Hope by LeeAnn Pickrell

Ray Bilcliff

Hope

is a still whisper. 

Only if you lean in, 

hush the world’s noise,

can you hear her voice

in the scratch of squirrels 

playing up and down 

redwood’s trunk.

Lying in bed awaiting 

sleep you might hear her 

in the owl’s brief call.

She floats like dust motes 

in the corner of a room, 

as the quick blaze of sunlight 

between storm clouds, 

nasturtium growing 

through impossible fence boards. 

You’ll sense her in 

the hint of jasmine 

before you cross a busy street, 

essence of a neighbor’s rose, 

tang of an orange peel.

Taste her in spring’s strawberry, 

honeyed juice of a peach,

that first sip of coffee.

She’s the down of a cat.

dew of morning grass,

solace of a foot reaching 

across to warm your own 

in the night.

© LeeAnn Pickrell

LeeAnn Pickrell

LeeAnn Pickrell’s debut collection is Gathering the Pieces of Days from Unsolicited Press. Her chapbook Punctuated was published in 2024 by Bottlecap Press, and her book Tsunami is forthcoming in 2026, also from Unsolicited Press. She lives in Richmond, California. See more at www.leeannpickrell.com.

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Memorabilia by Edilson A. Ferreira

 

Dagmara Dombrovska

Memorabilia 

Suddenly a grain of sand invades an oyster,

peacefully lying in the depths of the ocean, 

unhappy a road accident. 

Then, to protect itself from irritation,

the oyster quickly covers the uninvited visitor with layers 

and layers of nacre, a mineral from which is fashioned 

its internal shell.  

The grain of sand gains a fine coat, which produces,    

iridescent and stunning, a pearl.  

Some accidents like this permeate our lives,

in unexpected days and by unforeseen intruders.

Perhaps, similarly, we have made our pearls:

  --memorable statues, symphonies and sonnets—

First published in Indiana Voice Journal, August 2016 issue.

© Edilson A. Ferreira

Edilson A. Ferreira

Edilson A. Ferreira, 81, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese. He has launched two poetry books, Lonely Sailor and Joie de Vivre, and has published 300 works in various international literary journals. Has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He began writing at the age of 67 after retiring from a bank.

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Poems by Nolcha Fox

cottonbro studio

Wherever You Are

I wasn’t there when you left us, slipping into the night. You were a star in the sky that went dark. I thought the night would breathe you back, but now I know you’re gone. I’ve given up hope that I will see you in the flesh. 

The night must be so cold up there. I send you all my daughter love to make of it a parka, for your soul should never freeze. ⚘⚘⚘⚘⚘

Dear Daffodils

Daffodils hopped over the fence

from our neighbor’s yard,

anxious to escape the careful

pruning and perfection.

Word spread that we allow

our plants to grow just

as they’d like. How brave 

they were to jump with no 

idea if they would land alive 

or squashed, that other

plants would eat as fertilizer.

Two yellow heads took root

and nodded sunshine to the fall.

I hope they like us well enough

that they’ll be back again.

published in Medusa’s Kitchen

© Nolcha Fox

Nolcha Fox

Nolcha Fox’s poems have been curated in print and online journals. A best-selling author, her poetry books are available on Amazon and Dancing Girl Press. Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize multiple times. Editor of Chewers by Masticadores and Poetry Bookshelf on LatinosUSA. 

Websites: https://writingaddiction2.wordpress.com/

and https://nolchafox2.wixsite.com/nolcha-s-written-wor/blog 

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/nolcha.fox/ 

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A Season For Living by Lynn White

 

Jean-Daniel Francoeur

A Season For Living

I’d always loved flowers.

You helped me

surround myself with them

to bring me joy.

I would like to lie in my garden

in the mist of the soft sweet-smelling mist

of them 

forever.

But everything has it’s time,

its time to live,

and its time to die

and only the flowers 

will bloom eternally

each in its season.

This is my season for living

and it’s now that I need them.

When I’m dead I won’t see them on my grave,

won’t know that you’ve brought them for me

won’t know if you haven’t,

or care.

The flowers you carry 

in that season should be for you,

for all of you that I left behind

and all of you still to come.

Don’t let them die

for me.

Nobody wants dead flowers,

least of all, dead people.

First published in OPA, April 2024

© Lynn White

Lynn White

Lynn White lives in North Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice, as well as events, places, and people she has known or imagined. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net, and a Rhysling Award. https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com  and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/

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PLACES by Anjetta Williams-Brown

 

SHVETS production

PLACES

Where you used to sit

Glows with sadness

The chair cries from emptiness

Not just one chair cries, but

The chairs of youth and wisdom cries also

Dad, you caught your wings

You left us unable to sing

The chair at the table head is bare

The chair that made the holidays special and rare

Dearest grandmother, I miss you

Ooooh, for the aroma of yeast rolls and desserts

The holidays are lonesome 

The palate is abandoned

Without your chair, the aromas of desserts are deserted

When the sun arose so did you

The son that made the sun smile

Your bouncy spot at the table is still now

The places where you sat are lonesome now

But the years of memories still fill my heart and mind.

The chairs are empty, but your spirits fill the rooms

Your spirits are forever ingrained in me,

The spirits of memories past are still aglow.

© Anjetta Williams-Brown

Anjetta Williams-Brown

Anjetta (Anjie) Williams-Brown is a Tennessee State University retiree after 22 years of service.  She self-published her first poetry book in 2022.  She hosts three open mic poetry programs, an author/artist spotlight program, and a talk show.  She has poems in anthologies and magazines.

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Waking Early One Morning I Pen This Poem for You, A Recluse Living in Clouds by Daniel Skach-Mills

 

Chai Tao (779-843 CE.)

Waking Early One Morning

I Pen This Poem for You, 

A Recluse Living in Clouds

Lan Su Chinese Garden—Portland, Oregon

You dwell in a world 

of gods and mountains—

trails your heart follows quietly

the way this poet follows a line.

What use

to the frenetic human world

these landscapes you love

where switchbacks

slow everything down?

Where heights of success

and ravines of failure

mean nothing?

No hidden teachings 

or practices to impart,

no special robes to wear,

how many peaks ago 

did you leave

the narrow valley 

of dogma 

behind?

Your only ritual—

a simple bow 

each morning

to sunlight shrines

haloing what's here:

gate, boulder,

pine.

© Daniel Skach-Mills

Daniel Skach-Mills

Daniel Skach-Mills’ poetry has appeared in Braided Way, Sojourners, Sufi (Featured Poet), and Kosmos Journal. His book, The Hut Beneath the Pine: Tea Poems, was a 2012 Oregon Book Award finalist. A former Trappist monk, Daniel resides in Portland, Oregon, where he has served for fifteen years as a docent at Lan Su Chinese Garden.

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A Poem: Wild Goose Chase by Tina Hudak

ela dalgın

A Poem: Wild Goose Chase

Dogged in the pursuit of peace,

the windows slam shut. Sounds 

of leaf blowers, lawn mowers

are muffled if not erased by her

chosen confinement. 

The phone is on "Rest." No dings, 

no music suddenly interrupting

time needed to regroup. To

rethink what has sent her on

a wild goose chase at finding

happiness this late in life.

© Tina Hudak

Tina Hudak

Tina Hudak is an artist and writer who lives only six miles from the U.S. Capitol. She wishes it were further. Her work is included in The Library of Congress, University of Maryland Special Collections, and other esteemed places. She is not sure why. She appreciates those who are kind to all living things.

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