Skinny Legs and Daffodils by Judith Burton, Ph.D.

AS Photography

Skinny Legs and Daffodils

God is an amazing artist!

Almost overnight, my brown splotched lawn has turned into a lush carpet of green grass. The gardens, still covered with the leftovers of winter, are sprinkled with green spears pushing through the warming soil.  They serve as a prelude to the coming of breathtaking blossoms in a variety of colors.

In the far east garden, the first one I established when I moved to this centennial farm, stand two skinny-legged pink flamingos, the yard art variety.

During my now one-year quarantine to avoid the coronavirus, I have been blessed to sort through mountains of artifacts from my ancestors.  I found a black-and-white photograph of the flamingos in front of what we lovingly called the “Little House,” where I lived as a young child.  That photograph was taken more than 70 years ago.

My mother was known for her beautiful flower gardens.  I am pleased her pink flamingos were well preserved so I can use them in my garden.  Although the paint is a bit faded and chipped, it does not detract from their charm.

Crowded close to those skinny legs are the first bursts of daffodils.

Thank you, God, for bridging my past with the newness of spring.

I celebrate your artwork!

© Judith Burton, Ph.D.

Dr. Judith Burton

Photography by Gretchen Nelson

Judith Burton, Ph.D., a woman of faith, is passionate about helping others stretch and grow.  Writing from her heart, she is working her way through illness and isolation, quarantined since March 16, 2020. She has published a series of children’s books starring Two Little Ponies, which aim to encourage kindness and combat bullying. They are available on Amazon.

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Untitled in Blue to S by Gabriella Garofalo

Dương Nhân

Untitled in Blue to S

Been hanging around for long, sky?

The days are gathering to bring back the soul 

To the grass you snatched her from, 

The smokeless blue flame is coming,

The partner to your greedy hands,

Your reason as fruits rot, 

A cheap light is spreading 

Her percussive blue all over the house-

But no need for high drama, soul,

Don’t go ablaze when breath blows you, 

Or hope looking for shelters 

Shifts your crippled limbs:

Same old stuff never ends, maybe loss,

Maybe desert, old bags lying still as light, 

As their wounded, scraped voice

Orders the shadows, and dries up 

The echo in your eyes-

Careful now, soul, the sky looks stark, 

Just a handful of slag as you stumble

On stubborn births, dispersing clouds,

And high tension writes the electric blue 

On the dark that burns your fingers-

But don’t kid yourself you can you hide 

Your thirst among hushed memories, broken limbs,

Poetry, prayers, who cares about names,

As long as they play along with water, or daffs,

Just look for your erewhon, right, 

Even a bloody trench of rattling bodies

While cops are yanking away

Two young black tramps who might taint-

Heaven forbid- The pure white of a lovely station.

© Gabriella Garofalo

Gabriella Garofalo

Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six, and is the author of these books: Lo sguardo di Orfeo, L’inverno di vetro, Di altre stelle polari, Casa di erba, Blue Branches, Blue Soul, and After The Blue Rush.

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Before the Squirrels by Nick Allison

 

Chris F

Before the Squirrels

I was up before the squirrels this morning,

before the sun, too.

On the front porch, all is quiet,

the way early mornings tend to be.

In cupped hands I catch a moment

that refuses to be counted,

steady enough to cradle,

gentle enough to release

what isn’t mine to keep.

A butterfly teases a northwest breeze,

a tethered promise of flannel and fleece.

Its wings catch the first light,

red softening to orange,

black to something

more than gray.

I think again about numbers—

about days, months, years—

each lived alone,

each carrying its own weight,

boxed inside borders we draw.

From a distance they slip into a current,

slow at first,

then less so.

The first squirrel gives in to gravity,

drops, gathers

acorns meant for the earth,

then retreats into late-summer leaves,

off to do whatever squirrels do.

© Nick Allison 

Nick Allison

Nick Allison is a writer based in Austin, Texas. His poems and essays have appeared in HuffPost, The Shore, CounterPunch, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, The Chaos Section, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere, as well as on his personal site, The Truth About Tigers. He recently edited the anthology Record of Dissent: Poems of Protest in an Authoritarian Age (TCS Press, 2025). Social: @nickallison80.bsky.social

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Fencepost of Salvation by Richard King Perkins II

 

simanta datta

Fencepost of Salvation

 

Incaution is my legacy—

I give to you my scarred hands

and laughing thoughts thrown into heaven’s courtyard.

And now, the tranquil earth melts away

into silver runes ringing

in the sweet throat of morning.

Later, barricades will fall and broken depths

descend past the curve of my rescue.

Remarkable supplication, all these things;

how giving, stark and filled with murmur.

 

You stride like light in that barest place,

feel the living body of a valley

brace against your feet.

You heal my broken hands at the fencepost of salvation

until they are entirely your own.

You replace the lost sound of my voice

so that I boldly sing.

In the flower valley and white meadow,

in the white tale of tomorrow

on the planet you’ve inherited from so many;

you repair my being

until I’m simply an ancient fracture restored.

 

Incaution is my legacy—

my scarred hands,

my laughing thoughts thrown into heaven’s courtyard;

and yet, you are.

© Richard King Perkins II

Richard King Perkins II

Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Huntley, IL, with his wife, Vickie, and daughter, Sage. His work has appeared in more than fifteen hundred publications.

Two Poems by Vern Fein

Marta Dzedyshko

O, MACRINA

In Roman times when the church was fledgling,

babies were abandoned along the Appian Way. 

While their keening parents kneeled,

soldiers pushed  them down drains by the hundreds,

mainly girls and the deformed and weak

until the church saw and responded.

In those days, the church lurched between helping the poor

or erecting church buildings and monuments.

It was not the brothers Gregory and Basil

who swept up these helpless infants.

It was their sister Macrina. 

Praise you for your denial of a privileged life.

Praise you for attending famines

to rescue the poor when flesh hung like cobwebs,

for saving those girls and marshaling an army

of church mothers to do the same,

bring them home to raise.   

Now we treat immigrants like those road babies,

may we respond to Macrina's example. She knew 

that Mary had raised a poor baby who was rejected

because he was not conceived the way he was supposed to be.

VESPER

An angel decided to rescue an angel.

Evil humans capture angels,

neglect them and treat them cruelly—

so we have shelters for rescue.

Floated to a loving home,  

a little white cloud of a dog, 

named Vesper, as holy as an

evening prayer, a daily

answer for the angels

who found each other.

© Vern Fein

Vern Fein

A recent octogenarian, Vern Fein, has published over 300 poems and short prose pieces on more than 100 websites. A few are Gyroscope Review, Young Raven’s Review, Bindweed, *82 Review, River And South, Grey Sparrow Journal, and One Art.  His second poetry book—REFLECTION ON DOTS—was released late last year. 

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Square Root by Julie A. Dickson

 

Alexey Demidov

Square Root

We are taught in mathematics

that the square root of a number

are two numbers when multiplied

equal itself

Roots are part of an underground

network below trees, nourishing

the main trunk, branches

and leaves

Human roots are ancestors,

those who lived before us,

whom we might call family,

parents, grandparents

If I am human, not a tree

and not established mathematically,

then parts of who I am multiplied

make up me

If my sum equals the whole of me,

psyche, brain, body and memories,

then my roots feed branches, limbs

outward stretched

If my roots do not nourish my body,

I wither, might not grow or thrive,

sounds like I need my very roots

to survive

© Julie A. Dickson

Julie A. Dickson

Julie A. Dickson has been a poet for over 55 years and a YA fiction writer. She draws from memories, life experiences, nature, and visual art. Her work has been widely published in many journals, including Kind of a Hurricane Press, Lothlorien, Ekphrastic Review, Feed the Holy, and MasticadoresUSA. Dickson shares her home with two rescued feral cats, Cam and Jojo.

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Living and Dying on a Spring Evening by William Ogden Haynes

 

Skyler Ewing

Living and Dying on a Spring Evening

As the sun begins to set, flightless 

baby birds cheep in their basket of 

twigs, spider silk, and dried grass 

waiting for their mother. She is a robin 

with russet breast like a flower of spring, 

wheeling swift-winged across the sky.

And even with a large worm in her beak, 

she sings her song of whistled splendor 

on the way to feed her babies. Meanwhile, 

by the side of the road, a runover possum 

is surrounded by three turkey vultures. This 

visage draws the attention of crows gripping 

overhead electrical wires. They stand in a 

line, black-robed, like judges examining the 

scene of an accident, as a long slow 

dusk begins to play the night-birds' tune. 

© William Ogden Haynes

William Ogden Haynes

William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama, born in Michigan. He has published several collections of poetry, and many of his poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals and anthologies. http://www.williamogdenhaynes.com

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