Purple Mountain by Yongbo Ma

 

www.kaboompics.com 

Purple Mountain

Darling, the cold is setting in

has your tea gone cold as well?

that kettle of mountain spring water, simmering

since summer began—

has it still not come to a boil?

The sun is shining bright, I’m not thinking of you

I’m still up on the mountain, chopping firewood

rest assured, we are there, together with the sunshine

and this winter, too

the potatoes buried in the stove ash, still dusted

with home soil

have turned so tender and soft that they can barely

be held

the kettle is singing on and on

Everything remains as it was at the dawn of creation

no trace of hierarchy, no shadow or light to tell apart

I pause my work, and clearly see

beyond the undulating, variegated mountain ridges

a blue smile, printed upon the more distant treetops

© Yongbo Ma

Yongbo Ma

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964, holds a Ph.D., is a representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and is a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He is the founder of polyphonic writing and objectified poetics. He is also the first translator to introduce British and American postmodern poetry into Chinese.

He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986, including 9 poetry collections. He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose, including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Amy Lowell, Williams, and Ashbery. He published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over 600,000 copies. The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024), comprising 1178 poems, celebrates 40 years of writing poetry.

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PASSION by Shafkat Aziz Hajam

 

Nastasya Banana

PASSION  

When we have passion, we don’t stay,  

We work hard night and day.  

We play our best role  

To achieve our desired goal.  

We gather courage and let go of fear,  

All the difficulties we bravely bear.  

Though we are in pain and tired,  

We keep moving forward.  

We swim across the seas and climb the mountains,  

Though it’s unbearably hot, cold, or it heavily rains.  

We don’t return, ahead we go,  

Though the strong winds blow.  

Though we’re hungry and thirsty,  

We move forward patiently.  

We move on the thorns that come in our way.  

We never step back but move forward night and day.  

It’s the passion that helps us win our race,  

Though we face many difficulties.  

So, until passion in us plays its role,  

We can’t achieve our desired goal.  

© Shafkat Aziz Hajam

Shafkat Aziz Hajam from India kashmir, is a poet, reviewer, and co-author. He is the author of 3 books titled The Cuckoo’s Voice, The Unknown Wounded Heart, and Tawheed Islamic Rhymes. His poems have appeared in international magazines and anthologies, including Wheel Song, a UK-based anthology; Prodigy, a digital literary magazine in the USA; and anthologies in Argentina and Lebanon featuring translated works. 

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The elm tree by John Doriot

Ran Hua

The elm tree

The elm tree’s limbs droop 

in curved and uneven clumps. 

I see the tree and the branches

from my bay window. 

The tree is healthy, grass green 

leaves hanging from strong tan 

and chocolate brown limbs 

with peeling gray rectangles

of bark, reflecting life 

and death simultaneously. 

The limbs appear burdened. 

Heat has been excessive, but

several days of rain have brought 

relief. I think the burden I 

perceive resides within me. 

Nature, in the form of this 

elm tree is there to remind 

me of the presence of God. 

As is the unwavering desire of my

dog to be with me at all times, 

especially when I am sad, leaving me

if I swear at the world, only to 

check back on me minutes later

to make sure I am okay. 

I struggle with sad days when

dreams are a struggle or 

health prevents me from 

finding some semblance of 

normal. Anger consumes 

me before the rational mind 

tells me to stop, to open my eyes. 

Plans not seen do not mean plans not made.

Yet, there are days, I wonder if I am 

strong enough to endure the journey.

And then my dog comes to me, wags her tail,

letting me know she is there. Will always

be there. Others say the same thing in silence

or with acts of kindness.

This time, the pendulous nature of a healthy elm tree

prompted me to open my eyes. I believe nature 

whispers to God daily, and together they plan simple

exhibits of life, reminding those with a desire to sleep,  to awaken.  © John Doriot

John Doriot 

John Doriot is an award-winning author and poet. He has written 17 books and received 7 Georgia Independent Author of the Year Awards from 2022 to 2025. Three of those awards were for collections of poetry. 

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The Lagoon by Penny Nolte

 

Elías Manuel

The Lagoon

My first memory of the place is being taught to swim. Puddling around with my little brothers, close to shore, wearing life jackets while dragging ourselves along. Finding handholds in the rocky bottom. 

The swimming lesson involved my life jacket being removed and then my being set down a little further out in the water. I sank like a stone. Firm hands reached in and pulled me up. “Paddle,” suggested Dad, “Doggie paddle,” and he demonstrated. Still sputtering from the dunking, I tried and sank again. “Faster!” Dad said, making a big show of whirring his cupped hands through the water. It looked silly, but it worked. Soon, I was paddling circles around my brothers, still bottom crawlers in life jackets.

Because two docks protected the lagoon, the water between them froze smooth in winter. We would all troop down single file through the snow, carrying a shovel for Dad, who would use it to clear off the lake. Then we’d strap two-bladed skates on over too-big winter boots and wobble around. 

Our parents had real ice skates that laced up past their ankles, and Dad skated beautifully, swinging his arms from side to side. Sometimes humming a tune. Often, we’d “dance” with him by standing on his skates to get spun around in circles until we were too dizzy to stand. Other times, we rode on his back. I don’t remember skating with Mom, although she could because there are pictures. 

Afterwards, we all drank from a shared thermos. And hot cocoa never tasted so good.

(First publication in Soul Poetry, Prose and Arts Magazine)

©Penny Nolte

Penny Nolte

Penny Nolte creates gentle narratives of family and place. After a long pause from storytelling, her newest work is found in The Avalon Literary Review, The Writer's Journal, The Macrame Literary Journal, and Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, among others. Originally from upstate New York, with a fortifying decade in Colorado, Penny now calls the Green Mountains of Vermont home.

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Through the Rearview Mirror by Nancy Machlis Rechtman

 

Jonathan Borba

Through the Rearview Mirror

My childhood home

Appeared in the rearview mirror

As I watched the movers start to pull away

With the last remnants of my parents

And my childhood

And I, along with the house, was empty.

I had gone down to the basement one last time

And reluctantly said my goodbyes to 

my books and record albums,

And my dolls and my toys that I had planned to give to my children

Until the day I realized that no children that would be coming.

My wedding dress had been stuffed into a box

In the far corner where the washer used to be

My dress hadn’t exactly been cherished after the divorce

But yet it, too, had remained,

A sad reminder that hope can fade without a whole lot of fanfare,

As easily as a once-beautiful silk dress.

I had discovered my compass on a shelf from my 4-H days

And I wondered why it hadn’t guided me away

From all the wrong choices I had made.

I continued to watch the truck through the mirror

Appearing to be shrinking as it bumped its way down the road

 and then disappeared through the underpass

To destinations unknown

Carrying my memories and the fragments of my life.

I turned on the engine

And headed away from the truck

Away from the underpass

Away from all that had once been my life.

© Nancy Machlis Rechtman

Nancy Machlis Rechtman

Nancy Machlis Rechtman has poetry and stories published in Writing in a Woman’s Voice, miniMAG, Discretionary Love, Young Ravens, and other publications. Nancy has had poetry, essays, and plays published in various anthologies. She wrote lifestyle stories for a local newspaper and served as the copy editor for another paper.

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A Thousand Versions by Chris Biscuiti

 

NISHIT DEY

A Thousand Versions

Being a caregiver

has carved a thousand versions of me—

the steady one, the tired one,

and 998 more

sculpted by my calloused hands.

Writing is the place

I gather them all,

stacking their shadows and bruises

until I recognize the outline

of who I am beneath their weight.

When I put a day, a week, a year into words,

I see strength I didn’t know I spent,

I feel muscles I didn’t know I strained,

a resilience built quietly in the background 

of every waking moment.

I see the softness, too—

the part of me that refuses to die out,

the flicker that outlives the exhaustion.

His persistent smile keeps me anchored

when the current tests my footing.

I sail toward the sound of his belly laugh,

and even the waves surrender

to his unseen power,

washing me ashore.

A thousand versions of me carved,

bound by one common thread—

he was born to be my miracle,

the singular piece

they all can’t live without.

© Chris Biscuiti

Chris Biscuiti

Chris Biscuiti is a poet, caregiver, and Dad to his son Bray Bray. Chris' poem The Believer won the 2025 BREW Poetry Project Community Poem of the Year, and his poem The Hours was published in FLARE Magazine, Issue 4. Connect with Chris on Substack — https://chrisbwrites.substack.com 

Driving by LeeAnn Pickrell

Alexander Mass

Driving

Acacia frames both sides 

of the road into Santa Cruz

Head back, I let myself drift

a leaf to the ground

in this sacrament of the 

present moment his hand

finds mine

© LeeAnn Pickrell

LeeAnn Pickrell

LeeAnn Pickrell’s debut collection is Gathering the Pieces of Days from Unsolicited Press. Her chapbook Punctuated was published in 2024 by Bottlecap Press, and her book Tsunami is forthcoming in 2026, also from Unsolicited Press. She lives in Richmond, California. See more at www.leeannpickrell.com.

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