On New Year’s Eve by Matthew James Friday

Image/ Nicky Manosalva

On New Year’s Eve 

the unexpected sun lubricates 

the solidified landscape, accompanied 

by dripping, dripping.

A green brush exhales

two sudden surges of whiteness:

one of the Ten Thousand Forms

Last chance to be more.

The first column merges

with the second, 

heaping into itself like faint dough. 

A few gusts of chilled wind

scatter the flecks of mating energy.

They rally, weakened,

growing few, tracking the sun’s gift 

along the wooden walkway, forming 

squabbling groups, pairs, 

all hoping in that frenzied fly way

that no bird sees them. How envious

I am of their New Year’s Eve, of them living poetry rather than writing it.

Previously published on MasticadoresUSA

© Matthew James Friday

Matthew James Friday

Matthew James Friday is a British-born writer and teacher. He has had many poems published in US and international journals. His first chapbook, ‘The Residents,’ was published by Finishing Line Press in the summer of 2024. His second chapbook, ‘The Be-All and the End-All,’ was published by Bottlecap Press in autumn 2024. He has published numerous micro-chapbooks with the Origami Poems Project. Matthew is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet. Visit his website at http://matthewfriday.weebly.com

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SHINE ANYWAY by Micki Findlay

 

"Aegean Sun" / © Micki Findlay

SHINE ANYWAY

As you look around you

your heart sinks in despair

you’re wondering if it’s worth it 

to keep fighting for what’s right

when the world feels like a fist 

closing tight around your throat 

as lies dress up as truth 

screaming loud and doubling-down

while your voice sounds like a trickle

and your light seems much too small 

Shine Anyway

A spark can set the world ablaze

a single star can guide the way

you’re not weak for feeling weary 

you’re not broken for needing rest 

but don’t let those who lost their light 

convince you to dim yours

Shine Anyway

Your light is inconvenient

an intrusion to their comfort

stabbing holes in their beliefs

confronting their denial

but don’t swallow your fire

your light is not dependent

on someone else’s approval

Shine Anyway

As the world flips upside down

where wrong is sold as right

where cruelty is celebrated

by those who claim redemption

while their rotting souls are nothing more 

than empty, white-washed tombs

Shine Anyway

Silence is not peace 

shrinking is not safety

your gut will ache and sour

with the weight of unsaid things

if your light makes them blind

if your truth shakes their resolve

if you’re the only one 

Shine Anyway

I know you’re tired, dear one

rest but don’t give up

don’t let the dark engulf you

steal your stubborn, radiant hope

others need your spark

those who have no voice

those who’ve lost their way

pushed down, despised, silenced

the ones they threw away

they’re counting on your light

as they cry out from the abyss

Shine Anyway

So don’t dim – don’t fold – don’t apologize

burn loud – burn bright – burn like hell

while those uncaring, cross-bearing

red-cap-wearing demons

choke on the smoke you leave behind

© 2025 Micki Findlay

Micki Findlay

Vancouver Island author, Micki Findlay, has been published in various anthologies, poetry books and magazines. She believes that by sharing her personal story through poetry and prose, others might find encouragement, recognize their self-worth, and realize they are not alone in their struggles.

Website: www.mickifindlaywrites.com 

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In Praise of Irises by Maria Giura

 

Image / Daphne L

In Praise of Irises

Named after the Greek goddess 

who carried messages from heaven to earth 

on the arc of a rainbow, 

their long stems flourished in our yard, 

lining the path to our stoop and front door.

Each May they seemed to spring suddenly. 

One day none,  

the next a whole chorus 

of violet singing  

as we came and went,  

as we posed for graduations, sacraments.  

So many of them, my mother 

cut and blanketed them like babies 

for the Blessed Mother.

They kept me company as I roller-skated, 

as I watched my older sisters go off 

to do things I wasn’t allowed to do,

as I played hide and seek with my younger.

This spring so many decades later,

I’m surprised again

when I see the first one— 

so luxurious I have to get 

down on the ground

to confirm it’s not velvet 

sprung from the earth.

First appeared in If We Still Lived Where I Was Born by Maria Giura published by Bordighera Press November 4, 2025 

© Maria Giura

Maria Giura

Maria Giura, PhD, is the author of two poetry collections published by Bordighera Press—If We Still Lived Where I Was Born (Nov. 2025) and What My Father Taught Me—and a memoir, Celibate (Apprentice House Press). An Academy of American Poets winner, Giura teaches writing workshops for Casa Belvedere Cultural Foundation; instagram.com/mariagiurawrites/; facebook.com/maria.giura.3975  mariagiura.com

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Colored Silk by Julie A. Dickson

Image / Pixabay

Colored Silk

Shreds of colored silk fly

As birds streaking on magic wings

Images of red and blue

Dance across my eyes.

Where is my solace

But in colorful sky

Peaceful in the rose of sunset,

Faded blues in white expanse.

I gaze off into daylight

Eyes centered on cloud filled sky

Dreaming of tomorrows

When colors might be

© Julie A. Dickson

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

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I’m supposed to be a poet but can’t find the words to say how I love you by Alex Stolis

 

Image / ricardo rojas

I’m supposed to be a poet but can’t find the words to say how I love you

for Catherine on our anniversary

Once, I knew love. It was guileless and free, wide open

borderless. Then the crows arrived in twos, threes,

and an obsidian grief swallowed the sky. 

Language was lost, buried under the thunder 

of beaks pecking out earth’s crust. My voice hoarse,

the words flotsam, adrift in an empty vocabulary. 

I armoured myself with night, burrowed into soft

feathered wings; drank to forget, appealed to a minor

god to strike me dead, unable to blackout memories 

of you: a young ponytailed artist, wishing to disappear 

and have a new girl take your place; the notquitewild 

hippie chick firebrand ready to conjure a new world. 

You survived, to teach, to love and protect fiercely

unconditionally; to write into the ether, past the pain

and sorrow into tenderness and grace.

Years later, the crows flock in fours, fives, and sixes; 

indefatigable Stygian soldiers carrying cancer, the shiny 

allure of the abyss, but I’m disarmed and ready. © Alex Stolis

Alex Stolis

Alex Stolis has had poems published in numerous journals. Two full-length collections, Pop. 1280 and John Berryman Died Here, were released by Cyberwit and are available on Amazon. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker’s Press, Ekphrastic Review, Louisiana Literature Review, Burningwood Literary Journal, and Star 82 Review. His chapbooks include Postcards from the Knife-Thrower's Wife (released by Louisiana Literature Press in 2024), RIP Winston Smith (released by Alien Buddha Press in 2024), and The Hum of Geometry; The Music of Spheres (released by Bottlecap Press in 2024). He lives in upstate New York with his partner, poet Catherine Arra. 

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