Tall Grass by Diane Engelstad

Leiliane Dutra

Tall Grass

I love

how the tall grasses

Panicum virgatum and 

Chasmantium latifolium

— perched at the corner

where my driveway

meets the runoff ditch,

next to where the refuse bins 

await collection on Tuesdays,

their brittle plastic markers with

Latin names 

long since obscured

by the expanding forest

of their grassy stems—

never stay bent and bowed for long

after a battering rain

pummels their regal foliage,

to be released graciously

from tips to ground;

or early snows

all but flatten

their former bearing

threatening a reluctant hibernation.

No, they shed the unnecessary

weight,

channel it to their roots

where it will serve them well

in time

and stand nobly together

waving in the more forgiving winds

deflecting potential criticisms 

of the imperfect lawn behind them

with sheer and outrageous confidence

proclaimed by reds and blues and greens

in plumage and dancing seeds.

They declare to passersby,

“Isn’t it marvelous 

to be right here?”

(From Diane Engelstad's book In the Presence of Trees, All the Space Publishing, 2026)

© Diane Engelstad

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Diane Engelstad

Diane Engelstad lives in a small town in Ontario, Canada, and has been writing poetry for about ten years. A late bloomer, she is inspired by the world, mystery, moments of clarity, trees, and the loves of her life. She published two volumes of poetry in 2026 -- In the Presence of Trees: Poems for finding your footing; and Begin Again: Poems for praying without ceasing; available from All the Space Publishing, diane@engelstad.ca.

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The Great Blue Heron by Terry Allen

Chris F

The Great Blue Heron

I’m out for a walk in the backland forest on the north side of the Chippewa Flowage. It’s early morning. It’s cool. I stop to admire a great blue heron flying gracefully overhead, a magnificent bird with a six-foot wingspan. Seeing one is said to be a message to pause and reflect, to act with patience, grace, and clarity. I’m in no hurry. I stand perfectly still and watch until the heron disappears, off I suppose, to the shoreline of one of the two hundred undeveloped islands nearby. Perhaps, it’s moments real or imagined, like this one that we collect when our lives slow down, and we’re no longer in a hurry to get anywhere. It’s at this time that we come to see that we’re simply a small part of a great story that sometimes moves straight ahead and other times curves back on itself, where present, past, and future become the same thing, like when my father came to visit me yesterday. I saw him out here in the forest. Clearly. Standing up ahead, across a footpath bridge, looking back at me. And I heard him say, Come on, boy. Get a move on. Follow me. And I did.

© 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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Renaissance by Edilson A. Ferreira

Elina Volkova

Renaissance

I was asleep in a dream full of nightmares 

and ate scraps of hope, milled in the impersonal

and mechanical time machine. 

Scraps that fed me to be no more than a dry tree,  

struggling to break free and unravel from roots  

that held me to the ground. 

I prevailed over fate that once deceived me,

and now walk and will spread my life around.  

I wish to distemper, hallucinate, and extrapolate, 

horrifying who has enchanted and eluded me,

in that dark and deaf land, that was not mine. 

I will go, doubtlessly a renewed man, in search 

not of a drop of water but of one rain that rains 

thunder and lightning, maybe even the deluge 

that has baptized our era.

I will reap fruits that, blessed by my hands

and hard a toil,  

will surely make me more and more strong. 

I will make love to my wife in sheets of soft Chinese silk,

and we will be asleep in a bed of fragrant Lebanon woods.

Not that I deserve more than Moses, 

who only had a glimpse of the Promised Land, 

but, of this new one, that I am to conquer,

I will take secure and lasting possession. 

© 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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Aired Out by Julie A. Dickson

Thanh Luu

Aired Out

Overcast, 

a gray sky hangs low,

no beckoning sun

to warm frozen toes

The day wet

chilled air permeates

layers of wool

pulled tightly closed

Standing still,

a limited chance to move,

just a vigil to maintain,

fulfill a task

Later indoors,

the aftermath of the cold

overcomes the senses,

aired out, refreshed

© Julie A. Dickson

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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 Poetry Journal, Ekphrastic Review, Feed the Holy, and MasticadoresUSA. Dickson shares her home with two rescued feral cats, Cam and Jojo.

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The Gift of Spring by Bob McAfee

Emre Ayata

The Gift of Spring

Promise me a warm embrace,

a color bright, a day that glows,

a moon at night that scuds and flows,

a rising sun that grows and grows,

a southern wind to bless my face.

Anoint me in this holy place.

Appoint me as your acolyte.

I am an eager neophyte

who longs to learn the mystic rite,

to read the runes and run the race.

Let me adopt the season’s pace.

Oh, give the gift of Spring to me.

I will invest it prudently.

A thousand times the yield will be, payment paid with style and grace.

© Bob McAfee

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Bob McAfee

Bob McAfee lives with his wife near Boston. He has written nine poetry books, mostly on love, aging, and the natural world. Forty-nine publications have accepted 124 poems. He hosts a Wednesday night Zoom poetry workshop. His website, www.bobmcafee.com, contains links to all his published poems.

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Blue-Collar Man by Arvilla Fee

cottonbro studio

Blue-Collar Man

My daddy was a blue-collar man

in a blue-collar town

back when prices were up

and wages were down

they called it a recession

and I guess we were poor

but I had bologna and bread,

couldn’t ask for much more

just a kid climbing trees

while my daddy worked hard

I read books on the branches

licked jam from a jar

he’d come home at midnight

after a long second shift

I’d be asleep in my bed

my dreams set adrift

I had skates and a bike

never minded my clothes

skinned up my knees

drank from a hose 

grew up in a house

where we followed the rules

respected our elders

didn’t backtalk in school

he taught me to work hard

to get up when kicked down

My blue-collar daddy

in our blue-collar town

© 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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Snow, Sunlight, Trumpet by Yongbo Ma

Elina Volkova

Snow, Sunlight, Trumpet

Snow and sunlight both leave me weak,

these things that seem polar opposites

share the same essence deep inside,

both blind my eyes, leaving me unable to see.

To perish by ice, or to perish by fire—

an unanswered question,

yet little more than a sigh.

Like a French trumpet in the afternoon,

drifting over from another room,

its curved neck, like a young swan’s,

glimmers with the cold sheen of frozen oysters from the Alps.

So I tie a knot around its neck,

tuck it back into its hollow body,

then, with a flock of magpies sweeping over power lines,

I fly toward the empty monastery north of the Songhua River, and read aloud a poem against vulgar gluttony.

© Yongbo Ma

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Yongbo Ma

Yongbo Ma (Ma, Yongbo) is a Ph.D., representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry. He has published over 80 original works and translations since 1986, including 6 poetry collections. He focuses on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose, including the works of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Williams, and Ashbery. He recently published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which sold over half a million copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology.

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Carol and Big Herbie by Ralph Dranow

Ceren Büşra SEVTEKİN

Carol and Big Herbie

My sister, Carol, died early last year,

bedridden for a long time,

suffering from dementia, diabetes,

and various other ailments,

a shadowy presence.

I search my memory,

discover a brighter scenario.

My family is on vacation

on a farm in upstate New York.

I’m about nine, Carol five.

The German American owners’ teenage son, Herbie,

tan, slender, dark strands of hair

falling over his forehead,

is going to feed the chickens and collect eggs.

Carol and a few other little kids

are chasing after him,

a country Pied Piper.

“Big Herbie!” Carol shrieks,

amidst a chorus of “Big Herbies.”

She’s giggling, her face radiant,

chubby little legs churning,

as she reaches out to touch him,

clutch him like a favorite toy. 

There’s a patient, amused smile

etched on Herbie’s handsome features,

as if Carol’s greedy hands

are just a gentle breeze

on a warm summer day.

But what I most remember

is the happiness pervading Carol’s whole being.

© 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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