Friday 31 December 2021

 

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.

Thursday 30 December 2021

 

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).

 

Wednesday 29 December 2021

 

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).

 

 

Tuesday 28 December 2021

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.”

Sunday 19 December 2021

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

Saturday 18 December 2021

 

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

Friday 17 December 2021

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


Thursday 16 December 2021

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


Wednesday 15 December 2021

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


Tuesday 14 December 2021

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.


Monday 13 December 2021

 

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.


Sunday 12 December 2021

 

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


Saturday 11 December 2021

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


Friday 10 December 2021

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

Thursday 9 December 2021

 

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

Wednesday 8 December 2021

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). 

Tuesday 7 December 2021

 

Guarding The Harbor / December 7th, 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.

Monday 6 December 2021

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.

Sunday 5 December 2021

 

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.

Saturday 4 December 2021

 

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



Friday 3 December 2021

 

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


Thursday 2 December 2021

 

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.

Wednesday 1 December 2021

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.