Tag: summer

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).

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Garden Reading

15 January 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Peter A. Witt

There was a time when nannies read
stories to children in the garden
on a spring day, when butterflies flitted
flower to flower, joined by humming
birds, the occasional bee.

She would read of princes and kings,
even fairies and dragons,
children’s eyes growing wide
with amazement and excitement.

Sometimes she’d stop, direct
her gaze to an old dog sleeping
in the shade, watching his belly
expand and fall, hoping he’d make it
through the heated summer until fall.

If she paused too long the children
would say, read us more, please,
read us some more, and she’d
turn the page and read more
of whatever adventure
her gaze had interrupted.

When the sun shifted and it became
too warm to continue, she’d bring
her charges inside where the cook
had prepared jelly sandwiches and
chocolate chip cookies for the children,
accompanied by a cold glass
of farm fresh milk.

As the children’s eyes grew weary,
nanny would settle them down
for a nap, then return to a shaded
place in the garden and read
her own book, accompanied
by the sleeping old dog.

Peter A. Witt is a poet, family history writer, active birder and photographer. Peter retired in 2015 from a 43 year university teaching and research career. He lives with his wife and Keeshond in Texas.

lightning bugs

9 November 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Caroline Randall

at the park, we sit at a picnic table beneath a tree, our faces disappearing in the wane of

daylight. the night is warm with a cooling wind and the scent of distant rain, but we are here,

beneath this tree, discussing the deer across the field and the amount of people still

in the park. we speak of lightning bugs and their absence, and as if summoned,

a single lightning bug glowed, then another, and another until I lost count of their

individual orbs, and i thought,

what kind of magic is this?

that led me beneath this tree?

that brought me to you?

Caroline Randall is a writer and painter living in Louisville, Kentucky. She holds an MFA and a BFA in creative writing from California College of the Arts and Spalding University, respectively. She currently proofs and edits court transcripts for a living.

Mid-Summer Saturday

7 November 2022 / Editor

Fiction by John Sheirer

2:10 p.m.: He awoke with an insect crawling inside his left ear. 2:05 p.m.: Darkness. Only darkness. 2:04 p.m.: He was surprised to notice the unscuffed red paint on the underside of the wheelbarrow. 2:03 p.m. The leaves rustled in the swaying treetops even though there was no wind. 2:01 p.m.: Sweat stung his eyes as he leaned on the sledgehammer handle. 1:38 p.m.: He split the first chunk of wood, beginning the pile for that night’s neighborhood firepit gathering. 1:36 p.m.: “Of course I won’t overdo it,” he assured his wife as he stepped from their air conditioned home.

John Sheirer lives in Western Massachusetts and is in his 30th year of teaching at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut. His latest book is the award-winning short story collection, Stumbling Through Adulthood: Linked Stories. Find him at JohnSheirer.com.

selective focus photography of red waterlily flower in bloom — Photo by Couleur on Pexels.com

We Went Walking

6 May 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Heather Sager

I remember that June
when we went walking.

The day stayed up late.
The orange orb floated high in the sky.

And you, dear, were walking
by my side.

You told me you’d
keep me company.
You knew I walked often
alone.

And the warm warm sky glowed
though it was getting late,

and we saw the busy summer street,
the lush summer trees.
We went around the pond
three times, talking.

Sunrays illumined your red shirt
and your wide eyes.

And the sun carried us,
together, into the nighttime.

Heather Sager lives in Illinois where she writes poetry and fiction. Her most recent work appears in The Orchards, Fahmidan Journal, Magma, Red Eft, Version (9), The Bosphorus Review of Books, Shabd Aaweg Review, The Fabulist, Willows Wept, and more.

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summer season

21 March 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Erin Lorandos

you
pulled the folded
pocket knife from even
older denim
as you looked towards
the horizon of this life –
saying nothing

and now you open
the knife with one hand
deftly pushing the blade
out and away –
one thumb resting
against that sharp edge

for just a moment
my eyes are pulled to
your left hand –
that’s palming the red,
delicious apple

so fresh
the tree limb
still sways in protest

Originally from Wisconsin, Erin Lorandos is a librarian and writer living in Phoenix. Some of her recent poetry can be found in Drifting Sands, The Avocet, the 2021 Poetry Marathon Anthology, and in The Purposeful Mayonnaise.