Featured Works: Week of Feb. 22 (Late Winter)
For those who might be unaware, the recent hiatus was mostly due to coping with my mother’s sudden death just before Thanksgiving. I hope to return to a more regular publishing schedule now, returning to doing the work I so love. This week, our contributors reflect the images and thoughts of late winter. “The Shield,” a poem by Llyn Clague, captures the reflection embodied by gray late winter days. “Centred,” a poem by Canadian poet Joanna M. Weston, presents a quiet moment of peaceful contemplation. “Snow Trails,” a poem by Larsen Bowker, takes...
Read MoreSnow Trails
It’s been snowing all day, large dry flakes floating down without leaving a trace except on walking trails I’ve built that curve round the house like a Priest’s surplice, before descending to a mountain stream in the hollow, where massive boulders, heaved up from the earth long ago, make deep pools beside white water thrust against granite. Inuits believe snow has many voices and snow sticking to only one surface might be a voice ‘gently speaking’, a sign of grace, or maybe ‘the narrowness of the gate’. Next spring when I...
Read MoreCentred
the sun stands midway between my hands as I reach for icicles from the eaves while rosehips hang frosted with snow solstice bread rises in the grate I open curtains for my lost love
Read MoreThe Shield
Invisible as glass, a shield hangs, from sky to scuffed concrete, from east to west and sunrise round to sunrise, between me and the world. A barrier I seemed to slip through with alcohol as catalyst, altering molecules like fire and fork scrambling an egg, itself remaining unchanged, while I, apparently on the other side, exuberant, headlong, almost heedless from pole to pole and sunset up to sunrise, was on a course to fry my brain. Now, behind (or inside) the barrier – if it even exists, except as I create it – headstrong, almost giddy, I recombine words in poetry like fire in an iron...
Read MoreFeatured Works: Week of Nov. 30 (Bright Peace)
Lighthouse by Vivian Irene Starr This week’s issue is dedicated to my mother, Vivian Irene Starr, who died this month. She was a nature lover, was kind to animals, was a talented artist, and loved cooking and gardening. Her name meant “Bright peaceful star.” In “I Try to Forgive Your Absence, Facing the Snake in the Kitchen” by Laurie Klein, the speaker vacillates between compassion and practicality while dealing with pests. “tiny fur snails” is a haiku by Donald Gaither, capturing a natural moment of transition. “Violet Jelly” by Lyn...
Read MoreLate November
one minute, the sun was out, it was fall. Geraniums under a quilt last night, a blotch of red opening. On the front step what looked like lint has small pink claws and feet. Next the sky was the color of lead. Geraniums under a quilt last night like a child you’ve tucked in or a body wrapped in the earth under leaves. In the swirl of sudden snow, what was left of the headless fur blows west Like a child you’ve tucked in whatever was living, a just born squirrel I suppose, hardly a living thing ...
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