Climbing Vesuvius in Stilettos

by Jessica Ursell


unruffled
standing serene
wet heat shimmers
thick and heavy 
on her 70th birthday
 
sulfur scented
waves wafting 
while she gazes 
from the volcano’s base
at its pitted peak 
 
her silver stilettos 
sink slightly 
into the fertile tephra 
 
poised
motionless and regal
like the ballet dancer 
she once was
ready for flight 
 
tourists thronging
swarm past
their cleated boots
make vanishing indents
on their way up
 
impervious
leg delicately 
outstretched
 
she steps forward 
balancing seamlessly 
on those spiky points 


* * * * *

Jessica Ursell is an Air Force veteran, poet, and essayist. The granddaughter of Holocaust survivors, Soviet gulags, and descended from a Taíno great-grandma, she understands in her bones the consequences of bigotry.

Her essays, "At the Country Club with Superman" and "Standing Up for the Voiceless: My Fight with Royalty in Anne Frank’s House," were published by The Jewish Writing Project in 2022. Other works published January and June 2024. "Sedimented Rock" appears in Writing In A Woman’s Voice. Jessica’s poem, "A Still-Life Collage of Lost Objects," appears in the February 2024 print issue of Down in the Dirt magazine.

Forbidden

by Mish (Eileen) Murphy


I’m not going to think about my crush on you.

Part of me says, no, while the other part says, yes.

When you intrude into my thoughts, I yell inside my head: Unwanted. Go away.

It’s only hormones, mere biology.

I’d like to see your body all sweaty.

Get back to work.

I’d like to smell your belly button.

Stop.

I’d like to lick you head to toe like a cat.


* * * * *

Mish (Eileen) Murphy is Assistant Poetry Editor for Cultural Daily (www.CulturalDaily.com). She teaches English/literature online at Polk State College, Lakeland, Florida. A Pushcart nominee, she has published two poetry collections—Fortune Written on Wet Grass (2019) and Sex & Ketchup (2021)—and a poetry chapbook, Evil Me (2020). Mish graduated with a B.A. from New College, Sarasota, in French /Russian, and Columbia College of Chicago, in Fiction Writing/Teaching of Writing. She is also an award-winning digital artist, photographer, and book designer.

Slippery Slope

by Mish (Eileen) Murphy


I thought she was cool,
and I desperately wanted
to be
cool, too.

My friend giggled
as she pulled out a pack
of unfiltered Marlboros
from under her mattress

that she’d “liberated”
from her big sister’s drawer,

plucked out two, and lit them,

sticking both cigs
in her mouth at the same time
(a trick I’d never seen done before).

Smiling, she passed me
my first
(but certainly not last)

cigarette.

I tried to look sophisticated
and sultry,
slowly blowing smoke
upwards,

suppressing
my first

(but certainly not
last)

coughing fit.


* * * * *

Mish (Eileen) Murphy is Assistant Poetry Editor for Cultural Daily (www.CulturalDaily.com). She teaches English/literature online at Polk State College, Lakeland, Florida. A Pushcart nominee, she has published two poetry collections—Fortune Written on Wet Grass (2019) and Sex & Ketchup (2021)—and a poetry chapbook, Evil Me (2020). Mish graduated with a B.A. from New College, Sarasota, in French /Russian, and Columbia College of Chicago, in Fiction Writing/Teaching of Writing. She is also an award-winning digital artist, photographer, and book designer.

SLOW SURVIVOR

by Emily Black


Daddy read to us every night, my two sisters
and me. After dinner, in our flannel pajamas,
we gathered around his big armchair.

It was the rhythm and cadence of the words
that I loved. My favorite was “The Highwayman,”
a poem by Alfred Noyes.

Ah, so sad. It was about love and death. For many
years after that I read tragedies, enthralled by stories
of unrequited love, of lost souls and dying damsels.

It took misery settling into my own life to cure me
of reading sad books. A broken marriage that almost
broke me, daughters who abandoned me,

love affairs that ended badly. So, I went back
and reread the stories of my childhood. I found I loved
nonsensical things like “The Owl and the Pussy Cat.”

I read to my son who was born late in my life. We had
tea and reading time in the living room by a cozy fire
after school on winter days.

One book we read was “Abel’s Island.” It had hardships,
but it was about overcoming those and it was a love story.
Now my husband and I read together in bed at night.

He’s an avid reader. Possibly I’ve come to a place where
I could read sad books again. I’d be safe beside him.
I could bury my face in his arms and cry like a little girl.


* * * * *

Emily Black, the second woman to graduate in Civil Engineering from the University of Florida, enjoyed a long engineering career. She began writing poetry recently and is published in numerous journals. Her first poetry book, The Lemon Light of Morning, was published by Bambaz press in 2022 and her second poetry book, We Feed Dragons to the Moon, by the same publisher in March 2024. Emily wears Fire Engine Red Lipstick.

OUR TRUE LEGACY

by Emily Black


He sits in his chair by our bay window,
sunlight streaming in over his shoulder,
a cup of tea by his side, the morning
newspaper in his hands.

I need to get the upholstery cleaner over.
Newsprint is beginning to stain the chair’s
arms. The pale coral of the area rug is faded
from the sun and nubby ridges show where

the heel of his loafer slides as he turns pages.
Living artwork is what we create day by day:
our movements, our habits, etch themselves
into the substance of our existence.

It is love that marks the hollow in a cushion,
and the ice cream stain that didn’t come
completely out of the couch, the stain marking
our anniversary dinner so many years ago.

These little traces of our love spilled out over
eons of melding our separate lives into one
are like the human remains found at Pompeii
mingled among the objects of their daily lives.


* * * * *

Emily Black, the second woman to graduate in Civil Engineering from the University of Florida, enjoyed a long engineering career. She began writing poetry recently and is published in numerous journals. Her first poetry book, The Lemon Light of Morning, was published by Bambaz press in 2022 and her second poetry book, We Feed Dragons to the Moon, by the same publisher in March 2024. Emily wears Fire Engine Red Lipstick.

 

She Dreams of Ibises

by Lois Perch Villemaire


Lovely creatures 
stepping through  
the water’s edge,
delicate and serene, 
pure white in her dream 
until two witches 
cast a scarlet spell. 

The ibises turned blood red,
a hue never before seen, 
it clashed with the green 
of the tall grasses swaying. 
They were on fire— 
too hot to be held 
by anyone but a witch.


* * * * *

Lois Perch Villemaire is the author of "My Eight Greats," a family history in poetry and prose. Her work has appeared in such places as Blue Mountain Review, The Ekphrastic Review, ONE ART: A Journal of Poetry, and The Ravens Perch. Anthologies including I Am My Father’s Daughter have published her memoir and poetry. She was the winner of the Haiku Challenge in Pen in Hand July 2023. Lois lives in Annapolis, MD, where she volunteers at the local library, enjoys yoga, researching family connections, fun photography, and doting over her African violets.

Comatose

by Mara Buck


What value have tears
without prisms?
Infinite color coming from sorrow,
trembling on lashes
to reshape the world
with a sigh.

A golden casket holds my heart.
Fine rubies with a tiny lock,
enameled cloisonné
in rainbow colors
camouflage the missing key.
My brain is trapped within
a crystal belljar,
alienating its electrons
should they
dare to shatter glass.

Other parts are scattered.

Eyes on Saint Lucia’s plate
scowl with browless synergy
to glimpse another sunrise,
overseeing lips
pressed like faded violets
within the vellum of an
ancient text that stilled
fingers yearn to turn,
yet they themselves are stranded
amidst paintbrushes upon a
windowsill in spider’s silk.

But my soul rides on
a firefly outside this room
that knew me well,
and blinks its feeble light
until tomorrow.


* * * * *

Mara Buck writes, paints, and rants in a self-constructed hideaway in the Maine woods. She’s been published and awarded in numerous literary magazines, but she feels most at home on these beloved pages, surrounded by other women writers. Having survived a recent coma, she’s aware that time is finite, so she’s typing faster than ever, with two novels screaming for attention.

 

This month another Moon Prize, the 137^th, goes to Kelly White Arnold's poem "What I Kept"

 

WHAT I KEPT

by Kelly White Arnold                                                                                                          

(with gratitude to Jaki Shelton Green, who said, “What we keep, keeps us.”)


A pair of honest to God
blue suede wooden clogs,
a tiny chip of a diamond
set into a yellow and white gold band
two v-neck sweaters in navy and green,
one with a button missing on the cuff,
an eleven year old thank you note
signed “Love, Mom” in shaky penmanship,
a set of Michael C. Fina glasses
(that neither of us have ever used)
given for opening a bank account at First Union,
a red scarf,
thousands of yellowing photos,
edges curled by age,
the turquoise dress and
jacket set
you wore to my first wedding
(the knot that didn’t stay tied):
You, Mama,
tucked into drawers,
closets, and trunks,
hiding out in my attic,
in the set of my cheekbones,
alive in the bridge of my nose,
the name on my
baby’s birth certificate.


* * * * *

The quote in the attribution is used with Jaki Shelton Green's permission.

"What I Kept" was first published in WALTER Magazine (November 2023)

Kelly White Arnold is a mom, writer, high school English teacher, and lover of yoga. When she's not scribbling in notebooks or wrangling teenagers, she's planning her next tattoo and daydreaming about traveling the world. 

 

This month, the 136th Moon Prize goes to Violeta Zlatareva's intriguing poem "Almost Fearless."

 

ALMOST FEARLESS

by Violeta Zlatareva


I'm not scared by the empty night streets,
or the coughing drunkard around the corner.
I have bitten hands,
to steal from the air;
I’ve been eaten by dogs,
while I was starving.
I'm not afraid to tear my shoes,
they used to be cheap and often tore.
My feet
breathed the night streets,
but I was afraid of no one.

Rabbit throats squealed bloodily
as I smiled and sang like a child.
I didn't weep for hugs so I wouldn't
end up at the sink next to their eyes.

Water in the cement, brick upon brick -
all existed in alignment.
Until you decided to unleash your hair.
Tie it up before I collapse.


* * * * *

Violeta Zlatareva was born in 1992 in Velingrad, Bulgaria. She is the author of Whale Academy, a collection of short stories published by Ars in 2021 and adapted and presented by the theater Via Verde. Her second book, Register Misfortunes, was released in September 2023. Her work has appeared in a variety of print and electronic media, as well as poetry collections and anthologies such as Flight, Magic in Green, Poetry Against the War, and others. She has received national and regional literary honors.

Mother Tells Me

by Eileen Patterson


It’s good you didn’t stay with that man.
She raises her bones and stands before me.
He would have left you crumbled like dry
toast, he would have left you thirsty for more
years, thirsty for words of love, desire, more of everything.
It’s good you lived without passion. Soon it will be over,
and you will no longer have the burn of what may have been.
Mother lowers herself down to the casket. Her bones creak
with regret and denial.


* * * * *

Eileen Patterson lives in in Cudahy, Wisconsin. Along with fellow poets she has read her poetry at the local library. Her work has appeared in Underwood, Bombfire, Medusa’s Kitchen and Darkwinter.

 

Dialysis

by Eileen Patterson


Mother the body you carry is worn out.
The dialysis washes away the waste, but you are weary
from all the years of life. The 16-year-old’s sweet dreams
turn bitter in your mouth.
This is not my life, not what I imagined.
You long for the afterlife taught to you as a child,
You believe in a heaven where bodies resurrect,
made whole again, where father might be if God
is as good as you think.
But God gave you stones, not jewels your entire life.


* * * * *

Eileen Patterson lives in in Cudahy, Wisconsin. Along with fellow poets she has read her poetry at the local library. Her work has appeared in Underwood, Bombfire, Medusa’s Kitchen and Darkwinter.

STEPMOM

by Malcolm Glass

           
My knock rattled the storm door. My ex-husband's new wife Joann appeared instantly, as though she had been at the window watching my son Trey and me coming up the walk. She was wearing my sweater. 
           
I wanted to say, That's my sweater, you know, but, of course, I didn't. I had to be civilized. Besides, it wasn't really my sweater; it was Kevin's, the one I had always worn around the house. I knew why she was wearing it. Kevin keeps the thermostat at sixty-four during the winter.

I said, "Sorry we're late. Rush hour traffic, you know."

"No worry," she said in her nouveau riche lilt. "The lamb roast won't be done 'til six-fifteen." Ah, yes, I thought. You're old school. The way to a man's heart and all that. Kevin will love it. You won’t hear whining about under-cooked baked potatoes or over-cooked salmon.

Joann pushed the door open. Trey, dear, how nice to see you."  

Trey turned and smiled at me, and we exchanged our secret flutter-blinks. Joann put her arm around Trey’s shoulder and pulled him to her.  

"I like your shirt, Trey," she said. 

He looked up and smiled politely. “Thank you, Joey.”

I wanted to tell her, His father won't. You'll see. Trey was wearing the gold-and-red- striped polo shirt I gave him on his birthday. Kevin had told me to take it to Good Will, but I didn’t. Trey wandered into the house in search of his father, who was hiding from me. 

"We'll see you Sunday, then?" She hiked the sweater sleeves up her arms. No need for Kevin to make snide comments about her weight. Or her hair either, thick natural blonde, longer than my mousy mop.

"That's right,” I said. “I'll be here at six."      

"Good," she said, "We'll take good care of Trey, don't worry."

 “I know you will.” I closed the storm door and waved goodbye.

As I got in the car, I took a deep breath, glad to be free of her little-girl whine. The car that reached the four-way right after I did leapt across the intersection, barely missing me. I hit the brakes and the horn, rocked to a stop, and smacked the steering wheel with the palm of my hand.

“Damn idiot!”

I eased on through the intersection as the woman on my right gave me a friendly wave and mouthed sorry. How refreshing. A person with some empathy, a rarity in a world of the self-absorbed and self-satisfied. Like Joann. She seems so happy with herself, secure in her new life, with a sweet boy for a son.

Why was I angry at this woman? What had she ever done to me? She hadn't stolen my husband. He was hers for the taking. And she hadn't broken my home. I had done that myself. I had to get out. I was tired of not being good enough, of failing to be the trophy wife Kevin wanted. After I left, she came along and picked up the pieces. 

 Jo Ann would be good to Trey, I knew. And that was the heart of my anger, my resentment. She would care for my son and help Kevin, with his fat salary, spoil him. I would end up the weekend mom, the here-again-there-again mom, the real step-mom.     


* * * * *

"Stepmom" will be in Malcolm Glass's next collection, Her Infinite Variety, to be published by Finishing Line Press in 2025.

 

Crossing Illegally from Germany into Germany

by Rose Mary Boehm


At seven I walked that long road
past farmer Bauer’s geese, left at the church,
left again at the brook, over the small bridge,
past the school caretaker with his scary grin
to take my seat
with the local kids.
I, the refugee.
I, the one with the strange accent.
‘Heil Hitler’!

My teacher had hairy legs
and big calf muscles that went in and out,
up and down as she biked along the school path.
I stared.

Under the bridge, by the brook,
I found my friend the frog and stroked
his slimy head, his whole little body seeming
to breathe in and out fast and in panic,
but it stayed, hypnotized
by my gentle finger.

The cockerel waited by the shed. I tucked him
in under the tiny blanket of my dolls’ pram.
I covered his comb with a little blue hat
my mother had crocheted
for my doll,
his wattles fell to one side,
his protective membrane closed.

The street names changed
to Marx, Engels, Lenin…
I received the coveted blue scarf,
became a Young Pioneer.
The teacher with the big, yellow teeth
taught me Russian.
Mother decided that this was enough.


In the train chugging towards the border
my attention was on Mother,
I looked at my brother.
In the wooded copse I rested my head
on the backpack I’d dropped
onto a patch of woodruff.
It also smelled of ceps.
I thought of Grandpa.
I sensed danger when Mother said
to wait for darkness.

The soldiers unfolded from the night,
standing on the higher ground, silhouetted against
the starry night sky.
The clicks of their safety catches.
Even though my brother had finally
given me his Teddy, I peed myself.


* * * * *

"Crossing Illegally from Germany into Germany" was first published in Rose Mary Boehm's collection Life Stuff (Kelsay November 2023)

Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was three times nominated for a Pushcart and once for Best of Net. Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books, July 2022), Whistling in the Dark (Cyberwit, July 2022), and Saudade (December 2022) are available on Amazon. Also available on Amazon is a new collection, Life Stuff, published by Kelsay Books November 2023. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

 

After the Bad Cancer Diagnosis

by Karen Friedland


I’ve decided, herewith,
that I am on vacation
every day
for the rest of my days—
even when I have work to do,
even when I need to get paid.

Because truly,
each tree-breeze,
each bird-trill,
each dog-sigh

is unique and thrilling
and must be savored—
every cloud and each tree
a masterpiece.

So I’m pleased to announce that I’m on vacation
indefinitely—
alive, if inert,

bewitched by trees
on a hot summer’s day.


* * * * *

Once a grant writer by trade, Karen Friedland had poetry published in the Lily Poetry Review, Nixes Mate Review, One Art, and others. She has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her books are Places That Are Gone and Tales from the Teacup Palace. Karen lived in Boston with her husband, two dogs and a cat. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in November 2021, two days before her 58th birthday, and died on April 14, 2024.

This Winter, My Body is Killing Me

by Karen Friedland


Now, why’d you go all cancerous on me,
right ovary?

Then sprinkle cancer nodules
like fairy dust throughout the abdomen,
from rectum to diaphragm—

constellations of cancers,
some the size of a grain of sand—

ugly, evil little rosebuds
with yellow dots,
staring up at me
from the surgeon’s exploratory snapshots
as if to say “cheese!” and
“how little you knew!”

We’re trying to kill the bastards
with chemo now,
dragging me down low with it—

I lay in bed with the dogs
and cat all day,
a single neuron
pinging in my brain.

Soon enough, more trauma—
massive surgery,
removing cancers,
lady parts, everything.

And in the spring,
like the world outside my window,
like Jesus Christ himself—

a hopeful resurrection
of what’s left of me.


* * * * *

Once a grant writer by trade, Karen Friedland had poetry published in the Lily Poetry Review, Nixes Mate Review, One Art, and others. She has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her books are Places That Are Gone and Tales from the Teacup Palace. Karen lived in Boston with her husband, two dogs and a cat. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer in November 2021, two days before her 58th birthday, and died on April 14, 2024.

Serenity

© Mary Saracino


Twilight sky
reflected mirror-like
in the calm,
birch-lined pond.

A flock of young mallards,
heads barely green,
noisily peck,
beaks picking at the corn
and pellets
strewn in the grass.

And you,
on the patio,
beside the spindly
mountain ash, heavy with berries,
watering the
red and white petunias.


* * * * *

"Serenity" was previously published in Ariston, The College of St. Catherine Literary Magazine, (Fall 1975).

Mary Saracino is a novelist, memoir writer, and poet. Her most recent novel, Heretics: A Love Story (2014) was published by Pearlsong Press. Her novel, The Singing of Swans (Pearlsong Press 2006) was named a 2007 Lambda Literary Awards finalist in the Spirituality category. She co-edited (with Mary Beth Moser) She Is Everywhere! Volume 3: An anthology of writings in womanist/feminist spirituality (iUniverse 2012), which earned the 2013 Enheduanna Award for Excellence in Women-Centered Literature from Sofia University. For more information about Mary, visit www.marysaracino.com and http://www.pearlsong.com/mary_saracino.htm

 

St. Agnes and Me

by Mish (Eileen) Murphy


The nuns said St Agnes
was so “pure.”
I thought they meant

how St. Agnes wore
a thin linen nightgown
when taking a bath
so (technically speaking)
she was
never naked.

The wear-a-dress-in-the-bath
thing
is no big deal.
Silly, yes, but if that’s all
it takes to be “pure”—
I thought—
problem solved.

Every nun in middle school
had preached on and on
about “remaining ‘pure.’”
But I swear, for ages,

I adored St. Agnes
and had no idea
that “stay pure”
was nun-speak
for “don’t have premarital sex.”

But the nuns couldn’t say
the words “premarital sex”—
their windpipes closed up
when they tried.

Yes, one time, brave Sister Margaret
did get as far as the syllable “pre-”,
but then couldn’t spit
the word “marital” from her mouth.

As for the word “sex,”
forget it.


* * * * *

Mish (Eileen) Murphy is Assistant Poetry Editor for Cultural Daily (www.CulturalDaily.com). She teaches English/literature online at Polk State College, Lakeland, Florida. A Pushcart nominee, she has published two poetry collections—Fortune Written on Wet Grass (2019) and Sex & Ketchup (2021)—and a poetry chapbook, Evil Me (2020). Mish graduated with a B.A. from New College, Sarasota, in French /Russian, and Columbia College of Chicago, in Fiction Writing/Teaching of Writing. She is also an award-winning digital artist, photographer, and book designer.

 

 

Ophelia (About a Girl)
             ~Location: Elsinore Castle, Denmark

by Mish (Eileen) Murphy


Slender teenage girl
with kaleidoscope eyes—

you’re simply sexy,
despite
your innocent, pouty mouth—

and you watch everything,

as, wide eyed,
you press
against the cold
stone wall
of the castle lobby,

darting out to press
rosemary, rue,
daisies,
into hands of passersby,

singing scraps
of folk songs
to honor your dead father,

but shrinking into
tapestry shadows when
the King’s guards drag
your boyfriend
through the main doors

and onto a ship bound
for England—

the moody Prince Hamlet,
your childhood sweetheart,
who recently wrote you,

Never
doubt my love.

The King and Queen
sweep past—
you shudder.

You’re supposed to be
needlepointing
a chair cushion.

But if you hid aboard
the next outgoing ship,

you’d catch up with
your love
tomorrow.


* * * * *

Mish (Eileen) Murphy is Assistant Poetry Editor for Cultural Daily (www.CulturalDaily.com). She teaches English/literature online at Polk State College, Lakeland, Florida. A Pushcart nominee, she has published two poetry collections—Fortune Written on Wet Grass (2019) and Sex & Ketchup (2021)—and a poetry chapbook, Evil Me (2020). Mish graduated with a B.A. from New College, Sarasota, in French /Russian, and Columbia College of Chicago, in Fiction Writing/Teaching of Writing. She is also an award-winning digital artist, photographer, and book designer.

 

THE KEEPER

by Kelly White Arnold


An aviary of kindergarten papers
has flocked to my dining room table
and herds of small-person shoes
stalk the savannah of the living room floor.
If you come visit,
don’t investigate the sofa cushions
too closely–
no telling what has slipped
into that sanctuary this week.
(Once, we found a full-sized hammer
hiding there amid a murder of feral
M&Ms and desiccated popcorn kernels.)
And the toys have escaped
their enclosures entirely–
a pandemonium of Polly Pockets tangles
with broods of Barbies and their accessories,
aggregations of childhood games missing pieces,
schools of neglected sporting equipment–
it never ends.
Peace and quiet,
an endangered species
around here these days.
Somehow we were gifted
a whirlwind
for a fourth child
and she makes our home
an impossible zoo.


* * * * *

Kelly White Arnold is a mom, writer, high school English teacher, and lover of yoga.  When she's not scribbling in notebooks or wrangling teenagers, she's planning her next tattoo and daydreaming about traveling the world. 

 

WHAT I KEPT

by Kelly White Arnold                                                                                                          

(with gratitude to Jaki Shelton Green, who said, “What we keep, keeps us.”)


A pair of honest to God
blue suede wooden clogs,
a tiny chip of a diamond
set into a yellow and white gold band
two v-neck sweaters in navy and green,
one with a button missing on the cuff,
an eleven year old thank you note
signed “Love, Mom” in shaky penmanship,
a set of Michael C. Fina glasses
(that neither of us have ever used)
given for opening a bank account at First Union,
a red scarf,
thousands of yellowing photos,
edges curled by age,
the turquoise dress and
jacket set
you wore to my first wedding
(the knot that didn’t stay tied):
You, Mama,
tucked into drawers,
closets, and trunks,
hiding out in my attic,
in the set of my cheekbones,
alive in the bridge of my nose,
the name on my
baby’s birth certificate.


* * * * *

The quote in the attribution is used with Jaki Shelton Green's permission.

"What I Kept" was first published in WALTER Magazine (November 2023)

Kelly White Arnold is a mom, writer, high school English teacher, and lover of yoga. When she's not scribbling in notebooks or wrangling teenagers, she's planning her next tattoo and daydreaming about traveling the world. 

 

My Mother’s Studio Photo, 1916, Age One

by Joan Leotta

 
She was a tiny little thing.
Pretty. Very pretty. Head full
long curls, red, although color
does not show in the sepia photo.
One hand holds a toy
or flower—hard to tell which—
a device often
used by photographers of
that era to distract children,
help them keep still.
However, it’s the chair
I notice today—wooden
flat seat, rounded back.
She stands on it, her
hazel eyes looking
not at the camera, but
seeking perhaps the solace
of her teen-aged mother
who likely is standing
to the side of this scene.
My Mother’s small black boots
support her tiny ankles as chair
raises her up before the camera
so the photographer’s camera
can grasp the whole of her.
If only I could have asked her
to stand on a chair so I could have seen
and known the whole of her,
for when I look at her photo
hanging in my office,
I am struck now by
how little I really knew her.

* * * * *

Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. She writes and performs tales of food, family, strong women. Internationally published as an essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist, she’s a two-time Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee and was a 2022 runner-up in Robert Frost Competition. Her two chapbooks are Languid Lusciousness with Lemon and Feathers on Stone. 

Home Again

© Mary Saracino


The chipped screen door
whined open.
Grandma turned
expectantly
from the stove,
leaving the meatballs
to fry and splatter
on the gas burner.

She smiled.
Her coffee-colored Italian
eyes arched in half-moon slices
as, arms extended from the sleeves
of her buttercup printed
housedress,
she hurried
toward me.

Tears trickled
through rivulets of wrinkles
down her face.
I felt her soft,
bent fingers
grasp and press
the nape of my neck,
the base
of my spine,
wrapping me
in a welcome-home-hug.


* * * * *

Mary Saracino is a novelist, memoir writer, and poet. Her most recent novel, Heretics: A Love Story (2014) was published by Pearlsong Press. Her novel, The Singing of Swans (Pearlsong Press 2006) was named a 2007 Lambda Literary Awards finalist in the Spirituality category. She co-edited (with Mary Beth Moser) She Is Everywhere! Volume 3: An anthology of writings in womanist/feminist spirituality (iUniverse 2012), which earned the 2013 Enheduanna Award for Excellence in Women-Centered Literature from Sofia University. For more information about Mary, visit www.marysaracino.com and http://www.pearlsong.com/mary_saracino.htm

Static and chitchat

by Melanie Choukas-Bradly
 

If I can avoid it I will
The static of chitchat
Talk so small it rattles and fades

I tell you tell he tells she tells
One up storytelling
With shallow laughter brackets

Leave the table with me now
And walk outside
The night awaits, all dark, all deep


* * * * *

Melanie Choukas-Bradley is a naturalist and award-winning author of seven nature books, including City of Trees and A Year in Rock Creek Park. Her book, Wild Walking—A Guide to Forest Bathing Through the Seasons will be released in June. Melanie began writing poetry during the pandemic and had the good fortune to discover Beate Sigriddaughter’s Writing in a Woman’s Voice. The site has featured many of her poems, including “How to Silence a Woman,” “If I have loved you,” “The Water Cooler,” and “Muddled Grief,” which won Moon Prizes. Her poetry has also appeared in New Verse News.   

Waiting for Mastodons          

by Melanie Choukas-Bradley


The large fruits are massed on the ground
Under the tree, routed and grooved like brains, brightly chartreuse
As if waiting for the megafauna of their co-evolution to return and feast

The wrinkled orbs are eloquent in their non-movement
No one disturbs them
The mastodon and the mammoth

Had a time that is not ours, once shared
With the Osage Orange, a tree stumbling into the future
With its hapless fruit

Mastodons can’t return to the electric green banquet
So fetchingly spread for them
On brown winter earth
A mismatch in time we are coming to know


* * * * *

Melanie Choukas-Bradley is a naturalist and award-winning author of seven nature books, including City of Trees and A Year in Rock Creek Park. Her book, Wild Walking—A Guide to Forest Bathing Through the Seasons will be released in June. Melanie began writing poetry during the pandemic and had the good fortune to discover Beate Sigriddaughter’s Writing in a Woman’s Voice. The site has featured many of her poems, including “How to Silence a Woman,” “If I have loved you,” “The Water Cooler,” and “Muddled Grief,” which won Moon Prizes. Her poetry has also appeared in New Verse News.   

Knowing You're Gone

by Sandra Kohler


I go out on this cold brilliantly sunny
March afternoon to try to take my
power walk, a walk I haven't done
since your death two weeks ago.

The sun's brutal, its light not revelation
but obstruction, shutting down my eyes
in a manner which seems to echo the way
my climbing legs feel, awkward, unsure.

On the long steep hill up Tremlett Street
I feel my breath giving out, I'm afraid
my legs will fail me. Half the way up,
I stop, turn around, turn back, start

down again. I talk to the stone lion on
the porch of a house on Waldeck Street,
I mutter at the ugly yellow color of
the corner home of neighbors who

used to be friends and aren't. When
I get back to our house and go inside,
I expect to find you there, expect
to tell you all of the details, share

that walk with you. You're not here.
You won't ever be here again. I learn
my loneliness, my loss of all that
we used to share, again and again.


* * * * *

Sandra Kohler’s third collection of poems, Improbable Music (Word Press). appeared in May, 2011. Earlier collections are The Country of Women (Calyx, 1995) and The Ceremonies of Longing (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2003). Her poems have appeared in journals, including The Beloit Poetry Journal, Prairie Schooner, and many others over the past 45 years. In 2018, a poem of hers was chosen to be part of Jenny Holzer’s permanent installation at the Comcast Technology Center in Philadelphia.

On the day of your death...

                                             by Sandra Kohler


I vowed to live without you.
I found your documents hidden,
I wrote lists of what to do
with your clothes, your books,
your possessions; I remembered
your body making love to mine.
I made up a story about your
childhood and laughed at it.
I sang songs that we loved
to listen to; I wept.


* * * * *

Sandra Kohler’s third collection of poems, Improbable Music (Word Press). appeared in May, 2011. Earlier collections are The Country of Women (Calyx, 1995) and The Ceremonies of Longing (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2003). Her poems have appeared in journals, including The Beloit Poetry Journal, Prairie Schooner, and many others over the past 45 years. In 2018, a poem of hers was chosen to be part of Jenny Holzer’s permanent installation at the Comcast Technology Center in Philadelphia.

 

Glamour

by Rose Mary Boehm


Aunt Lil wore her black hat at a coquettish angle,
its little veil pulled over her forehead.
She was Arpège and blood-red lipstick,
long, pointed fingernails to match, nylon stockings,
everything I wanted to be one day.
She bought me ‘Schillerlocken’*.

My uncle was a lawyer,
a tall tree in a forest of lesser trees.
He seldom bent down to my ten-year-old,
somewhat undernourished body.
With a stentorian voice he hinted
that I was making a nuisance of myself
just by being a kid.
I found out later that he had always thought
my mother a creature of a lesser race.
She didn’t speak like one is used to hearing.

It was whispered behind fluttering hands
that Aunt Lil had been a barmaid.
Now she was the wife of a professional,
was perfume and lace, and a deep-red slit
replaced her mouth when she laughed.
Which she didn’t do often.

The idea that this childless couple would look after me
for ten days while my mother went back
to East Germany (in danger of being sent to a Russian
gulag if caught) to sort out the lives we left behind in a hurry
had been hammered out between the women.

Uncle Fried looked at me across the huge dining table
as he would a fly and frowned.
‘Has nobody shown you how to eat
with knife and fork, child?’
My voice not quite steady from fear:
‘We had nothing to cut, Uncle.’


* * * * *

"Schillerlocken" is a sweet, cone-shaped German pastry. The name was inspired by the typical curly wigs that men, like the German poet Friedrich Schiller, used to wear in the 18th century.”

"Glamour" was first published in the Rose Mary Boehm's collection Life Stuff (Kelsay, November 2023)

Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was three times nominated for a Pushcart and once for Best of Net. Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books, July 2022), Whistling in the Dark (Cyberwit, July 2022), and Saudade (December 2022) are available on Amazon. Also available on Amazon is a new collection, Life Stuff, published by Kelsay Books November 2023. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

The Black Bird

by Rose Mary Boehm 


Holland. Fifty-five years ago.
The back garden’s lawn sloping gently
towards the dark water of the canal.
There is a willow, its soft, green arms
reaching all the way down to the grass.
And there are tulips.
Almost black tulips,
their slender stems choreographed in a silent dance.
And there is a six-months old little boy in his buggy.

Twitt, twitt, chirrp, twitt, caw, flutters and wooshes,
some sharp beaks are pecking at an intruder.
Birds flitting by or leisurely thumping the lawn
for worms, a duck doing its splashy upside-down bit
into the murk of the canal water
only to lift up its beak dripping with black muck.
More ducks paddle towards a goal
only they know, leaving in their wake watery cuts
that silver the quiet canal.
The occasional canoe, the paddles almost soundless.
I look out of the kitchen window.
My little boy has been too quiet
for far too long.
I stare.

His mouth pursed in concentration,
in his pudgy little fingers the shortbread given to him
by my friend as a peace offering.
One by one he feeds crumbs to a black bird of some size
that’s sits on the edge of the buggy’s tray, its head moving
nervously from side to side, or perhaps it’s just to see
his benefactor better. Both are intense, sometimes talking,
in holy communion.


* * * * *

Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was three times nominated for a Pushcart and once for Best of Net. Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books, July 2022), Whistling in the Dark (Cyberwit, July 2022), and Saudade (December 2022) are available on Amazon. Also available on Amazon is a new collection, Life Stuff, published by Kelsay Books November 2023. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

The Attic is an Umbrella             

by Jen Schneider

 
with no springs but ample shade.
wingspan surprisingly wide,
metal clasps not yet retired --
 
a blend of weeds and wild things 
 
copies of Where the Wild Things Are,
Goodnight Moon, and Ferdinand
open to consume (conflicts
unresolved, plots unclear)
despite broken spines 
 
Sign Here!
 
contracts and constructs
clauses and canopies
 
and of infinite capacity for 
tears and torn everything – 

           a yellow slicker, size small, arms interlocked.
           photos of phantoms and fanatics. 
           DNA strands with lobster-claw clasps and faux beads.
            acid-washed denim with cherry patches on each knee
            overalls with golden threads on (s)worn seats.
            stuffed bears with no hearts.
            plucked sunflowers, now dry.
            chipped ceramic plates, three generations displaced.
            birth certificates marked Do Not Return to Sender.
            sealed envelopes with unfamiliar names penned in faded ink.
            undeveloped Kodak rolls. Caps closed.
            overexposed MRI films in yellowed envelopes.
            moth wings -- singular and tongue-tied.
            mice seeking twice-daily feedings.
            feral readings and nursery rhymes 
 
the attic is an umbrella –
 
its wooden rafters deceptively strong
its floorboards recently wired. a router
of some kind. wires conspire
alongside instinct
 
When!
 
a small hole in the far-left corner grows,
simultaneously light and shadow, origins
unknown -- a hungry crow, termites, mama
birds. shelter both proper and depersonalized.  
a welcome landing, unnamed
inhabitants consume all things,
 
I’m hungry! 
 
both wild and (re)tried,
amongst
items documented in handsewn
labels along collars and size-two Keds,
 
never (not yet) worn – 
 
the cotton blanket, knit by hand,
remains folded, in fetal form,
 
secure in blue Tupperware. hidden
from the impending storm
 
           Seek shelter! 
 
the attic is an umbrella –
ripe of unresolved conflict.
 
           last-place jerseys (tanks)
           keychains to locked doors
           stolen things (time)
           shells from unwelcome shores
           denim shorts (poorly sized) 
 
plot and pinch points breached
pop-up storms and breech births.
 
its metal spokes
rusted and untrusted. 
its contents soaked.
 
a puddle pools
beneath my feet of cotton
socks. the air cools. a bird
stirs. the sun winks in dotted
lines. the floorboard creaks.
 
Again!
 
I’ll patch none of it, I think
as the bird returns to sleep
and the realtor waits,
 
as if I could if I tried,
 
            Coming!   
 
the attic is an umbrella --
of shafts and springs
 
instead, I sit on a seat
of construction paper, legs
crossed, and contemplate
the shelter of places once
known -- forever young. 
 
 
* * * * *

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Her most recent collection, 14 (Plus) Reasons Why published with free lines press, is now available. 

Thursday, After Dark    

by Jen Schneider

 
The next time you fancy a walk, you could be joined by Ed Sheeran. He’s teamed up with Peloton to create an exclusive audio collaboration for a new series of Outdoor Walks. Each episode, which will also feature Peloton Instructors Jon Hosking or Germany's Tobias Heinze, features music from his new album and connected, immersive and intimate storytelling.
 
The same day Peloton announces a recall,
a recall of over 2.2 million exercise bikes
 
Ed Sheeren announces a Peloton partnership,
the same week he wins a suit for
copyright infringement
 
and I think, where do they find
the energy
and why would I want to walk,
to walk with Ed Sheeran 
 
I’d much rather listen to him sing --
or stream Marvin Gaye tunes
and debate just how similar (or not)
the overall experience
of “Thinking Out Loud” is to “Let’s Get It On”
 
in a solitary (s)pace
 
As I sit, and think,
my husband texts --
 
             Check IT Out
             three houses to the left
 
I text back --
 
             What’s IT?
 
He sends a picture,
along with descriptive text --
 
             Strong.
             Outdoor friendly.
             Durable.
             Waterproof.
             Rust-free.
             Free to take.
             No questions asked.  
 
If I were still in the market
for a love-match this might be it.
 
It’s a five-tier something.
 
Perhaps a shelf.
Perhaps another discarded story.
 
I lace up my New Balance and 
take the walk experts highly recommend.
 
Coincidentally, it’s May, the National
Month for Walking
 
I circle the block five times, like the hawks overhead,
evaluate the degree to which I am hungry, and assess
if the prey is to my liking             
 
Each loop another chance
to (re)imagine the offering
of walking --
 
I’d been in the market for a new hobby.
 
Maybe I’d pick up gardening and stock
clay pots full of cacti and other things
that don’t require much water to breathe. 
 
Or maybe I’d use it to store
drafts of my works-in-progress
 
Only the shelves have neither character nor backbones.
That can’t be a good influence on plot or conflict resolution. 
 
Friends suggest cross stitch or pottery.
Colleagues recommend crochet and knitting.
It’s fun with a purpose, they say.
Plus, you can still watch TV
alongside Ed.

I watch the bait,
careful to anticipate
anyone else approaching.
 
as Ed offers moody ballads,
tonics for misery and memory,
Succession, The Last of Us, and Ted Lasso
are visual reminders that we all face mortality,
and to push seasons beyond their natural life
is usually unbecoming. 
 
I could use it to
 
             collect dishes,
             secure binoculars,
             store bird feed
 
But I won’t –
 
Frog and Toad’s vibe
much more to my liking
 
Fuck it, I say. Who am I kidding?
I’m as depleted as I’ve ever been. 
 
Ed’s songs on my mind --
I write emails and can’t even
hit delete once I know
I won’t click send.
 
Digital graveyards as real
as the plotted and potted variety,
I take a closer look
and greet my reflection
under the moonlit sky.
 
Two outdated structures
looking for their next gig.
 
A ladybug crawls along one edge
A moth hovers in a far corner.
Its joints are rusted
A familiar fate.
I contemplate, then think
of my grandmother and the text
I received just after she took her last breath.
 
The message documented the time and place
as if that might change things
 
Her hip went first,
then her heart.
 
Walking had been her link,
to happiness
 
She’d scour the town’s flea markets most weekends
became an expert in curbside negotiations.
 
Until all joints rusted
and balance could no longer be trusted.
 
I wonder what she might of thought
of the Ed Sheeran and Peloton
partnership. 
 
She started to speak ill of most things --
 
One evening she told my offspring to fuck it.
 
“Fuck it all,” she said.
 
“Life’s a bitch in the end anyway.”
 
On the day we buried her
I learned that there are many forms
of recycling.
 
Stories of youth. Supersized.
Prized recipes. In locked diaries.
Bare soles on scalding concrete.
A baby born with a husband overseas.
Nazis in Germany. Holdups in fish markets.
Mattress on the floor of second-floor apartments.
Early morning eclairs from downstairs bakeries.
 
A great aunt scoffed,
displeased at the rabbi’s retelling.
 
For the graveside funeral,
the cemetery entrance had a sign.
 
             Turn right for the 9 am.
             Hang left for the noon double. 
 
Only it’s night and I still have work to do.
 
My grandmother was a fan of vodka at noon, with double ice.
 
“Rainbow bridge bullshit,” she said when her husband of fifty years passed.
 
“That’s it. That’s the end.”
 
“The end of what?” my toddler asked,
followed by, “Can I have more juice?”
 
“You betcha,” she said. “Apple or tomato?
Both keep things running.”
 
Now, the town picks up,
picks up anything within reason though the website
fine print clarifies that items over fifty pounds cost an extra ten dollars
 
I focus on the object.
 
Like a teacher whose name I can’t remember once instructed.
 
The third shelf is sagging, I think.
 
Imperfections magnified under the microscope,
the microscope of computer-strained eyes 
 
Like the funnel (or tunnel) of falsehoods on which I was raised.
 
             Bologna tastes better on wheat
             Diets secure destiny
             Bikinis are sweeter rewards than baked goods
             Pluto is a planet and planets belong to all mankind
             Contradictions in real time
 
Each Friday at dawn,
at dawn in the small pockets of air
between Here and There, Then and Now,
the garbage truck makes its rounds.
 
I let the five-story shelf be,
don’t need anything else
to clean or care for 
 

I suspect my husband knew,
knew all along.
 
He texts –
 
             What do you think?
 
Or is it Ed Sheeran calling.
 
             I don’t reply


* * * * *

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. Her most recent collection, 14 (Plus) Reasons Why published with free lines press, is now available.