Days Grow Calm 

by Frances Leitch


The days grow calm
Winter silence
Filling the desert soul
With snow – falling, falling
Falling asleep

Close the eyes that saw
Road runners scooting about
Chasing lizards perched on rocks
Marigolds sprout
And heard
Winged chatter
Darting over prickly top

Miles and miles and miles
The snow drift unfolds
Our memory fading
Of the vivid land
Veiled in snowy
Furls of sand


* * * * *

Feeling that life is in nature’s palm, Frances has spun tales of life and the sea, desert, sun and wild spaces since youth.  In more than 30 years of writing, she’s done poems, articles, short stories, public relations, and having a hobo spirit, traveled through 48 states and 17 countries.  She most enjoys writing poetry and hopes to pass on nature’s wonder, a kernel of meaning, and feeling – that pockets a bit of the sun.

 

A Ball Park Weiner Commercial Pitched as a (Sentimental/Sugary/Seventh Inning Stretch) Poem*

by Jen Schneider

so, this is what I think, the (many) reasons why i return to the park even as the park refuses me. refuses me not in the way(s) one is typically refused - with silent stares, averted eyes, or locked gates. refused in the way of the world - today’s digital age - where texts travel faster than the speed of light & all tracks are traced. refused in the way of my gut - today’s girth - where digestive tracts tease & the reader’s digest no longer prints baseball trivia. and port-a-potties line paths paved of potholes no one digs and pot everyone digs. because you can’t retrieve balls that sail over your fences & you can’t recall emails that sail overseas. and because - despite all that you refuse to do & all that you can’t do (none of can do everything & only some of us know the rules & the rules need to change anyway & only those who know them hide in closed forums even as your open fields call) - you do so much. because you made moves and threw balls for civil rights. you swung bats for cultural change and Martin Luther King Jr. once credited one of your players - the great Jackie Robinson - for his own home runs. and because these are truths  - both literal & figurative. and because you track stats (& rates) in ways that document trends that need be tracked. because you make dreams - both of the field and of the city - possible. for guys on city stoops. for girls in couture hoops. for kids everywhere. because you are predictable in a world of unpredictability. like when i moved (from phila to ny to boston and back again) and everything changed, you stayed the same (in phila & ny & boston and back again). because you are always on time (no matter the time) & never in a hurry. like my grandfather who would spend hours in the back bedroom (the one with no air & no lights) listening to your every word with his right ear (his back straight & his hand cupped just so – as if he cradled the ball of a perfect pitch) & the front room with his left where his spouse of fifty plus years watched day of our lives. time to play ball they’d say to each other each morning over her sanka and his hot water with lemon. all lives worthy. extra innings and double headers always welcome. because you are always out & always on your game. because your peanuts are always hot and your colas are always cold. because it’s always someone’s birthday and you never forget. in surround sound. blasted all around town. because you never lose hope (not even at rock bottom) and because beverages on rocks are always smooth. because your weiners are always cooking (ball park & oscar mayer dual in jest) and your custard & ice cream machine is always cranking. perfect scoops. perfect baseballs. because you offer bats to anyone & everyone. no one can’t play. because you have an infinite number of plays. and curve balls are also welcome. and umpires play by the rules. because you encourage slides and sometimes steals. context depending, of course. because errors are always expected and because everyone gets not one, not two, but three chances to soar & score. because you are family to all. and you not only support distancing you are of distancing. all bases more than six feet apart. all players spaced. you never cease to entertain. right off the pitch you [serve] swing, crack [jokes] bats, & throw strikes. from the big screen to the small town to the transistor radio (AM & PM), you are always at the plate. and one summer day, when i was at work and nothing was right (the world on fire) and everything was wrong (the fire out of control), you calmed us all. first with your seventh inning stretch. next with your fist in the gut of your soft leather mitt. keep up the fight/down but not out/lights still on/foul smells dissipate/not all flies run foul, you cheered. and I  we listened.

*inspired by Matthew Olzmann’s “Mountain Dew Commercial Disguised as a Love Poem” (and a love of baseball)


* * * * *

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. She is a Best of the Net nominee, with stories, poems, and essays published in a wide variety of literary and scholarly journals. She is the author of Invisible Ink (Toho Pub), On Daily Puzzles: (Un)locking Invisibility (forthcoming, Moonstone Press), and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups (forthcoming Atmosphere Press).

 

 

we’d call her hurricane ___

by Jen Schneider

we know the flavor of fear and the weight of anger. misguided / misdirected – like an arrow recently sharpened and a trajectory recently widened. it finds its targets. hearts heavy of hand and hind. in the darkness of the warm summer sky. in the light of the crisp winter morning. bull’s eye. all eyes open. wide.

lashes flutter. looks linger. pencils push. blocks and locks. everywhere. there are a million reasons to write. also, a million reasons not to.

1. A feared person
2. A feared emotion
3. A feared truth
4. A feared falsity
5. The weight of a hurricane
6. The weight of sadness
7. The flavor of bitterness
8. The flavor of mistakes
9. The scent of a broken heart
10. The scent of anger
11. The scent of loneliness
12. The color of manipulation
13. A stone found in city gardens
14. A stone found on seashores
15. A letter that represents fear
16. A letter that represents worry
17. A letter that represents
18. A word that stops your heart
19. A word that stops your joy
20. A word you wish you never knew

we’d call her hurricane _1_. full of _2_ and _3_. ripe of _4_ and _5_. she’d bear down like _6_ and blanket us with _7_. In words and wisdom. always _8_. sometimes _9_. mostly _10_ and _11_. she’d scorn ideas not her own. lands not local. menus not made of home. she’d laugh, in tones that would linger. with quilts of _12_ wool and weights of stones. _13_ and _14_. and scars that linger in the language – strings of letters ( _15_, _16_, _17_) turned syllables that tie and bind. Pull back. Bear down. Be mindful. of _18_ and _19_. _20__, too. of the words you long to write. the hurricane – the ones you know they most fear. once etched – in print / on paper / of personhood – they too loiter.  

* * * * *

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. She is a Best of the Net nominee, with stories, poems, and essays published in a wide variety of literary and scholarly journals. She is the author of Invisible Ink (Toho Pub), On Daily Puzzles: (Un)locking Invisibility (forthcoming, Moonstone Press), and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups (forthcoming Atmosphere Press).

 

 

Only A Girl

by Kathryn Schowalter


1978
sorting mail
in the Grafton Post Office a post card catches

my eye a toddler holds her baby sister
to the words
“It’s only a post card because it’s only a girl”

my incredulity reaches
into 2021 wondering
about the fate of newborn Only-a-girl, a woman now
is she only a lover only
a wife only a mother perhaps only a grandmother

did a Crown Prince follow
her to the head of the table twenty-four months after her only-a-girl birth was she
fed a diet of parental disappointment when old enough to read

did she find a left behind only-a-girl announcement

possibly it put steel
in her only-a-girl spine compelling her to
write best sellers
fly to the space station become a great brain surgeon skilled teacher
beloved professor or
caring crossing-guard

and
loving mother of

two precious daughters thankful every day
that she wasn’t born only a boy


* * * * *

Kathryn Schowalter is a retired Special Education Educator. She has had poetry published in Fireside Poets, Hemisphere, Pyrite, Wisconsin Poets Calendar, Ariel Chart and an essay in Science Of Mind Magazine. She has had photos of her Irish wolfhounds published in “365 Dogs Calendar.”

Writing In A Woman's Voice is currently on solstice sabbatical and will resume with posts on December 28, 2021. Happy holidays to you! 

 

This month's Moon Prize, the 87th, goes to one of Cynthia Anderson's magical haiku about an empty highway

Haiku

by Cynthia Anderson


empty highway
coyotes crossing
their old trail


* * * * *

"empty highway" was first published in Wales Haiku Journal (Winter 2021).
 
Cynthia Anderson has published ten poetry collections, most recently The Missing Peace (Velvet Dusk Publishing, 2021). Her poems frequently appear in journals and anthologies, and she is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. In 2020, she took up short form poetry and since then has been exploring haiku, senryu, cherita, and related forms. Cynthia is co-editor of the anthology A Bird Black As the Sun: California Poets on Crows & Ravens. She makes her home in the Mojave Desert near Joshua Tree National Park. www.cynthiaandersonpoet.com

Pistachio Walls

by Bavishya Tai

 
Remember our old, two-storied house in the little Andhra town Nani?
The one with the pistachio walls
and the polished cement floors?
The one where you hung paintings
of goddesses and gods over every door frame?
And every time I passed through a door,
I’d do it quickly
for the fear that the gods might come crashing down on my head?
 
Remember Nani?
Mom and dad used to work jobs in the city,
so it was just you and me against the world within these walls.
You with your crisp cotton saris, holding my tiny hand,
walking me to a small, one-storied building called school with its sky blue walls.
The kids were a mess there, and the teacher a menace.
 
One time, at the playground,
when a boy scratched my thumb and pushed me to the ground,
you stormed into the school and threatened him
that if he ever bullied me or anyone else again,
he’d never come to school.
That boy never raised a hand on anybody else again.
I'll protect you like that Nani.
I'll protect you from your own mind.
 
Remember Nani?
How you used to send me to the shop on the street corner
to get some sugar or toothpaste,
and you'd give me an extra something for a bubblegum or a soda.
And remember how you used to carefully unwrap the pink Boomer for me
so the free Barbie sticker inside wouldn't tear?
 
Remember Nani?
We used to get milk from the old couple who reared buffaloes next door;
and we used to buy bondas with the tangy tomato chutney
from Paru auntie down the road.
She sat under the shade of neem trees
on a small plastic stool with her burning wood stove and a large oil pan,
smiling whenever she saw us,
giving us extra bondas wrapped in dry leaf plates she stitched herself?
 
Remember the tiny gooseberry tree in our yard?
I used to pluck and eat sour fruits from it with silly expressions on my face.
Remember how we used to take your cot outside onto the balcony on hot summer nights?
We slept under the stars with the neighbourhood and the night breeze.
Remember how you used to pat me to sleep
while singing me "Jo-Jo" lullaby?
 
Pistachio walls remind me of those times all those years ago,
when your hair was more dark than grey;
when you sent me down to the yard
to pluck bright yellow flowers to offer the gods and pray;
when we sat on the balcony,
watching the next door buffaloes eat hay;
and the bazaars and temples
and relatives’ and friends’ houses we used to stray.
 
But now, in your mind, memories refuse to stay.
Let the pistachio walls remind you of who you were, Nani.
Let them remind you of us,
of love, of simple times,
of kindness, of nostalgia,
of generous neighbours and good times.
 
And oh, how wonderful those times were
with you and me within pistachio walls,
eating warm rice and tangy pickles,
thinking that the world could not get any bigger
or better
than these bright, beautiful pistachio walls.
Remember Nani?
Remember...?


* * * * *

Bavishya Tai is a writer from India who has penned several pieces of poetry, short stories, and numerous feminist articles on narratives in books, films, TV shows, and social issues. She believes that ordinary things can birth the fondest writings, and the grand events of the world can often be viewed through a simple lens. When not writing, she does amateur bird-spotting at her window, reads books of all genres, enjoys poetry of budding writers on Instagram, and indulges in binge-watching anime and series. Read her works at bavishyatai.com

HOPE SPRINGS LIKE GRASS FROM ASHES

by Shikhandin


At midnight I saw the clouds march
across the sky. Saturn, Jupiter and our moon
hid their angles and their light. Your spirit descended,
a fluff of life upon my shoulder.
Warm rain bent the perimeter of palm fronds
on the lawn. Clung to the rose’s thorn. An insomniac koel
broke into song. Then, softly, softly the clouds
drew apart. As if lanced by that bird’s voice. Your spirit
winked with the icy light of unreachable constellations.

Love’s longing, and longing’s agony are seeded by hope.

One morning when I walked
on a path newly turned for planting, tender invertebrates
began to fold and unfold at my feet.
The shy breeze caressed my cheek
in passing, and brought news from a far and unseen orchard.
The sun scattered his coins of gold. I saw you then,
come riding on one as it rolled
down the sequined walls of morning’s air.
Birdsong swelled to the firmament’s edge,
as fine as a mist of French perfume.
The falling leaves were kisses blown at me. And you
were there in between, a charade in a dream.

Love’s longing, and longing’s agony are seeded by hope.

When at last dusk swept away
the day’s leftover light into the void’s rim,
I went about lighting the lamps on my patio. Paper
lanterns swung from my eaves. The branches
of the sole Frangipani tree in my garden lit up with blossoms,
reminding me of fallen stars sending out their dying light.
A sleepy bird nesting in the crook of a branch dropped
a half-song into the grass where it seemed to linger
for a milli-second more, before a cricket took it up. The night then fell
in sheaves of mystic brume, and the ordinary objects
of daylight became vaporous silhouettes. My heart burned
for there seemed to me a promise forming from that
clairvoyant sight. Or perhaps it was my folly,
for presuming to see your shape wavering at the door.

Love’s longing, and longing’s agony are seeded by hope.

* * * * *

"Hope Springs Like Grass from Ashes" is from Shikhandin’s poetry collection After Grief published by Red River, India, August 2021.

Shikhandin is the pen name of an Indian writer who writes for adults and children. Her published books include After Grief – Poems (Red River India), Impetuous Women (Penguin-Random House India), Immoderate Men (Speaking Tiger), and Vibhuti Cat (Duckbill-Penguin-Random House India). She has won various awards and honours, and her prose and poetry have been published worldwide. 
Amazon Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/shikhandin 
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorShikhandin/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/writershikhandin/
Twitter: @Shikhandintweet

IMMORTALITY

by Shikhandin


Immortality is a figment
not of imagination, but of desire.
A very human weakness.
It is alright to seek immortality.
Who will mourn you
when you have turned to earth
depends
upon the dreams you left behind.
Desire
feeds on dreams.
Human will, builds
itself on the bones of human deeds,
however small.

                                            What stories

can the words of your everyday life foretell?
Who can say where immortality lies
in wait and for whom?

The answers are embedded in the smallest of things.
Go there
simply because it is there.
And, take your heart with you,
for that is the only part
of you that will become the clay
from which your children and theirs
after them or your friends and neighbours and
their children after them,
will fashion an immortal likeness of you.

                                The blood moon
we watched together
from different parts of this earth
stilled time and condensed space.
Some gifts blossom in their own time.
They cannot be unwrapped at will.

Riptides have expiry dates.
Earthquakes finally subside.
Abysses close. Mountains erode.
What remains eternal
lies in the final settlement. And that rests
in your own fragile hands.
Don’t drop them.

***

From Shikhandin’s poetry collection After Grief published by Red River, India, August 2021. “Immortality” was first published in The Linnet’s Wings (UK).

Shikhandin is the pen name of an Indian writer who writes for adults and children. Her published books include After Grief – Poems (Red River India), Impetuous Women (Penguin-Random House India), Immoderate Men (Speaking Tiger), and Vibhuti Cat (Duckbill-Penguin-Random House India). She has won various awards and honours, and her prose and poetry have been published worldwide. 
Amazon Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/shikhandin 
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorShikhandin/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/writershikhandin/
Twitter: @Shikhandintweet

I’m at war with my age

by August Rose Crothers


I’m twenty two years old.
Have I wasted twenty two years
or am I just beginning to reach my full potential?
I’m twenty two.
Should I be at the club?
Should I be getting engaged?
Should I be starting a 401k?
I constantly feel at war with my age.
Is where I'm at in life okay?
On my worst days I tell myself I’m a failure.
And at my best I reflect on how far I’ve come.
How do I find a balance
of motivating myself to be better
but to also be proud of how much I’ve done?
How do I get myself to believe
I’m exactly where I should be?


* * * * *

August Rose Crothers, 23, of Orlando is an aspiring author who writes poems and stories about life, love, and relationships in your early twenties. She writes work with the main theme of love and life lessons, learning and bettering yourself by accepting honesty, vulnerability, and change.

 

Find me in the next life

by August Rose Crothers


Find me in the next life,
where I’m not as needy,
and you’re more romantic.
I’ll live five more lives,
to see a world where ours finally align.


* * * * *

August Rose Crothers, 23, of Orlando is an aspiring author who writes poems and stories about life, love, and relationships in your early twenties. She writes work with the main theme of love and life lessons, learning and bettering yourself by accepting honesty, vulnerability, and change.

 

Just a Small Harvest Moon

by Rachel Barton


sometimes a Friday full moon calls for carbs you know
like a big bowl of popcorn or in my husband’s case
a bowl of peaches and ice cream something to fend off
self-doubt and worrisome dreams

because after you eat all that you can’t sleep anyway
and it’s the weekend so you don’t have to
stick to any schedule  you’re free
in a bubble of self-generated tasks
which can occupy you productively for several episodes

of your favorite crime series or maybe a short clip of the evening news
but which don’t carry the onus of failure because anything
you do is something more than nothing
so go ahead clean the sink empty the dishwasher
run the laundry  iron your husband’s shirts it’s all gravy

you are productive  which means you have value even
though you may not be advancing yourself professionally--
who’s taking a measure anyway? only you and you’ve
already scored because you are doing your anything
which is something  right?

maybe it’s enough to admire the garden going to seed
green tomatoes telling you not to jump to conclusions
though the rain pummels  the flowers of the glorybower
shreds them into a thin carpet along the drive
which you track inside petal after petal


* * * * *

Rachel Barton is a poet, editor, and writing coach. She edits her own online Willawaw Journal and is associate editor for Calyx and Cloudbank magazines. Her most recent work has been or will be published in Main Street Rag, Corvallis Poetry Anthology, and CIRQUE. For more Information: rachelbartonwriter.com

Deep Cleaning

by Rachel Barton


I drag the vacuum around the house
tracing the edges of stacks of boxes
edges of wall to floor
gathering a great volume of dog hair
which mashes so compactly into the canister
that it quits spinning.
We have been “camping” in our own house
for two months now as my husband makes repairs
and lays the new flooring in his office.
The guts of his many projects
once secreted away behind closed doors
have spilled into the communal living space—
extra chairs, printers, computer, file cabinets
bookshelves, and that plethora of items
uncategorized which litter every horizontal surface.
It is the holidays. The house is still upside down.
I confine myself to kitchen and studio, with time
out to watch news of another major clearing out—
new administration replacing the old.
It’s going to be a challenge, I can testify,
If this clear-out at home is any indication.


* * * * *

Rachel Barton is a poet, editor, and writing coach. She edits her own online Willawaw Journal and is associate editor for Calyx and Cloudbank magazines. Her most recent work has been or will be published in Main Street Rag, Corvallis Poetry Anthology, and CIRQUE. For more Information: rachelbartonwriter.com

Haiku

by Cynthia Anderson


to-do list crossed off—
there go my reasons
for living


* * * * *

“to-do list crossed off” was first published in Failed Haiku (May 2021).

Cynthia Anderson has published ten poetry collections, most recently The Missing Peace (Velvet Dusk Publishing, 2021). Her poems frequently appear in journals and anthologies, and she is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. In 2020, she took up short form poetry and since then has been exploring haiku, senryu, cherita, and related forms. Cynthia is co-editor of the anthology A Bird Black As the Sun: California Poets on Crows & Ravens. She makes her home in the Mojave Desert near Joshua Tree National Park. www.cynthiaandersonpoet.com

 

Haiku

by Cynthia Anderson


empty highway
coyotes crossing
their old trail


* * * * *

"empty highway" was first published in Wales Haiku Journal (Winter 2021).
 
Cynthia Anderson has published ten poetry collections, most recently The Missing Peace (Velvet Dusk Publishing, 2021). Her poems frequently appear in journals and anthologies, and she is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. In 2020, she took up short form poetry and since then has been exploring haiku, senryu, cherita, and related forms. Cynthia is co-editor of the anthology A Bird Black As the Sun: California Poets on Crows & Ravens. She makes her home in the Mojave Desert near Joshua Tree National Park. www.cynthiaandersonpoet.com

In Bear Country

by Penelope Moffet


Maya the matriarch, German shepherd
with a bit of wolf; Taiya the goofy
golden retriever named after a local river;
Seemuk the caramel rottweiler mix
whose pale dots of eyebrows seem to signal
diffidence. The pack. Of which I,
Catwoman, am now part, have become
She-Who-Goes-For-Walks, She-Who-
Throws-Sticks-In-The-Creek, servant and
(in my dreams) alphadog. In whom a whistle
has been wakened, weak warble all my own,
distinct at least from other local singers,
robin and thrush, raven and bald eagle.
I bleat it when I change direction
and eventually they follow from wherever
up the road or trail they’ve gone,
stern and regal Maya, river-cruising Taiya,
skirmishing Seemuk named after a waterfall
who never risks fast currents. The pack.
Companions, guides, scouts and protectors,
explorers of the circuitous route
that always gets us out.


* * * * *

Penelope Moffet is the author of It Isn’t That They Mean to Kill You (Arroyo Seco Press, 2018) and Keeping Still (Dorland Mountain Arts, 1995).  Her poems have been published in Gleam, One, Natural Bridge, Permafrost, Pearl, The Rise Up Review, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Verse-Virtual, The Missouri Review and other literary journals, as well as in several anthologies, including Coiled Serpent: Poets Arising from the Cultural Quakes & Shifts of Los Angeles (Tia Chucha Press, 2016) and California Fire & Water: A Climate Crisis Anthology (Story Street Press, 2020). 

 

Guarding The Harbor / December 7^th, 1941  

by Ave Jeanne Ventresca


having no plans for the day, sleeping a bit longer seemed the appropriate thing to do.

through my window
only scattered to broken clouds cover skies above Pearl Harbor.

this long, white line of coast, rests in quiet meditation.

thoughts about the shark goddess Ka'ahupahau fill my dreams.

envisioned is a cave entrance where the goddess of protection lives, guarding this harbor from any intruders. now, from a crackling radio, voices stern and whipping

cut through the still morning like a scalpel, no, like a bullet,

loud and force threatening.   and i alter my plans for this day.


* * * * *

Ave Jeanne Ventresca (aka: ave jeanne) is the author of nine chapbooks of poetry that reflect social and environmental concerns. Her most recent collection, Noticing The Colors of Ordinary, was released in the summer of 2019. She edited the acclaimed literary magazine Black Bear Review, and served as publisher of Black Bear Publications for twenty years. Her award winning poetry (contemporary and Asian) has been widely published internationally within commercial and literary magazines, in print and online. Ave Jeanne was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for 2019.

Envying the Ability of Mittens

by Ave Jeanne Ventresca


woolen scarves and mittens sleep on the third shelf
of this old metal rack. they sit methodical,
arranged by size or perhaps by frequency
of use. december air floats through a crack
in the window and just now
discarded letters creep across these cold floors.
resisting urges to climb back under sheets,
warm and friendly, i follow curiosity
and listen to voice mail that has been neglected.
strangers, friends, perhaps voices of lovers.

i attempt to avoid losing my smile, breathe
in a mirror’s reflection and prepare for an arduous day
that weighs in front of me like the sound of hearts
that beat while at dance.  now i awaken the

scarf, beckon the door to let me pass
and head towards victoria station to begin my walk.
under a heavy sun, through crowded streets, i avoid

all eyes of strangers as my boots carry me onto
the eager train. an american offers me a seat,
and my nod offers gratitude,
honest and humble. back and forth voices bounce,
each with a different accent that touches
my ears with interest.  as another shiver arrives,
i wrap my coat around my achy legs,
open this weathered book
and read chapter nine, as not to waste time. yet my

thoughts jump back to the old metal rack at home,
with the scarves and mittens on the third shelf,
and i envy their ability to sleep warm and quiet
on this cold winter morning.


* * * * *

Ave Jeanne Ventresca (aka: ave jeanne) is the author of nine chapbooks of poetry that reflect social and environmental concerns. Her most recent collection, Noticing The Colors of Ordinary, was released in the summer of 2019. She edited the acclaimed literary magazine Black Bear Review, and served as publisher of Black Bear Publications for twenty years. Her award winning poetry (contemporary and Asian) has been widely published internationally within commercial and literary magazines, in print and online. Ave Jeanne was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for 2019.

 

Alternative Resume

by Eve Louise Makoff


Address:
Pale blue house, shutters
Love seat swing
Just lakeside
(One day)

Education:
One best friend. Silver waves over sand. Jewish camp. Self-consciousness.The odor of Manhattan. Virginia Woolf, Ernest Hemingway, Deborah Levy, Zorba the Greek. Edwidge Danticat. A summer in Mykonos. Yad Vashem. My eating disorder. Crushing Love. Breathing.

Work history/Volunteer work:
Passover dinners. Tennis matches. Mean girl(ed)(ing). Reading Ulysses. Watching life eek out of patients. Immersive Parenting. Saying no.
Breathing.

Activities/hobbies:
Tending book piles
Hunting words
Out-of-practice singing
Breathing.

Publications
Scribbled lunchbox love notes
Opaque texts
Some I regret in magazine pages
An amorphous but relevant memoir
(One day)

Personal statement
I follow rules but require passion. I request transcendence or pass me over.


* * * * *

Eve Louise Makoff is an internal medicine and palliative care physician and a writer.

 

The Tight Possible

by Pamela Nocerino
 
 
If I felt worthy
of the love
I offer others,
what would
tick, spin,
loosen, or cling?
The long songs 
of Sundays
and midnights
would hum 
in what key?
I drum 
evergreen needles
like jazz brushes
against the tight
possible
and try.


* * * * *

Pamela Nocerino is a ghostwriter and teacher who once helped build a giant troll in the Rocky Mountains. She enjoyed a brief career on stage in Denver until she needed health insurance. Then, she taught public school students for over 20 years and raised two inspiring people. Two of her short plays were selected for staged readings in Colorado and Georgia, and some of her poems were published Plum Tree Tavern, Splintered Disorder Press, Gyroscope Review, Third Estate Art's Quaranzine and Capsule Stories. Most recently, she had a short story selected for Jerry Jazz Musician. 

 

Some

by Pamela Nocerino


Women are back
to nothing again today
in a country far from me —
their personhood revoked 
like a license
because some turned away
 
And I am here
impaired by freedoms 
claimed by some
in proud lairs of personhood
where gender 
is but one offense
 
We are all
falling backwards
in the fight for 
the right 
to turn some
away


* * * * *

Pamela Nocerino is a ghostwriter and teacher who once helped build a giant troll in the Rocky Mountains. She enjoyed a brief career on stage in Denver until she needed health insurance. Then, she taught public school students for over 20 years and raised two inspiring people. Two of her short plays were selected for staged readings in Colorado and Georgia, and some of her poems were published Plum Tree Tavern, Splintered Disorder Press, Gyroscope Review, Third Estate Art's Quaranzine and Capsule Stories. Most recently, she had a short story selected for Jerry Jazz Musician. 

 

A Minor Event

by Pratibha Kelapure


Darkness lingered around the house when
the newborn’s first cry pierced the still of the night
when the midwife announced, “It’s a girl.”
overhead kerosene lamp swung a little
and the new mother clutched the cold bedpost
and moaned faintly, “girl!”
then the light was out

at dawn, grandfather knocked on the door
his regal gait and his weighty chest belied
his worn-out shoes and his empty pocket
cradling the baby in his callused hands
disappointment lain bare for mother to see
“girl!” that one word he said! “girl!”
tears of terror rose in mother’s eyes

one simple word! A slammed shut iron gate
a tight knot crawled up her chest
and curdled the milk in her bosom
in a wordless voice, she sang to the baby
a loving lullaby, a song of regret
the baby cried for her birthright denied
cried and cried in vain

until one day when she smiled
smiled and gurgled until
the grandfather’s heart warmed a little

a minor event—noticed by none
the momentous one
girl’s first bargain for love


* * * * *

Pratibha Kelapure is an Indian-American poet residing in California. Her poems appear in Choice Words: Writers on Abortion (Anthology, Haymarket Books, 2020), Entropy Magazine, Plath Poetry Project, miller's pond poetry, The Lake, Tab Journal (upcoming), Amethyst Review (upcoming), and many other literary magazines. She is the founding editor of The Literary Nest.

Power of Silence

by Dorah Achieng


When you are so mad,
And feel like crushing.
When you can’t hold on,
And want to scream it all.
When you feel so walked on,
And want to do the same.
When you feel you have been used,
And want to pay back.
When they have said enough about you,
And you want to confront them.
When you feel like you can’t stand them anymore,
And want to pay back.
Just maintain your silence.
Just keep off from all the noises.
Just take a step of faith and walk out.
You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone.
You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone.
Sometimes, it is better to just walk out in silence
Than to pay back.                                                                              
There is power in silence,
It communicates loudly,
What couldn’t be understood in your words.
Sometimes your absence,
Communicates what your presence couldn’t.


* * * * *

Dorah Achieng is an upcoming poet and a fictionist who is passionate about writing. As a little girl, she observed her dad always glued to his books and she would sit beside him. He would then give her a book to read as well and eventually, she grew a passion in reading and writing. Her manuscripts are yet to be published and is looking forward to publishing them soon. 

 

My Body as Rock Creek Park

by Deborah Hefferon

 

My body meanders through

the city on a sweet braided network

of nectar-reconnaissance:                                               wild,

 

wooded, quarried, and scrambled.

Smooth as packed sandy soil,

its eroded banks echo a Kingfisher’s scolding.

 

My body is like the shallow cap

of the red oak’s acorn, a patchwork

of outcroppings, panic grass and nettles,

 

rising to the crowns of white oaks,

strumming with cicadas,                                             darting

among blue damselflies.

 

Half a billion-year-old rippled

rock angles through polypody ferns

and paw paw                                         leaping              down to the wooded

 

stream valley, splashing into clarity.

My body is a therapist, a refuge,

a samara                                               whirling                        in full flower          and in bud.       

 

* * * * *

Deborah Hefferon is a recently retired cross-cultural communication trainer in Washington DC who morphed into a full time writer during the pandemic. She has had poems and essays published in Prospectus: A Literary Offering (spring 2021), Teach. Write.: A Writing Teachers’ Literary Journal (Spring-Summer 2021), District Lines (Winter 2018, Politics & Prose, Washington, DC), Ekphrastic Review (2020), Story64, anderbo.com, The Washington Post Sunday Magazine, and other print and online publications.

Winter

by Andrea Smith


The crunching snow
The signal to doom
The rings and the clicks
The voice at the other end; tiresome, exasperated
The howling wind
The shoveling grazing the pavement
Tires screech; the shock simmers
the settling slush
or a slip on a patch of ice
purposely or accidentally
Felt in a frantic frenzy
crackling fire cozy for two
or the sound of collapse
Every word topples my faith
The moon blasts a message
I bypass and listen to nonsense
My thoughts grinding into insanity
As the wind picks up
I fear this is my discontent
Half of my heart frozen
Shattered like a felled icicle
The droplets in tune with my broken heart
This is humiliation exposed
Boots dragging through the snow
The whoosh of snowballs
I am assaulted with chilly conversation


* * * * *

Andrea Smith can usually be found telling Alexa to play her favorite songs. She empties her mind by telling stories. The mother of two lives in Delaware County, Pennsylvania with her cat (Simba). She is best known for her cooking skills and reading books. She also writes non-fiction on uncomfortable subjects and other topics from books to true crime.  She finds joy in wine and knitting. No blog yet, but stay tuned.

Owed

by Reena Kapoor


I have answers for the complacent ones, who lounge in their stupor
Bleating on: What can we do? we are too little, too weak, too far away…
What answers do I give to those who were battered themselves
Whose bones were hacked, lives torn up like secondhand trash
What do we tell those who cry: I was there.
It was me they felled; the rest simply walked away…

I think of you often and wonder what dreams you left unfinished
How much your mother cried, or couldn't—even as she bled
When your father stopped breathing, every breath hurt so much
Whither those you touched now drift, emptied by humanity's betrayal

Yet there were those who simply left you for dead, near dead
"What could have we done?" "We are but helpless..." Indeed!
"It is the system that's so rotten" they most boisterously proclaim
Then secure their homes to rebirth the same wretched filth

Maybe the sleeping wrath you woke will howl unto hell
Maybe the world will move on—unmoved
Maybe one day you'll come back, seek us out for an answer
Was it me or your dharma that was raped that day?


* * * * *

*dharma = duty/ righteousness in Hinduism

Author's note: Originally this poem was written for “Nirbhaya,” who was fatally raped and brutalized in India on December 16, 2012, but applies to any girl or woman who suffered a similar fate while we stood by. Molestation, rape and sexual assault of women in public spaces is often written off rather euphemistically as “eve teasing” in India; while things have marginally improved in terms of awareness, this type of violence continues to shake the country’s conscience all too often.

Growing up an “army brat” in India, Reena Kapoor feels lucky to have lived all over the country. Reena has been muddling with poetry for over a decade. Arrivals & Departures is her debut poetry collection. Her poems take the reader on journeys through a multitude of places and time periods. Reena can be found at her blog https://arrivalsanddepartures.substack.com/. As the 2020-21 playwright-in-residence for EnActe Arts, a Bay Area theatre company, four plays by Reena were produced in April 2021. Reena’s photography can be found on Instagram at @1stardusty.

 

MOTHER/DAUGHTER DAY

by Michelle Meyer

 
I pulled my hand out of her hand
somewhere around Maurice’s, Cinnabon or
possibly Orange Julius.
 
We were having one of our Mother/Daughter days.
They were always at the mall.
Madonna was always singing Like a Virgin.
 
It was 1984. I was 14. I was
awkward.
 
She reached for my hand to reassure me, to say,
I’m always here for you. To say,
Don’t grow up just yet—don’t go
into that dressing room as my only girl and emerge
as your own woman.
 
I let go
of her hand.
 
I let go
of her hand and grabbed a pair of stirrups—
the kind that everyone at school was wearing.
 
I walked into the dressing room and
I changed.

* * * * *


Michelle Meyer is a freelance copy/content/blog writer specializing in performing arts, boutique, and specialty business. She has written, directed, and produced numerous live theatre skits and plays and her poems have been published in Australia and the Midwestern region of the U.S. When Covid season struck in 2020 she facilitated a 52-week collaborative online installation of women’s visual art based on 52 of her poems from The Book of She, a collection of character vignettes devoted to women. Find the whole book on Instagram @meeshmeyerwrites

Sweet Refuge

by Djehane Hassouna


Unable to wrap her small arms completely around me,
She attempts to comfort me as best as she can.
Building a nest for my heart, wiping my tears with
Her tiny hands, she says, “Mina, don’t cry! I love you
And I won’t let anything bad happen to you!”
Throughout the years, constantly encouraging me,
Her sweet smile was my only hope as she whispered
Softly, “May God help me build a palace for you!”
Thankful, I replied, “You are my palace and my crown,
My Heaven and my sunshine! You are my everything!”
Her presence causes sadness to vanish, anxiety to fade,
And problems to disappear! Like a shining star,
She fills my world with light. She has always been
My constant source of joy, my reason for happiness,
My only expectation for the Future! Away from her,
I stop being alive! When I see her, I radiate bliss!
I wish I could grant her every wish, brighten her world,
And give her as much joy as she’s given me!
“Tu es mon cadeau du ciel!” I keep repeating,
And I mean every word...


* * * * *

"Sweet Refuge" is part of Djehane Hassouna's poetry collection Rainbow of Emotions (Tellwell Talent, 2020).

Djehane Hassouna began her poetic journey in Egypt. She expresses her feelings thus mirroring her life through poetry in French and English. As she writes, her emotions transform into verse, and Djehane becomes one with her poetry.
Djehane received her BA in French from Catholic University, her MA in Comparative Literature from Vermont College, and her PhD in Romance Languages/Literatures from University of Pittsburgh.
Djehane is patient, resilient, and her creativity has no bounds.  She continues to write poetry despite her struggle with Parkinson's disease… In 2020, she published her first book of poetry, Rainbow of Emotions.

 

You

by Shreya Dhital


You appear and
the furrow between my brows 
leaves a grin in its wake 


* * * * *

Shreya was six years old when she first discovered the magic words can create. To further explore words that could be strung together to structure meaningful sentences and captivating stories, Shreya began her journey as a writer. 

Seen

by Rebecca McSwain

 
In countless photographs, behind the lens,
she was invisible, or at most a shadow to be edited out
as necessary, e.g. from the plaza at Santa Fe, late afternoon. 
She was absent from Bodega Bay, where sea lions swam suspended in crystal waves,
and again not there in Idaho, at the dark lake just south of Coeur d’Alene.
She was not present on a Sonoran desert ridge at twilight,
nor at dawn in a field of Kansas sunflowers.
 
Then in a too-bright eastern room (Vermont),
one picture that hung on a noncommittal white-washed wall
showed her reflection in the windshield of a truck,
a blurred shiny woman, small camera in hand.
A mistake.  But still, there she was.
That had been the day when
near an escarpment above the Guadalupe River
one of her fellow travelers, a geologist,
casually reached out to touch on something
universal and timeless.
 
She knows by now that human stories, pictured,
take the eye in unexpected directions.
Solid form and high-gloss color
lead into amorphous shadows, deep and black,
 
and the missing parts of an image of herself
might finally become clear,
when her eye connects them all,
finding and seeing, leaving nothing out.


* * * * *

Rebecca McSwain has been an archaeologist, an editor, and a medical transcriptionist. Her poem "Normal" was published in The Hiram Poetry Review. Spring 2021. As Madalyne Della, her story "A Hat and a Mirror" was published in Scribble online and nominated for a Pushcart prize.
Shakespeare Festival Sonnet Contest, anthology publication forthcoming.

altitude

by RC deWinter


caught in the snows
swirling down the pike
from amherst

i need a mountain
but there is none nearby
only rolling hills
hamlets
farmland
pocked with gentrified mills

and even greylock
tucked high in the west
is not rarefied enough

though i long to lie
on your lovely summer lawns
and bury myself
in the fragrance
of your gentility
i'm a tiger
i'm a loner

emily dickinson
in fur
with fangs and claws
made for the
prehistoric silence
of high rugged peaks


* * * * *

RC deWinter’s poetry is widely anthologized, notably in New York City Haiku (Universe/NY Times,  2/2017), New Contexts 2 (Coverstory Books, 9/2021), Now We Heal: An Anthology of Hope (Wellworth Publishing, 12/2020), in print in 2River, Event Magazine, Gargoyle Magazine, Genre Urban Arts, Meat For Tea: The Valley Review, the minnesota review, Night Picnic Journal, Plainsongs, Prairie Schooner, San Antonio Review, The Ogham Stone, Southword, Twelve Mile Review, Yellow Arrow Journal, The York Literary Review among others and appears in numerous online literary journals.  She’s also a one of winners of the 2021 Connecticut Shakespeare Festival Sonnet Contest, anthology publication forthcoming.

 

decembrist

by RC deWinter


all i want to do is watch the sun go down
while holding your hand
both of us saying good night to the day

instead a blue wave roared up from nowhere
and swamped my heart
took it right out to sea

there was no sunset
no you
only whitecaps and wild wind
now i hear a cello being bowed
so deeply beautiful
so sad

the salt water hovers but it won't fall
i sit in the cold wind
hoping it will carry your voice
on that richly woven melody


* * * * *

RC deWinter’s poetry is widely anthologized, notably in New York City Haiku (Universe/NY Times,  2/2017), New Contexts 2 (Coverstory Books, 9/2021), Now We Heal: An Anthology of Hope (Wellworth Publishing, 12/2020), in print in 2River, Event Magazine, Gargoyle Magazine, Genre Urban Arts, Meat For Tea: The Valley Review, the minnesota review, Night Picnic Journal, Plainsongs, Prairie Schooner, San Antonio Review, The Ogham Stone, Southword, Twelve Mile Review, Yellow Arrow Journal, The York Literary Review among others and appears in numerous online literary journals.  She’s also a one of winners of the 2021 Connecticut Shakespeare Festival Sonnet Contest, anthology publication forthcoming.

Queen of the Hungarian Mafia

by Gaby Reich-Anderson

 

 

 I think my grandmother was Queen of the Hungarian Mafia.

Her apartment in Montreal was Little Budapest, the place to be seen. She served espresso in delicate hand painted cups, and lovingly arranged sugary cakes and pastries on porcelain Herend platters. Ashtrays overflowed, as did information, gossip, and laughter. My sweet, spirited grandmother was the person to know in a large circle of immigrants who fled from hate, war, and political oppression in the 1950s.

These images from my youth remain with me. Beautifully dressed women, men in suits and ties, leaning into the conversation. I know it wasn’t the Mafia, but there was a silent, deafening pact.

At least for the adults. My brother, cousins and I came along in the sixties. We ran about, as kids often do, swept up in the embrace of doting friends and relatives. We were witnesses in these gatherings, future historians whose innocence kept us from comprehending the gratitude those in attendance must have felt for being there. For still being alive.

The chatter, the smell of cigarettes, and the sweetness of a sugar cube dipped in strong coffee on my tongue, colored my personality and saturated my mind with memories.

Their strength, humor and unimaginable pain were the building blocks of everything I am today, and their history sticks to my gut, existing like a layer of emotion under my skin. All of my family, most of them long gone, are forever with me.

As an author, this lovely and tragic past bleeds into my writing. I can’t stop it. I don’t want to. But I have a problem.

Earlier this year, I wrote a serious piece about the misery my mom lived through as a survivor of The Holocaust. The words spilled out of me. But then I hit a wall. One built from the guilt of exploiting or monetizing the misfortune of others. The shame was so overwhelming I deleted the entire work.

Was it the right thing to do? These stories are incredible, terrible. They’re of my grandmother negotiating with a rabbi about the list of women and children, her children, scheduled to be on the train to Auschwitz. About my great-uncle in a prison camp, surviving only because he used ice and snow to clean himself. And tales of my dad hiding in cellars, while the Nazis killed my grandfather for helping two elderly Jewish men walking too slowly in the back of a line.

So what to do? Tuck these tales away or share them by getting the word out and hoping like hell for humanity to bend toward kindness and tolerance instead of hate, power, and greed?

The anxious side of me says to leave it alone, because we’ve all heard so many of these accounts. Does any declaration exist to make the world a better place or cast more shade on how vile it is to discriminate and kill based on, well… anything?

The other side of me, the one fighting to be brave, thinks back to when I was a kid. Listening, transfixed, as my relatives recounted the horrors and triumphs they’d lived through. Were those stories for my ears only, or were they telling me so I can make sure it doesn’t happen again? So I can tell you.

 

* * * * *

Gaby Reich-Anderson is a first-generation Hungarian Canadian. At age twelve, she became a U.S. citizen, and a hybrid of the tight-knit immigrant community in Montreal, Quebec, and the American Dream. At The University of Denver, she studied business administration, creative writing, and business law. She currently lives in metro Atlanta, where she is employed as a practice consultant for behavioral health providers. Her hobbies are hanging out with her family, writing, and giving the dogs flea baths. She's been a member of The Atlanta Writers Club and Roswell Critique Group since 2011.