snow (Page 1 of 3)

A.M. Art

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Sam Barbee

Midnight flurries wandered across the yard,
dusted us with white blemishes—pristine,
but too scant for loveliness. Blanched
brushstrokes like veined marble.

These speckles will not endure as bushes
and boughs flex to sunrise—snow drifted
against trunks will collapse. Humble mounds
await my child’s discouraging snowman.

I pour another coffee and feign a shiver.
Nature’s canticle begins as slight icicles
concede to warmth—seep like Dali’s clocks.
Spiny crowns of sweetgum balls dimple

puny dust—peep between Pollock’s harsh scars.
We celebrate grace through lively strands of light…
Our estate of swatches awaits…primed palette
to swirl color when burgeoning sun rouses flourish.

Sam Barbee newest collection is titled Apertures of Voluptuous Force (2022, Redhawk Publishing). He has three previous poetry collections, including That Rain We Needed (2016, Press 53), a nominee for the Roanoke-Chowan Award as one of North Carolina’s best poetry collections of 2016. He is a two-time Pushcart nominee.

Snowball Fight

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Beate Sigriddaughter

He, twenty, blond, blue-eyed, on a walking tour through Germany, earning some money helping out at a farming estate early winter.

She, eighteen, dark-haired, with hazel eyes and with a mischievous smile, visiting her older sister who is resident housekeeper at the estate.

She is being pelted with snowballs by several young men after the day’s work is done.

He saunters to her side. “May I help you?”

I imagine her smiling her familiar smile of mischief.

They are long gone now. Though first there came a war and also my brothers and I.

Beate Sigriddaughter, www.sigriddaughter.net, grew up in Nürnberg, Germany, and now lives and writes in Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment), USA, where she has served as poet laureate. Recent book publications include a poetry collection, Circus Dancer (2025), and a short story collection, Dona Nobis Pacem (2021).

Kinds of Snow

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Ruth Zwald

and suddenly you are back in your grandmother’s tiny kitchen / she warms
fresh milk / stirring in sugar and cocoa powder / until it is smooth and rich

this kind of snow that travels through time

and then remembering snow where your sled won’t fly / too heavy / your
fingers frostbitten / it hurts so much as you begin to thaw out by the radiator

I know you know this kind of snow when life is cold and painful and stuck

and there is magic snow / just before Christmas kind of snow / when the moon
reflects the crystals / you want to watch all night to glimpse what might be

this kind of snow in the dark where anything is possible

and there’s the “I’m so glad I don’t have to drive anywhere” snow / where you
can spend a day in front of the fire / read a novel about other people’s lives

this kind of snow celebrates the quiet of your own life

and there are whole winters of sorrowful snow / layered and buried in the still /
whole winters of the digging out through memories / shovel by shovelful

this kind of snow that gifts you with time to wander

On her farm in West Michigan, Ruth Zwald lives close to the earth through her lifestyle and spiritual practices. Upon retirement, she started to unearth words. Winner of the Michigan Writers Cooperative Press in 2024 for her chapbook, Bones And Breath, and recently published in Farmer-ish Journal and The Guided Weathervane.

Bunny in Brown Bear’s Coat

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Stephan Hermann

I own a coat
A big brown thing
Bought it off an old guy
In August
A few years back
When I lived in rain city.
Smelled like cigarettes
Cigarettes and dust
Dust and wear
Wear and tear.

That three dollar coat
Only one I brought with me
Back in August
When I first came here
Across the mountains.
Gets me through rain
Rain and wind
Wind and snow
Snow and snow and snow.

Stephan Hermann is a poet, creative, and student from the Pacific Northwest. Their poetry is inspired by their day to day happenings as a young, queer person navigating today’s world. When not writing, Hermann studies economics and music at Whitman College and plays desktop solitaire (rather poorly).

Snow

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Aidan Russell

While in the night we soundly slept,
A winter storm came by
and covered all the world in white,
With snow banks piled high.

So in the morning we awoke
And looked out at the sight,
Of all the city buried deep,
in snow so clean and white.

We dressed ourselves and wandered out
Into that wonderland,
And sought to find ourselves some fun,
Though nothing we had planned.

In trudging down the empty street,
We saw no other soul,
And so alone we went along,
A solitary stroll.

Then at the park we found a bench,
Beneath a bare oak tree,
Where we decided then to sit,
The snow-filled world to see.

So there we sat upon the bench,
Just you and me alone,
And watched the winter world grow still,
And heard the cold wind moan.

What sacred beauty there we saw,
As flurries seemed to grow,
The world without mistake or flaw,
White blanketed with snow.

Aidan Russell is an American poet and filmmaker. He was a finalist in the Unity in Verse Poetry Contest. He is also the writer and director of a number of short films, most notably: A Criminal Misunderstanding and The Legend of John Henry. He lives in Southern California.

Bright Prospects

1 September 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Andy Oram

Free from guile or prejudice, snow
Casts a rarified grace.

It fills the land with crisp equity,
Assured monument to the Earth’s greatest artifice,
The tip in axis that brings us appointed seasons.

Crystal, by breeze-sculpted crystal, fasten atoms
Poised to bestow the promise of
Our existence.

Each waterous orb, spritz of the universe’s most fertile molecule,
Hugs its drop until the Earth’s bias turns once again
So that the crocus and hyacinth wake to its flow.

If you take the snow to you,
If you survey its bright prospects,
Stride into its treasured potential,
Run hands through its sharp intensity,
Taste its porcelain presence,
You can glory in the working of the world.

Andy Oram is a writer and editor in the computer field. His editorial projects have ranged from a legal guide covering intellectual property to a graphic novel about teenage hackers. Print publications where his writings have appeared include The Economist, The Journal of Information Technology & Politics, and Vanguardia Dossier.

I Sing the Poem “Nantucket”

1 August 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Michael Carrino

Flowers through the window
lavender and yellow
William Carlos williams

I sing the poem “Nantucket” to myself as if in a waking sleep
and the children far out on the slight hillside sing along

Through the high windows of my classroom I can see them
rush in circles free and content as some might ever be

One night soon it will snow blanket the brown grass deep
become true winter and they will cherish it

My students are reading silently about anything they are willing
to read turtle bird wagon doll

rock bell shard of glass pocket watch found in the attic
how long birchwood will keep you warm

Now I see her the teacher the one who guides her children
outside every morning The teacher

I want to speak with about anything breathe the wood smoke
on her wool coat her long curling hair

In a moment I will beyond any fevered dream delight
my students with a startling recess

They will all imagine me gone sweetly crazy

Michael Carrino is a retired English lecturer at SUNY Plattsburgh, New York, where he was co-editor and poetry editor of the Saranac Review. His publications include ten books of poetry, the most recent Natural Light (Kelsay Books), and The Scent of Some Lost Pleasure (Conestoga Zen 3 Anthology).

Calling Out for Color

16 January 2025 / Editor

Prose Poetry by Kathryn Ganfield

Through the dirty, double-paned windows, screens blackened by a box fan that perches there five months of the year, I see snow poured out blue as gas station slushees or abandoned bottles of glacial electrolytic drinks. But when I open the back door, call out hoarsely to the dog, the snow is not blue after all. Not a bit blue, not even a little. Snow is mauve by the seasoned cedar fence, the fence we always meant to stain, but now seven years have gone by, and the weather beat us to it. Snow is black from puppy paws. Snow is divots and sand traps and even a mangrove back by the barbecue grill and the shade garden where, slicked green, the hosta leaves are a fitted sheet under a snowy duvet. And finally, eyes adjusted to winter’s light, I see the snow for what it is. Not white or blue or any of these colors, but, of course, a color sent south from Canada. The color of goose down—sharp, curling and cold.

Kathryn Ganfield is a Minnesota-based nature writer and essayist. She was a Loft Literary Center Mentor Series Fellow, 2023 Paul Gruchow Essay Contest winner, and a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Her words have been published in Water~Stone Review and Creative Nonfiction, among other journals. Find her at kathrynganfield.com.

Snow

7 December 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Charlene Stegman Moskal

She wrote of remembered afternoon skies
dark like tarnished silver,
sleet that dissolved on sidewalks
elusive, slippery as words in the mouths of liars.

Cold wormed its way under sleeves,
collars, through the spaces
between buttons on coats heavy
with the lightness of snowflakes.

Pristine white covered the ground as if to protect it
from the intrusion of tires and footsteps;
wires now unfit roosts for evening starlings
as clouds silently delivered the rest of their bounty.

By afternoon slush piled against curbs;
made men and women hop and leap
like children playing in a puddle,
but without the laughter and joy—

snow an annoyance,
something to be avoided,
something to get over and through,
its wonder short lived, shoveled into the past.

Her memories written in November,
reread months later as something forgotten
from those days before he left her
ice-grieved in the cold of December.

Charlene Stegman Moskal is published in numerous anthologies, print and online magazines including: TAB Journal, Calyx, and Humana Obscura. Her chapbooks are One Bare Foot (Zeitgeist Press), Leavings from My Table (Finishing Line Press), Woman Who Dyes Her Hair (Kelsay Books), and a full poetry collection, Running the Gamut from Zeitgeist Press.

The Calm Before

2 December 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Nicole Hirt

fog hovers
over Colorado peaks
sculpted with snow
and flecked with pines

Run, run, run.

snowflakes trickle
from a grey sky
tickling my eyelashes
with white kisses

Run, run, run.

cold burns
my feet as they race
through mounds of powder
soft and wet

the alarm blinks on my phone:
“A blizzard is coming. Please find shelter.”

Run, run, run.

Nicole Hirt is a freelance writer based in South Florida. She is an editor at Living Waters Review, where several of her poems and prose have appeared in past issues. In her free time, she enjoys wandering through cemeteries, much to the confusion of the general public.

Tag: snow (Page 1 of 3)

A.M. Art

Snowball Fight

Kinds of Snow

Bunny in Brown Bear’s Coat

Snow

Bright Prospects

I Sing the Poem “Nantucket”

Calling Out for Color

Snow

The Calm Before

Recent Posts

Archives

Categories