Among the Columbines by Krystal Gauley

 

Veronika Andrews

Among the Columbines 

As I emerge

from the last veil of trees, 

I pause. 

My gaze ascends, 

my spine uncoils like a bear

waking from winter’s dream,

to greet the newborn Spring,

her fur silvered

with beads of dawn.

Standing on her hind haunches, 

muzzle tuned to the shifting air,

my body follows her call. 

My belly bellows,

lungs drawing in a breath

of stone, thaw, and pine, 

and the world lifts its face

to meet mine. 

Here, I unclasp my hold

on the small, guarded body I cradle. 

I unfurl my wings,

vast as a soul remembering,

release them from painful concealment, 

shake them wide into the light. 

I meet the faces of the remembering ones, 

those who know my name. 

I give my gratitude, 

scatter my sorrows like seeds, 

lift my dreams into their keeping. 

I pour myself outward

until I am only resonance,

sound and stillness entwined. 

The wind stirs my breath, 

the sun pours gold like honey into my skin,

the earth steadies my bones,

Spring waters glimmer through my hair. 

The world’s weight

loosens its hold upon me. 

I am nourished by this holy moment, 

by the hummingbird moth

dancing among columbine flowers. 

Step by step, nearing the heavens, 

I rise, I reach toward realms long forgotten. 

Here, perched in peace and sanctuary, 

I watch the turning world.

I am home. 

© Krystal Gauley

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Krystal Gauley

Krystal Gauley is a poet and creative nonfiction writer completing an MA in English and Creative Writing. Her work is rooted in landscape, memory, and embodied encounters with nature, exploring emergence, stillness, and personal transformation through breath, presence, and relationships with the natural world.

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GHAZAL FOR AIR by Mary Ann Honaker

Mitch Kesler

GHAZAL FOR AIR

One part of our souls will join Zeus in the air.

He does not sit on clouds. He is dispersed in air.

One part of our souls goes to dim Hades

to dwell always in that choking, murky air.

In many languages, spirit and breath

are the same word.  Inside us, holy air.

One hot summer day, the forest in flames

stung our noses and thickened the air.

Wear your mask covering both nose and mouth.

Viruses, some lethal, ride on the air.

Soul enters the infant at its first cry.

The soul slips in on an intake of air.

You cannot see the wind, yet it knocks down

the elderly tree.  Thread of life severed by air. © Mary Ann Honaker

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Mary Ann Honaker

Mary Ann Honaker is the author of Becoming Persephone (Third Lung Press, 2019), Whichever Way the Moon (Main Street Rag, 2023), and the forthcoming Night is Another Realm Altogether (Sheila-Na-Gig, 2026). Her poems have appeared in Bear Review, DIAGRAM, JMWW, Juked, Little Patuxent Review, Rattle.com, Solstice, Sweet Tree Review, Tuskegee Review, and elsewhere. She currently lives in Beckley, West Virginia.

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The Beat Goes on by Carolyn S. Mahnke

 

Image / Krishna Kids Photography

The Beat Goes on

The beat was first heard

… as a whooshing sound,

in sympathy with that of mother… 

“Heartens” hopeful parents.

The Valentine…

Flushing skin, swelling 

lips and fill of sex…

Lacey heart-shaped love. 

Brave heart, 

Red badge of courage…

Symbol of daring nerve

despite our fear.

Red blood, blue blood?

Type and match transfusion

Is color-blind to skin

Or… political persuasion.

CPR or DNR?

At the end, confusion.

…Restart the rhythm?

Or pull the plug?

Check of “organ donor”,

includes my heart … available 

…if anyone would 

want a heart of 80 years.

Skip to the straight line

on the monitor…

After the spirit escapes 

with a last sigh.

Energy cannot be created or 

destroyed, but can be transferred,

“The 1st law of Newton.”

Spirit energy must survive.

Alive, outside my body, 

the beat goes on 

How or where? 

I care to be surprised.

© Carolyn S. Mahnke

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Carolyn S. Mahnke

Carolyn Mahnke is a registered nurse and retired Certified Diabetes Care and Education Specialist, living in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She loves gardening, mothering, “grandmothering”, quilting, walking, swimming, and writing. She has written and published four poetry books: Howl at the Moon and Tell Outrageous Truth, Howl from the Center of Being,  Howling from Senior Moments, and Second Story View. She enters her 80th decade with energy and enthusiasm, nourished and encouraged by friends and family, especially by Nadia Colburn’s online writing community.

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The forceps scratch the chitin by Mykyta Ryzhykh

Sai Krishna

The forceps scratch the chitin

The forceps scratch the chitin

The insect knows how to endure

My six limbs are numb

I screamed like a newborn

Above the head of the tree I saw my mother

I asked my mother why my toys only have two limbs

Mom didn’t answer anything apparently because I’m no longer a child

Suddenly a white dove flew off a branch

Who would have thought that hungry pigeons eat everything?

I was born to be eaten

 

This poem first appeared on Moonday Magazine

© Mykyta Ryzhykh

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Mykyta Ryzhykh

Mykyta Ryzhykh, an author from Ukraine, now lives in Tromsø, Norway. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2023 and 2024. He’s published in many literary magazines іn Ukrainian and English: Tipton Poetry Journal, Stone Poetry Journal, Neologism Poetry Journal, Shot Glass Journal, QLRS, The Crank, Chronogram, The Antonym, Monterey Poetry Review, Five Fleas Itchy Poetry, and many others.

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Oscar by Bart Edelman

Image | Rene Terp

Oscar

 

They’ve decided to call you Oscar,

And you’re okay with that.

It’s a good, strong name,

And you’ll grow into it.

You won’t let them down;

After all, they’re your parents,

And you like them, well enough,

For a kid who can barely see

Halfway out of his crib.

You’ve surveyed the situation, 

Thinking you’ve got a swell deal:

The toys, the food, the dog;

Ain’t Zelmo one crazy creature?

And what about your sister, Tobi,

Who’s quite amusing, at times,

Despite a penchant for hysterics.

Sure, you’ve got a lot to learn,

Especially the bathroom thing,

But why get too far ahead of life?

Now, it’s just you navigating

The confines your bedroom offers.

How to make the logistics work.

Crawl where it is you can.

Smile, drool, and answer sweetly

To the cool name you’ve been given.

 

© Bart Edelman 

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Bart Edelman

Bart Edelman’s poetry collections include Crossing the Hackensack, Under Damaris’ Dress, The Alphabet of Love, The Gentle Man, The Last Mojito, The Geographer’s Wife, Whistling to Trick the Wind, and This Body Is Never at Rest: New and Selected Poems 1993 – 2023.  He lives in Pasadena, California.

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