To Live Through by Jade Kleiner

 

Lisa from Pexels

To Live Through

Ruminating on forgotten lines

and joys never lost,

I straighten my spine

to hear the god-wind

and the crickets that persist in the treeline

as the leaves don’t.

Winter is more straightforward to live through.

What remains is worth remaining.

What breathes deserves to be known.

At this vertebrae of my life,

the possibility of locusts worming into my ears,

I let the future of my skin go.

Letting my eyes devour the dusk coating the field,

I smile at the blazing silence of mind.

© Jade Kleiner

Jade Kleiner

Jade Kleiner is a writer from New England. Among other places, her poetry can be found in Trampoline and manywor(I)ds, her haiku in Haikuniverse and Cold Moon Journal, and her fiction in Bright Flash Literary Review. She is transgender and has practiced in the Plum Village tradition since 2020. 

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testing my worth weekly by Casey Quinn

 

Thom Gonzalez

testing my worth weekly

wednesday

mornings 

i bring the garbage 

around 

from the back 

of the house

to the front

i sit myself down 

next to two 

trash-filled cans

and a blue 

container 

of recyclables

to see if

they would

take me

along

with the rest of it

© Casey Quinn

Casey Quinn is the author of two chapbooks, Snapshots of Life and Prepare to Crash. He writes and publishes work at https://cqwriting.com

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The Wolf I Feed at Dusk by David Anson Lee

 

L'oeil à deux Vanessa et cédric

The Wolf I Feed at Dusk

At dusk the day gathers its arguments:
sirens, headlines,
a neighbor’s anger
seeping through thin walls.

Inside me, the wolves circle.
One sharp-toothed, bright with outrage,
keeps a ledger of wrongs.
The other moves slowly,
ribs showing,
eyes worn smooth as river stone.

I carry food
without knowing it.
Every word chosen,
every silence kept,
every thought rehearsed
after dark
tilts the bowl.

Tonight, I feed the quieter one.
I give it wind in the trees,
my breath returning to itself,
the memory of a friend’s laugh
breaking a hard hour open.

The fierce wolf watches, offended,
but does not leave.
It never does.
Grief wants a mouth.

Still,
the gentler wolf lifts its head,
not victorious,
only alive,
and for a moment
the world feels less like a wound
and more like a place
I might still learn
to tend.

© David Anson Lee

David Anson Lee

David Anson Lee is a poet, philosopher, and physician living in Texas. Born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, he explores themes of healing, grief, resilience, and the sacred dimensions of ordinary life. His work has appeared in Ink Sweat & Tears, Braided Way, Silver Birch Press, and numerous other journals.

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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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