Tag: Winter Holiday Issue 2025 (Page 1 of 4)

The Singing Lake

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Sandra Hosking

Sacheen Lake sings in winter
Though its surface is still
It sounds like a hammer on a metal roof
A rap on a hollow oaken door
A ghost desperate to escape the attic

The lake wants to tell you a story
It knocks, it bangs, it reverberates
Tales of fallen fishermen
An osprey dropping its prey
Splashing children
A lost oar, floating free

It holds these memories
Beneath its frozen shell
Until the sun returns
To release them

Sandra Hosking is a Pushcart-nominated poet, playwright, and photographer in the Pacific Northwest. Her chapbook, Forces of Nature, was recently published by Dancing Girl Press. Her work has appeared in The Ana, Red Ogre, Havik, Black Lion Review, and more. She holds M.F.A. degrees in theatre and creative writing. Visit sandrahosking.com.

Winter Woes

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Lani T

It is very cold and wet.
“I’m going to freeze!” I fret.
The trek back to my car is so long.
Especially since this breeze is strong.

The biting cold seeps into my hands.
Quickly ruining all of my plans.
What I wouldn’t give to be bathed in warmth right now.
Some people like the cold, but I’m wondering how?

Is it that they just do not feel this cold?
Some even wear shorts, or so I am told.
I hurry my pace, seeking warmth in my car.
Remind me again why I had to park so far?

I make it inside and blast on the heat,
Waiting for warmth as I rest in my seat.
As I make my way home, all I think about is my bed.
Layered with comfy, warm blankets so such warmth can be spread.

Finally out of the cold, I let myself breathe.
Although the aggressive wind outside makes me seethe.
Whoever believes that Winter is great,
Has clearly never suffered through my fate.

And so I rest in my bed, all cozy and snug.
Wrapped up in my blankets like some odd, little bug.
Away from the cold, I did indeed flee.
It’s safe to say Winter is not for me.

Lani T is a 23 year-old writer from Sicklerville, NJ. She writes poetry, genre fiction, and zines. This is her fifth traditional publication, though she has self-published her own zines, and received a First Place Denise Gess Literary Award for Fiction as well. Her social media handle is @lanitwriting or find her at https://lanit593.wixsite.com/lanitwriting.

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).

Winter Grief

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Catherine Prentice

In the cold, bleak midwinter
Creeping mists descended
Holding her branches and twigs
In an ever tighter embrace
Restless life in twists and turns
Seized into waiting for rebirth
Could not lift spirits or comfort
Her beating heart, broken in place
The gnarled frame of love itself
So heavy, ready to give, to yield
There, touched by dark winds
Freezing her tears to her face

Catherine Prentice is an emerging writer who enjoys being an active member of The Alexandra Writers’ Centre Society in Calgary, Alberta. Originally from the UK, she moved to Canada with her family in 2007, where she trained, and works as a Registered Nurse. Catherine volunteers many hours with Calgary Wildlife rescue.

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.

Photo by Richard Pasquarella on Unsplash

Back Then

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by John Attanas

Back then
after January’s first wallop
I would venture out,
camera clutched
like a family heirloom,
to capture the drifts,
the overwhelmed shrubs,
the laden branches,
bending under the weight
of the watery white powder.
Back then
the cold didn’t
press on my heart,
tear at my cheeks.
I was one
with the silence
of the snow filled streets
certain that morning was
more beautiful than any
that had come before.

Now
I sit on a Florida patio
watching the waves
lap the sand
pull on a sweater
it’s barely 65.
Now
I walk the beach
one mile in each direction
imagine swimming to Portugal
then clean my toes
of sand and muck
before I head back
for lunch,
a nap,
and a half-hearted attempt
to put pen to paper
before the evening news.

John Attanas recently graduated from the MFA program at the City College of New York. He is 63 years old. His poetry has been published in Promethean, Mistake House, The Marbled Sigh, Steam Ticket, The RavensPerch, and Abandoned Mine.

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.

Puck’s Paper

1 January 2026 / Editor

Poetry by Sarah Das Gupta

I scribble a note on a summer leaf
plucked from a beech or the bole of an elm.
In autumn I write a joke on a hazel nut shell
blown and tossed through the forest dell.
When playing tricks with Oberon,
the silvery bark from the delicate birch
is fit for regal missives borne on the breeze
from the magical mists of Fairy Land.
Secret messages written in dewy ink,
in velvet darkness below a gibbous moon,
emblazon the white mushroom tops
which mark the circling fairy feet.
When icicles hang from farmyard pumps,
I trace out my thoughts on virgin snow
which last till Boreas begins to blow.
On cottage roof tops I arrange the moss
to warn the small birds of impending doom,
the bird lime which awaits them in the gloom.
Nature, through the seasons of the turning year,
passes on my messages, mischievous, yet clear.

Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK who has lived in India, Tanzania and UK. Her work has been published in magazines and anthologies in over 25 countries. She started writing aged 80, when a disabling accident limited her mobility. Nominated for Best of the Net and Dwarf Star.

Tag: Winter Holiday Issue 2025 (Page 1 of 4)

The Singing Lake

Winter Woes

A.M. Art

Snowball Fight

Winter Grief

Kinds of Snow

Back Then

Bunny in Brown Bear’s Coat

Snow

Puck’s Paper

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