Tag: snow (Page 1 of 2)

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.

white and black bird on brown tree branch — Photo by Chris F on Pexels.com

Golden-Crowned Kinglets

18 November 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Michael Magee

Little Golden-Crowned Kinglets in
the fir trees flash gold as leaves
in their cameo roles.

Today there was snow in the air
small patches of light that
brushed against my jacket.

What’s best? The little flash
of a Kinglet that moves so fast
it leaves behind its color.

Or this snow-fleeting day
coming out of nowhere to appear
at my side like a sunflower.

Michael Magee‘s newest collection “Shiny Things” (MoonPath Press) is coming out in January 2025. He lives in Tacoma, Washington.

footprints on snow covered ground in drone shot — Photo by Jamo Images on Pexels.com

Footwriting

1 September 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Russell Rowland

Hand it to the blank slate
of new snow—entire days could be written on it.

There’s plenty of page for me
and the child, with her closer-spaced footwriting.

If it’s a long walk we take, and we turn
to look behind, we discover
we wrote exactly that: “Love took a long walk.”

The tiny fieldmouse’s penmanship
is a fine hand, its thin tail writing a narrow line;
correct footprint punctuation—“I’m

easily overlooked, and thank you very much.”

A snowshoe hare leaves a lot of white spaces,
scrawling “Fox alert!” in haste.

Ethereal deer have a streamlined logo. It reads,
“No comment.”

Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions. His work appears in Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall (Encircle Publications), and Covid Spring, Vol. 2 (Hobblebush Books). His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications.

Farewell, in black and white

1 September 2024 / Editor

Nonfiction by Cheryl Sadowski

We rode the Central Park carousel all summer. By winter, the painted horses and gilded carriages stood still. To be part of B’s life in the suburbs is what mattered more than anything now. Arrangements were made, boxes packed, and on a dishwater day in January, the moving truck rolled down West 58th Street with my meager belongings.

I spent the last night in my empty apartment alone, lying on an air mattress staring at electric outlets. I listened for the familiar, persistent clang of the trash chute, the groan of pipes. Oddly, nothing. Only black silence and the dim glow of barren white walls. New York City seemed intent upon my leaving without a nod. Across the courtyard rows of windows darkened and blurred, and eventually I fell asleep.

Snow fell all night, thick and gauzy as cotton candy. I woke in the mauve morning light to find the windows frosted over. I threw on clothes and boots, grabbed my coat, and stomped through meringue drifts toward Central Park. Inside the park, sienna tree limbs bowed beneath white icing and black streetlamps tipped their tall, snow top hats. This was no cold, curt goodbye, but farewell on the most elegant and grandiose scale. The city had seen me after all, and she made sure I knew.

I spun around, eyes watering, and cleared off a park bench to sit down. Life with B. could wait an hour, or two.

Cheryl Sadowski writes about art, books, landscape, and nature. Her essays, reviews, and short fiction have been published in Oyster River Pages, The Ekphrastic Review, Vita Poetica, After the Art, and other publications. Cheryl holds a Master in Liberal Arts from Johns Hopkins University. She lives in Northern Virginia.

Something Different

1 July 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Emily Lacey

You’re not even mad
that you’re bundled in a pink snowsuit
or that your hands are swallowed
by your sleeves and mittens.
You don’t care that your boots
are stiff or that your hat is strapped tight
below your chin
or that your nose is dripping,

but you’re enraged
that the snow is blocking
the sidewalk,
your mittens now little purple fabric fists
because you can’t go for your
daily walk.
You trudge your body
forward—into the mound—sink.
Mama,
make this go away,
Mama.

You wave at the snow falling,
like it’s something different.
You even try to kiss it.

Emily Lacey lives in Danvers, Massachusetts. Her work appears in Evening Street Review, Medical Literary Messenger, The Broken Plate, and Freshwater.

Brixen in Winter

31 December 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Jeannette Tien-Wei Law

Frost flakes, Yule tide, blink lights glow

Dove haze, slab streets, wish for snow

Star child, sweep stacks, coal smudge face

Sky blush, Year dawns, white spot doe

Jeannette Tien-Wei Law grew up celebrating the holidays with her family in St. Louis, Missouri. Festive dinners often touted steamed rice and stir-fried broccoli alongside the roasted turkey and traditional trimmings. Jeannette now makes her own stuffing with apricots, wine and Italian sausage as an international educator living in Milan.

Tag: snow (Page 1 of 2)

Bright Prospects

I Sing the Poem “Nantucket”

Calling Out for Color

Snow

The Calm Before

Golden-Crowned Kinglets

Footwriting

Farewell, in black and white

Something Different

Brixen in Winter

Recent Posts

Archives

Categories