Among the Columbines by Krystal Gauley

 

Veronika Andrews

Among the Columbines 

As I emerge

from the last veil of trees, 

I pause. 

My gaze ascends, 

my spine uncoils like a bear

waking from winter’s dream,

to greet the newborn Spring,

her fur silvered

with beads of dawn.

Standing on her hind haunches, 

muzzle tuned to the shifting air,

my body follows her call. 

My belly bellows,

lungs drawing in a breath

of stone, thaw, and pine, 

and the world lifts its face

to meet mine. 

Here, I unclasp my hold

on the small, guarded body I cradle. 

I unfurl my wings,

vast as a soul remembering,

release them from painful concealment, 

shake them wide into the light. 

I meet the faces of the remembering ones, 

those who know my name. 

I give my gratitude, 

scatter my sorrows like seeds, 

lift my dreams into their keeping. 

I pour myself outward

until I am only resonance,

sound and stillness entwined. 

The wind stirs my breath, 

the sun pours gold like honey into my skin,

the earth steadies my bones,

Spring waters glimmer through my hair. 

The world’s weight

loosens its hold upon me. 

I am nourished by this holy moment, 

by the hummingbird moth

dancing among columbine flowers. 

Step by step, nearing the heavens, 

I rise, I reach toward realms long forgotten. 

Here, perched in peace and sanctuary, 

I watch the turning world.

I am home. 

© Krystal Gauley

Krystal Gauley

Krystal Gauley is a poet and creative nonfiction writer completing an MA in English and Creative Writing. Her work is rooted in landscape, memory, and embodied encounters with nature, exploring emergence, stillness, and personal transformation through breath, presence, and relationships with the natural world.

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The path by Dennis Williams

 

Photo by Johannes Plenio

The path                     

They tell me that an elephant never forgets.

So, I start the search for that sweet path

leading to your heart

  

High-rise buildings, narrow streets, and

unforgivable stop lights,

how could I forget those masterpieces?

The shrieking sound, the unforgiven horns,

those biting words,

how could I forget the path?

  

The water rumbling under the bridge,

a threat to the people who make a living

out of noise, prickle scattered along the way,

make no difference; it’s all in a day's work,

for I am steadfast in the journey, looking,

searching for the pathway to your heart.

  

My heart still shivers, as the wait is this long,

though I fear not the journey,

I will tag along searching for the long-lost love,

the one who loves me back.

Like a war, persevere, and the trophy in sight,

the dream of the long journey

melts in the snow

  

I never desist. I won't resist, for the prize is mine,

the journey is mine,

and I hope the day will soon be mine

when the heart of love

will overpower my thoughts and

the winner exclaims,

"The journey is over, the trophy won."

  

I will have no argument

Because there will be nothing

to argue about.

The taste of victory is sweet.

I have found the path

to my true love, and I am satisfied.

© Dennis Williams

Dennis Williams

Dennis Williams is a writer and Poet from Rural St. Catherine, Jamaica. He is looking forward to a good “publish 25”.  Dennis is deeply grateful to all the editors of magazines and journals who saw his work, took the time to read and appreciate it, and then included it in their prestigious publications. He would like to give a big shout-out to the editors of Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Literary Heist, Active Muse, Rundelania Magazine, and Literary Cocktail Magazine for helping him bring his dream to life.

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ASLEEP LOOKING by Duane L. Herrmann

 

Ngân Dương

ASLEEP LOOKING

My father lying there   

asleep, it appeared  

he would arise a moment   

say, “How are you?”   

then go about his day.

For sixteen years, it had been so,   

but this day I did know   

would never be the same,   

no more hugs or smiles,   

or kind words.

I knew.

My world would change   

in ways I could not know   

with repercussions far,   

far beyond his leaving.

This would be the last   

I would see.

Could I hug him?

I did not know   

if I could touch.

In some ways, I’m relieved   

not to know   

the touch of cold skin,   

hardened body   

of the man I didn’t know   

I loved so much    and buried him the next day.

© Duane L. Herrmann

Duane L. Herrmann

With degrees in Education and History, Duane L. Herrmann has work published in print and online, in fifty-plus anthologies, over one hundred other publications (Gonzo Press, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Page and Spine, etc), plus a sci fi novel, eight collections of poetry, a local history, stories for children, a book on fasting and other works, despite an abusive childhood with dyslexia, ADHD, cyclothymia, an anxiety disorder, a form of Mutism, and now, PTSD.  

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THE IN BETWEEN by Ann Favreau

 

Karolina Grabowska www.kaboompics.com

THE IN BETWEEN

Can I find joy in the in between

The time each day that's seen

As being aware of the world?

Does the sunrise stir my soul

As I pour milk into the bowl

Of a day's inauguration?

Do I start the many chores 

Leaving little time to pore

Or use my imagination?

Before I know,  it's afternoon.

Tasks undone abound and soon 

I've run out of ambition.

Time to pause and read a book.

Story language, that's the hook

To lift my sagging spirits.

Sunset heralds in the night.

Has joy become an oversight

Slipping into oblivion?

No, it's been present all along

In floral scent and a bird's sweet song

Despite his lack of conversation.

A quiet prayer and lively tune

Intercepted afternoon 

Without my realization.

The in between's been filled with joy.

Happiness's uplifting buoy

Has brought me satisfaction. 

Published in Life Under Construction, A Caregiver’s Journey Through Dementia (2025)     

© Ann Favreau

Ann Favreau

Ann Favreau is a retired educator who lives in Venice, FL.  She is President of the Suncoast Writer Guild, Inc. She has self-published eight books, gives presentations to local women’s groups and loves sharing her work with others.

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Circling by Rose Anna Higashi

 

42 North

Circling

The birds build their nests in circles

Because theirs is the same religion as ours.

Black Elk

I am blessed with a round window in my kitchen.

I can wash my hands at the sink

And look, as through a telescope,

At the shifting leaves of the oak,

The bright oleanders, turning in the summer wind,

The long feather-fingers of the eucalyptus.

The red-headed woodpeckers, 

Strong searchers, find their food in the dark branches,

Feed their children high in the deep green,

And the circle of sky holds us all.

from Searching in Circles (Kelsay Books, 2025)

© Rose Anna Higashi

Rose Anna Higashi

Rose Anna Higashi is a retired professor of English Literature, Japanese Literature, and Poetry who lives in Honolulu with her husband, Wayne. She writes a haiku every day and publishes a monthly blog, “Tea and Travels” on her website, myteaplanner.com. Her poems appear in a variety of online and print media, including Poets Online, whose editors nominated her for the Pushcart Prize. Kelsay Books is scheduled to publish her third volume of poetry, Searching in Circles, in 2025.

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Happiness is a New Mother by Selma Martin

 

The Swing, Jean-Honoré Fragonard (1767)

Happiness is A New Mother

I never felt as full
as when my baby 
was latched on to 
my breast, nursing, 
looking up at me 
with those big bright
eyes that blinked 
with every other 
swallow. And sighing
those tasty sighs of
satisfaction. Never  
for an instant, in any 
hour of day or night
did nursing her tire 
or make me cranky. 
That my body, that now
took pleasure on second 
helpings and creamy 
desserts more than my 
regimented permission 
barometer permitted before 
would hide this from view 
was a weird feeling. I was 
Fragonard's Lady; I finally 
felt like the queen of my own 
body, allowing myself to the 
delicacies of my castle—
that my body functioned so 
well, and knew what it craved 
so well, who was I not to
satiate its cravings? The way 
the baby latched on, stared 
into my eyes, stretching her 
fingers to my face until I folded
over to allow her to 
feather-finger my face until 
limp her fingers fell, and droopy 
grew her eyes, showing me only 
the whites as she got her good 
fill from my body. The happiness 
I felt. With my body. With my 
baby. With my gender. I think
it's safe to say we both found 
heaven then. Guiltless. And I’ve 
never felt so full since.

©️ Selma Martin

Selma Martin

Selma Martin is a retired English teacher with 20 years of experience teaching ESL to children. She believes in people’s goodness and in finding balance in simple living. She lives in Japan with her husband of 35 years. In 2018, Selma participated in a networking course that culminated in a final lesson to publish a story on Amazon. She completed the course and self-published her short story, "Wanted: Husband/Handyman," in 2019. Later, collaborating with peers from that course, she published "Wanted: Husband/Handyman" in "Once Upon A Story: A Short Fiction Anthology." Selma has published stories on Medium for many years, in MasticadoresUSA, The Poetorium at Starlight, Short Fiction Break, Lit eZine, and Spillwords. In July 2023, she published her debut poetry collection, In the Shadow of Rainbows (Experiments in Fiction). You can find Selma as selmawrites on Instagram and Twitter, and on her website, selmamartin.com.

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