The Wind Blows Over It by Terry Allen

 

Danila Popov

The Wind Blows Over It

As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field;

the wind blows over it, and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more. 

Psalm 103

King James Version of The Bible

I think this verse is about everyone,

every man, woman and child,

and every one of God’s creatures.

It’s about life and it’s about loss.

It’s about this tired, windblown farm

that’s mostly gone, except for the two of us.

Barney over there, lying in that patch of sun

and warming his bones, is fourteen now

which is damn old for a hound.

He’s a good old boy with lots of heart.

I don’t know what I’ll do when he passes,

except I’ll be mighty lonely without him.

I was thinking recently about that poet

who said he was wandering around

all over the place as lonely as a cloud,

which never made any sense to me.

I’ve never once seen a cloud

that looked like it was lonely.

But then I decided that the poet

was fooling with us and laughing

about his little joke behind our backs.

It was kind of like backwards talk,

like if he’d said, the boy ran off to school

as slow as a black-tailed jackrabbit.

And that same fancy-ass poet got excited

about wild daffodils without mentioning

that daffodils are poisonous.

Hell’s bells, when Barney was a pup

about the size of a Sugar Baby Watermelon,

all bounce and bite, chewing on everything,

he got into the daffodils and ate three plants.

He got so sick. . .that Cora and I thought. . .

we were going to lose him. . .

She’s gone now. Forty-nine years together.

She’s gone. I can’t even think about that.

There’s still plenty to do. I’m not done yet.

I got to help Barney outside now

so’s he can do his business and leave his mark in his tiny corner of the world.

(First Published in The Main Street Rag)

© 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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Living Again by Bamidele Bamgbopa

Marcos Felipe

Living Again

Holding that sharp object frantically 

about 6 inches away from her arm, 

she wanted to end it all. End the pain, 

agony, bitterness, and heartache.

But no, she couldn’t do it. Life in a gentle 

whisper kept pulling at her heartstrings,
Reminding her of the many reasons 

she could live for.

Suddenly but reluctantly, she opened 

her eyes. With a loud thud, the sharp object 

fell from her hands to the floor. She sank 

into her couch with the little strength 

of a very weary soul. Empty bottles littered 

all over the floor waiting to be picked up,
Her cat looking at her like a creature 

longing for a caring touch.

Deep in thought, staring into space, 

she wandered away. Questioning why 

her existence was mangled by 

many negativities. Wearing the same wig 

for months, being jobless for endless years,
Too ashamed to show up at social gatherings 

she once loved attending. Reminiscing about the love 

she once enjoyed. The future seemed very bleak,

but she knew that she mustn’t give up.
Because her mother had always told her, 

“Quitters never win, and winners never quit.”
Suddenly, there was a loud knock 

on the door, which jolted her back to reality.

Slowly, she took a good look at herself and then
she decided it was time to live again: 

“Life is worth living, if you do not give up on it.”

© Bamidele Bamgbopa

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Bamidele Bamgbopa

Bamidele Bamgbopa is a Nigerian-born single mother, author, and unpaid carer based in Scotland who advocates for caregiver rights and support systems. She is the author of the book Lessons I Learnt from My Mother, which honors her mother's life and highlights the profound impact mothers have on their children and communities.

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Lost by the Way by Edilson A. Ferreira

Serinus

 Lost by the Way

“Then He said, I will hide My face from them, I will see what their end will be; For they are a perverse generation, Sons in whom is no faithfulness” ~ Deuteronomy 32-20

God, with all due respect, and, too, 

with great candor and loyalty, we come 

seeking a dialogue, if such a thing is possible. 

You are surely aware of the misdirection 

that has defined our lives since the test 

You have imposed upon us. 

We have been lost, like that sheep strayed  

from the rest of the flock, 

or like those old sailing ships 

left to the mercy of the winds. 

We have never had even that natural gift of birds, 

who know from birth their journeys and returns

in each season of their lives.  

We have been unable to follow a safe course, 

whether on the paths of earth 

or on those of the mind and soul.  

You know we cannot ever find the way back,

looking for the dawn of time and creation.  

We believe it is time You remind us, renewing  

some love and care we believe a Creator 

is indebted to his creature.  

© 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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Poetry by Patrick Trombly

Anh Khoa

With You

Not the first couple
or there is no guilt
but not the last
for there is no guilt
alone in the world
and there is no world
only two on this raft
riding the sea
with no sail
no continent
each other’s 

destination
plumbing the depth
of existence
staring into
sunsets burning 

in each other's
eyes –

our hands touch
as if we were
blindfolded

Self-published on WILDSound

Youniverse

Freckles. 

Two of them – no:

three, four… more to explore.

Constellations all over your

body.

© Patrick Trombly

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Patrick Trombly

Patrick Trombly re-emerged as a publishing poet in 2025.  He writes in a variety of formats and narrative voices, exploring relationships among humans, nature, and the divine.  Representative publishers include: The Dewdrop, Loch Raven Review, Beyond Words, The Abstractionist, PHIL LIT Journal (shortlisted for a prize in December), The Closed Eye Open, Amethyst Review, In Parentheses, The Argyle, Resonance, and Connecticut River Review.  

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Another Myth Shattered by Stan Sanvel Rubin

Ahmad Basem

Another Myth Shattered

I’m the one who tells you these things

because no one else will.

A taxi runs in the alley.

Light scatters from stars.

These are threads

in the darkness.

What else is there to call them

when they’re metaphors

for each other. Everything is

in this vocation of being

part of a mystery

whose clues are clear

but cannot be put together.

This reminds me of marriage

and you perhaps of Love if you have a poetic streak.

© Stan Sanvel Rubin

Stan Sanvel Rubin

Stan Sanvel Rubin’s poems have appeared in numerous US magazines as well as in China, Canada, Belgium, India, and Ireland. Four full-length collections include Hidden Sequel (Barrow Street Poetry Book Prize) and There. Here. (Lost Horse Press). He lives on the North Olympic Peninsula of Washington.

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Ode to Presence by Ralph Dranow

Malachi Cowie

Ode to Presence

Fear grips me in its jaws

as I’m driving.

Be careful!

You’re going to have an accident.

Then I remember.

My breath deepens,

shoulders loosen,

heartbeat slows.

The hazy picture comes into focus.

I’m going to be all right.

I give my wife a hasty kiss.

She pulls back.

Then I remember,

let my lips melt into hers,

like warm honey.

I’m doing tai chi,

Moving like a robot,

Each movement a blurry dream.

Then I remember.

My mind emerges from nowhere land,

shakes hands with my arms and legs,

takes them out for coffee.

I’m gobbling my food,

as if the Cossacks are coming,

about to launch a pogrom,

disrupt my lunch.

Then I remember

to slow down and savor,

as if each morsel is a line

from a favorite poem.

© Ralph Dranow

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Ralph Dranow 

Ralph Dranow works as an editor, poetry teacher, and oral historian. His most recent books are At Work

on the Garments of Refuge, poems of his and poems and artwork of his late friend Daniel Marlin. And Jelalludin Rumi Comes to Oakland. Ralph's website is http://www.ralphdranow.net.

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A Fragile Thing by Arvilla Fee

Lina Jan

A Fragile Thing

held between breaths

beneath closed lashes

in that space of time

just before the sun

presses petal pink

and citrus orange

into the inky flesh 

of morning sky— silence is a fragile thing

© Arvilla Fee

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Arvilla Fee

Arvilla Fee, from Dayton, Ohio, has been published in numerous presses, and her poetry books, The Human Side This is Life, and Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces are available on Amazon. Arvilla’s life advice: Never travel without snacks. To learn more, visit her website and her new magazine: https://soulpoetry7.com/

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Faith by William Ogden Haynes

Dulce Panebra

Faith

It was a sunny Sunday morning, halfway 

through the service, when she left her religion 

in the church. How ironic to abandon her 

faith in the very place she learned it. But 

this day, she rose from a squeaky pew, 

softly closed her hymnal and placed it in its 

rack. She left her religion like one would 

leave an empty coffee cup on a restaurant 

table. The stained glass, candles, incense, 

and smells of old wood were no longer 

enough. The priest produced lukewarm 

sermons that talked more about the Bible 

than people in real life. The liturgy was 

stilted and repetitive, and the prayers were 

all the same. But the church will go on 

without her, giving comfort to those who 

don’t need more. Outside, the day is unscripted, 

no need to kneel, stand on cue, or answer in 

preplanned phrases out of a book. She’s not 

angry. She doesn’t storm out of the sanctuary 

renouncing God. She leaves quietly, soundless 

as the doubt that once crept in. She doesn’t 

even say goodbye to God, the priest, or the 

congregants, because she might come back 

some day. And as the door clicks shut behind 

her, she steps outside and sees the beautiful day that has been waiting for her all along.

© William Ogden Haynes

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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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