Poetry by Allison Whittenberg

อนาคิน สกายวอล์คเกอร์

warm

this complex patient,

as slimy as the human heart,

a feisty one-pound baby

arrives eighteen weeks too soon


a strong 500 grams, still warm

from his mother’s blood


he wants to live


that’s half the battle

unseasoned

spring is short.

summer is skipped,

then, I fall


winter is cold,

but clarifying

© Allison Whittenberg

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Allison Whittenberg

Allison Whittenberg is an award-winning novelist and playwright. Her poetry has appeared in Columbia Review, Obsidian, Meridians, Feminist Studies, J Journal, New Orleans Review, and others. Whittenberg is a ten-time Pushcart Prize nominee.  They Were Horrible Cooks is her poetry collection. Killing the Father of Our Country is her latest novel. Her plays have been performed at Interact Theatre, Downtown Urban Arts Fest, Hedgerow Theatre, and many others. Her newest plays, SLINKY and ADJUNCT, will run in full in 2027. 

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Squabbles by Bilal Al Masri

James Frid

Squabbles 

The tree’s more lovely when it’s naked, 

seeing through it is more joyful. 

Through it, I can watch the sky 

wilting on bare boughs. 

Like a little child 

I can lift the sky up, near or far. 

You grown-ups, older people, 

you don't know 

how we shake each other 

like a squabble 

.between nothingness and being

© Bilal Al Masri

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Bilal Al Masri

Bilal Al Masri is active in the Lebanese literary community and known throughout the Arab world. He has published four poetry collections. He has written three novels and two plays, as well as children’s stories, which were translated into English in Canada. Selected poems have appeared in six anthologies, including English and Polish, and some have been translated into French. He has received four different awards, including the “Zheng Nian Cup” national prize in China in 2023. His most recent poetry collection is Crushing His Head with the Stone of Memory, part of Ishraqat – a series on Arab Poetic Voices curated by the iconic Syrian poet Adonis. Bilal and his wife, Sonia Essa (of Palestinian heritage), have two children.

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Stonehenge by Bob McAfee

Casey Britton

Stonehenge

I viewed the Stonehenge rocks just yesterday;

the sun was glistening through an interstice.

I felt the need to pause and, pausing, pray

to Celtic priests who built this edifice

from giant stones they found along the way

then dragged into the Shire with artifice

and leverage to form this strange array

of standing stones, the Druid’s calculus. 

What lore the rocks at Stonehenge have to yield:

how men once came to worship in the sun

these ten-ton altars standing over the field;

the clockwork gears, once started, ever run;

the secrets of the sun-washed earth revealed,

this magic solstice cycle has begun.

© Bob McAfee

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Bob McAfee

Bob McAfee lives with his wife near Boston. He has written nine poetry books, mostly on love, aging, and the natural world. Forty-nine publications have accepted 124 poems. He hosts a Wednesday night Zoom poetry workshop. His website, www.bobmcafee.com, contains links to all his published poems.

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This Dawn by Diane Engelstad

Mesut Yalçın

This Dawn

My first encounter

When I step softly

Into the tawny hallway dawn

Out of the dark

Where my lover still drowses

Between the sheets

Is with Milo

The languid feline stretch of him

A long curve

Body language just for me –

Some kind of punctuation mark

Or a musical notation

A landscape

A path reaching for a tantalizing adventure.

He growl-purrs his morning greeting

Waves the tip of his tail

To me or some mysterious impulse

And flips his top half only

To form an unfurled S

Curling each paw in tandem 

Basking in the changing light.

I crouch all the way down

To the carpet

Kiss his furry head

Sniff the wildness there

Touch his wet nose with mine.

How could I not?

This

This

Holds all the beginnings 

Of a new 

Holy day  

(From Diane Engelstad's book In the Presence of Trees, All the Space Publishing, 2026)

© Diane Engelstad

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Diane Engelstad

Diane Engelstad lives in a small town in Ontario, Canada, and has been writing poetry for about ten years. A late bloomer, she is inspired by the world, mystery, moments of clarity, trees, and the loves of her life. She published two volumes of poetry in 2026 -- In the Presence of Trees: Poems for finding your footing; and Begin Again: Poems for praying without ceasing; available from All the Space Publishing, diane@engelstad.ca.

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Hidden in the Folds of Time by Edilson A. Ferreira

Osman Özümüt

Hidden in the Folds of Time 

Suddenly, on any given day, walking up the sidewalks 

    became more difficult; it seemed they were higher;

the noise of children and teenagers became louder, 

it started to bother you;  

your children have passed the line of youth 

    and you see them as middle-aged people, 

    almost elderly; 

that book or movie everyone recommends to you, 

    and after fifteen minutes of reading or watching it, 

    you get bored because you have already guessed

    the ending it is proposing; 

you have become different, more reserved, quieter, 

    looking suspiciously at everyone around you, 

    even old friends; 

also, that young and beautiful woman, 

    you never fail to notice and you see 

    with eyes of rapture and admiration, 

    even desire, you note she withdraws 

    and does not reciprocate; 

then you ask yourself – do people think

I have stopped 

    loving what is beautiful in this world? 

despite everything, you maintain your vigor

and fullness, 

    which they seem to ignore, so you have to learn

    to live 

    with a new status that has been granted to you, 

allowing them not to know or suspect that you had

a youth 

    much happier, one like they will never have,

    because time   

    and wind took it away, and it is hidden,

    forever and ever.

(Previously published in The Wise Owl, May 2025)

© Edilson A. Ferreira

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Edilson A. Ferreira

Edilson A. Ferreira, 82, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese. He has published two poetry books, Lonely Sailor and Joie de Vivre, and 400 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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Surgery by Soodabeh Saeidnia

Reynaldo Yodia

Surgery

you come closer,
and I feel a void
in this very cliche
beating in my chest

and the void isn't
like a chamber
for pumping of
my blood

nor in the myocardium
to be detected

it's growing bigger
with every pulse
of your touch
without a trace of MI

should I open it with a crystal fondle?
you say, "well ..."

should I fill it with a handful of care?
you say, "no ..."

"but what if i get drenched
in the stream
and no one is aware of the leak,"
I said.

"what if I bury an orchid's seed
next to the void
and it blooms to recover, to heal,"
you replied.

© Soodabeh Saeidnia

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Soodabeh Saeidnia

Soodabeh Saeidnia lives in New York City but is originally from Iran. Her English poems have been published in different American and Canadian anthologies and literary magazines, including Careless Embrace of the Boneshaker, Squawk Back, Indiana Voice Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, Sick Lit Magazine, Dying Dahlia Review, Sisyphus Quarterly, and NY Literary Journal, among others. Her poetry books, Street of the Ginkgo Trees, Voice of Monarch Butterflies, and Apple Fruits of an Old Oak, are now available on Amazon. She is the editor and translator of the bilingual anthologies in English and Farsi, including Where Are You From, Persian Sugar in English Tea Vol I, II, III, and Saffron Flavored Rock Candy Vol I, II. Her micro-poems are found on  X @SSaeidnia and Open Art Forum. A number of her poems are routinely posted through her weblog https://soodabehpoems.wordpress.com/ and Facebook https://www.facebook.com/soodabeh.saeidnia. 

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Always Nice to Meet a Fan by Terry Allen

Sills in 1956

Always Nice to Meet a Fan

I recall now and then

the construction worker

I met on the Staten Island Ferry

early one evening.

He appeared to be heading

home from work while I

was on a joy ride to take

in the majestic view

of the New York Harbor,

the Statue of Liberty,

and Ellis Island,

where European immigrants

on my father’s side first

arrived in America,

while my mother and I

entered through San Francisco

many years later

as immigrants from Australia.

He was a rough, husky man,

wearing well-worn, steel-toed

work boots, safety vest,

hard hat and had a green Stanley

lunch box and thermos at his feet.

In my ignorance, I felt I knew

this man and would have

no surprise at what he might say

And that’s when he opened his lunch box

and took out a book on ballet,

with a colorful cover

that pictured dancers

in leotards and tutus

caught for an instant

in acrobatic flight.

As he was reading, I struck up

a conversation and asked him

about his interest in ballet

and was told that he didn’t

know that much about it yet,

but he felt he needed to learn

since his real passion

was opera, and so he’d checked

out a book from the library

to get started and that led

him to talking about

Beverly Sills who had

announced her retirement

and would be giving her

final singing performance

in her Farewell Gala

at New York City Opera,

where he was hoping to get

a ticket when they went

on sale to the public.

That sounds wonderful, I said.

Oh yes, he said, looking

up at the clouds floating by

and listening for something

that I could not hear.

She has a voice that can slice

through the largest orchestra

and chorus. A voice like no other.

She’s a lyric coloratura, he said.

I like to think that he had the best

seat in the house for Beverly Sills’ farewell performance. (First Published in Down in the Dirt)

© Terry Allen

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Terry Allen

Terry Allen is an Emeritus Professor of Theatre Arts at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, where he taught acting, directing, and playwriting. He directed well over a hundred plays during his thirty-eight years of teaching. A few favorites include: Candide, Macbeth, Death of a Salesman, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, and The Threepenny Opera. He is the author of five poetry collections: Monsters in the Rain, Art Work, Waiting on the Last Train, Rubber Time, and Preserving the Past for the Present.

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