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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The Shape of Things by Amrita Skye Blaine

 

Pixabay

The Shape of Things

Winter reveals structure. —Madeleine L’Engle

Stripped in autumn,

willows’ arc the profile

of their weeping

Gravity at play

X-rays expose

underlying armature

how we’ve been shattered

or not

Each reflects life’s battering

yet cannot reveal

the ways 

we keep finding joy

© Amrita Skye Blaine

Amrita Skye Blaine

Amrita Skye Blaine develops themes of aging, disability, and awakening. She received a PocketMFA in poetry in 2024. She has published a memoir and a three-novel trilogy, and her work has appeared in fourteen poetry anthologies and numerous literary magazines. Two poetry collections, every riven thing and strange grace, were released in Spring 2025.  

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Gravy Boats by Carol Barrett

 

Arturo Añez

Gravy Boats

My sister collects fine china gravy boats,

especially if they still have their matching ladles.

She loves the fluted edges, gold-tipped handles,

the distinctive slipper shape, no ordinary bowl.

She searches for those made in England,

Germany or Switzerland. Some boast roses,

some a spray of buds and petals hard to identify.

She’s running out of room for them, so tries 

other uses. A bit too shallow for planters, though

trailing ivy works. One Christmas we all got one.

That made room for five more. I suggested

she keep her button collection there – clusters

of red and pink, yellow and gold, green and blue.

Mother of pearl in their own prize gravy boat.

The textures would go well with her doily collection,

smooth discs, tiny spheres, contrasting with delicate 

embroidery, a little knubby with knots. But she’s a purist.

A gravy boat is a gravy boat and not a junk drawer.

I haven’t dared ask when she last made gravy. 

Suspect she wouldn’t want to soil one of the aprons

in her apron collection. Besides, gravy can make you fat.

© Carol Barrett

 

Carol Barrett

Carol Barrett began writing poetry to support the widowed women she was counseling. Her most recent book is READING WIND. Currently living in Oregon, Carol supervises creative dissertations for students at two universities.

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Spring by Mary Kipps

 

Anthony

Spring

They bound from the woods,

two, three, four Virginia doe,

their signature white tails

at full flag as they run,

one after the other, 

across the meadow.

The last deer in line

suddenly kicks out her hooves 

and leaps into the air,

her ebullience on this first

clement Sunday morning 

mirroring mine.

© Mary Kipps

Mary Kipps

Mary Kipps enjoys composing in traditional forms as well as in free verse. A former Pushcart Prize nominee, her poems have appeared regularly in journals and anthologies across the U.S. and abroad since 2005.

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Heart by Toyer Fahie

 

Lucas Pezeta

Heart 

What is the size 

Of my heart

It’s about a fist

The experts say

How can it still be

When I gave pieces 

Of it away

What is the colour of my

Heart

Is it black or is it blue

All I really know 

It’s filled with a kaleidoscope 

Of love

For you

What is the shape

Of my heart

Is it like the ones we see

Perfectly shaped

As if on TV

If the shape is perfect

And intact 

Does it mean I didn’t

Give any love back

Who truly knows the

Powers of the heart

Who knows what really makes it 

Spark

Who really knows how to make it 

Happy

Who really knows 

What causes the heart agony 

How will I know

If it’s been stolen

How will I know if my heart is

Truly Golden

How will I know if it’s broken

Or is it whole

Is my heart really connected to my soul

I guess there is more than a few things

That pull on my heart strings

I may never know

© Toyer Fahie

Toyer Fahie

Toyer Fahie was born and raised in the Virgin Islands. Toyer began writing poems in her mid-teen years. Her favourite type of poem to write is free verse —she writes directly from her heart. Toyer has entered local poetry competitions, which yielded winnings. She currently writes for several online journals.

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The Bridge by Laura Rodley

 

Clément Proust

The Bridge

Mike’s long fingers moved fast as fingerlings

zooming through tidal waters

just a little up and back

as though caught in waves,

landing on notes from his bagpipe

that zoomed into highland heather,

his long Talmudic beard

not catching on the bagpipes

bladder nor on the keys

his hair shorn as would be

the sheep that nibble the fields.

It was his 21st anniversary

but his wife Fiona must wait,

he’s playing with his band

adoring crowds his date

band members tapping boots,

then tall whimsical guitarist sings

the song “Leaving Indiana,”

laying down more steps

on the curved bridge

covering the Atlantic

about a couple returning to Scotland

as were so many others in that room

going back to their homeland

to thatch-covered houses,

burning peat, air difficult to breathe in,

so cold, only the tempo,

the lament of the bagpipe,

keeps you going, nourishment

for the blood just as much as supper.

© Laura Rodley

Laura Rodley

Pushcart Prize winner Laura Rodley's latest books are Turn Left at Normal by Big Table Press, Counter Point by Prolific Press, and Ribbons and Moths Poems for Children, winner of the Children's Nonfiction International Book Award and medalist for the Moonbeam Book Award for Children's Poetry. 

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Missing Everything by Souad Zakaran

 

RDNE Stock project

Missing Everything

The sun was shining outside. The grass was not exactly green, but with a little imagination, one could be forgiven for thinking it was autumn or spring. There was no sense of winter, and certainly no sense of Advent. Summer or winter – she didn’t really care. She had nothing to look forward to in either season.

She sat in her small flat from morning until night, waiting for each uniform day to end. In the morning, the nurse would come, offering a few minutes of dressing and words exchanged. The same happened in the evening; day in and day out for over two years.

In the beginning, the children came on weekends, at least after her stroke. They had wanted to put her in an old people's home, but she vehemently and successfully fought against that. She was still able to move her left side and walk around the house with her walker.

Then she could no longer cook, so the children arranged for Meals on Wheels to come to her home. They organized everything for her. She didn't not like it; at least someone came around for lunch and offered friendly conversation. It lets her days have a bit of variety again.

Yes, the children were great. They always sorted everything out and made sure she was comfortable. However, they were just so busy with their stressful jobs and their own families that they hardly called. The grandchildren were also all grown up and didn’t have time to visit grandma.

During this special, pre-Christmas period, she thought so often of the past. Especially her husband. When she thought of him, a smile would appear on her face, and for a brief moment, she was happy. They’d had a wonderful marriage, and he’d loved to carry her in his arms as they’d danced.

He’d died five years ago, suddenly and without any apparent illness. She never moved on. In the first few days, the children stayed with and comforted her, but they couldn't really understand the sudden loneliness after forty years of marriage. And now she was sick herself. Her thoughts went back to when the children were small, and they celebrated Christmas together as a family. The house held a lively atmosphere; its memories were heartwarming and cherished. Now it was quiet and bleak.

Last year, the children visited on Christmas Day. They arrived in the afternoon and had to leave in the evening.

The next day, they went skiing, leaving her alone again. She didn’t know what would happen this year. They hadn’t told her yet.

Well, it was only the Second Advent. She still had enough time to imagine that things could be as they used to be. A few tears ran down her face, but she hadn’t forgotten how to dream yet.

© Souad Zakaran

Souad Zakaran

Souad Zakaran is a Moroccan writer, poet, and translator. She graduated with a Bachelor's in French literature and English Linguistics. She worked as a foreign language teacher at a language institute in Casablanca. She currently works as a translator for a local newspaper and has poetry, narrative, and critical contributions in various regional and international literary newspapers and magazines. Her works are featured in several anthologies worldwide, including Poems for Rich, Centenary Project, Oldham Poetry, Well Read, Hooligan Street, and others. Her poem "Weiß" was shortlisted for the Ulrich GRASNICK Lyrikpreis 2025. Her poem “Sauberer Erde” earned third place in the Friedrich Schiller International Poetry Competition 2025.

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Bittersweet by Michael Braswell

 

Janine Speidel

Bittersweet

When bittersweet is the taste life offers

Choose the sweet, not the bitter.

When lessons brought my way

from ancestral roots planted in deep past

before time was given a name 

spiral up to surface

for me to become tree’s flowering bud

carrying dreams of those who went before.

© Michael Braswell

Michael Braswell

Michael Braswell has published books on ethics, justice issues, and the spiritual journey, as well as four short story collections. His poems and stories have appeared in several publications, including Foreshadow, Mobius, and Literary Heist. His most recent books are When Jesus Came to the Cracker Barrel (2024) and Gracious Plenty (2025).

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At Hafiz’s tavern by Nancy K. Jentsch

cottonbro studio

At Hafiz’s tavern

I mingle with friends of all sorts
and folks I’ve never known. But
carefree under a broad and loving
roof we engage in healthy ruckus,
exchange more than a cliché. We dig
fingers into pockets we thought
empty, bring out a common
thread or two, binding these
unrelated lives, making
from flour’s tasteless powder
a moist and wholesome bread.

(“At Hafiz’s tavern” appeared on the Lexington Poetry Month Blog, June 2025)

© Nancy K. Jentsch

Nancy K. Jentsch

Nancy K. Jentsch’s poetry has appeared recently in Amethyst Review, Braided Way, and Verse-Virtual. Her chapbook, Authorized Visitors, was published by Cherry Grove Collections, and her first collection, Between the Rows (Shanti Arts), debuted in 2022. More information is available on her website: https://jentsch8.wixsite.com/my-site. 

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