Thursday, October 15, 2026

You were but I was by Michael T. Smith

Ike louie Natividad

You were but I was

(A sonnet-inspired poem)

The day was exhausted, as much were we. 

When you said those words, you said them with teeth.

looking within me, eyes minatory. 

I peered instead at your tone underneath.

Were I to charge, a fee placed on ego,

my throat, a prisoner, wouldn’t react: 

You aimed directly at my morillo

to stop those quite words right in their tracks.

The War of the Roses entered act two:

to make me cow to your vile rhetoric, 

all those castrating winds, to me, you blew

What am I? Selfish, immature, a dick?

Beside the lonely road, where no movement

Is allowed, ‘cept my heart invisible

Our car pavisanding, its wax lucent,

With a wheel stuck for greater principles

You said you were kidding – spoke in a buzz,

that I wasn’t that.  You were but I was. 

(Originally published in North of Oxford in 2018)

© Michael T. Smith

Enjoy more posts by Michael T. Smith HERE.

Michael T. Smith
Michael T. Smith is an Associate Professor of English who teaches both writing and film courses. He has published roughly 300 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 100 different journals.  

Wednesday, October 14, 2026

Old Man by Yongbo Ma, Helen Pletts, and Nolcha Fox

Julia Volk

Old Man


You are a river moving slowly over the rocks.

The moon is your lantern, 

quivering on the water.

Your back is bent from carrying 

your worries to the other shore.


(Nolcha)


Each of us nurtures deep within the flesh

an old man with endless patience.

Each of us carries countless others

in our very bones. In time, 

they will replace us—as Germanic 

mercenaries replaced the Roman legions.


(Yongbo)


An aged eagle rests in the scent of water
on the rocks. White and silver catch
on the hook of his beak.
As a younger bird, he was the emblem
of strength and youth—
white feathers in wisps and whiskers;
his claws still carry more than water

(Helen)

Old man eagle, you’re the last of your kind.
You carry childhood’s end in your claws.
The days grow cold. Your birth nest is empty.
Perhaps this winter will be your last.

(Nolcha)

Perhaps the feathers of the aged 

eagle will drift upon the stream,
lingering long before they sink.
Icarus has long vanished
beneath another stretch of water.
Ere the stream merges into the sea,
the waters suddenly widen.
High above, the eagle’s phantom
still gazes down on earth and flowing tides.
Its talons yet clutch dark crags and thunder.
Its plume crown, richly hued, 

fades into the golden glow of the setting sun.


(Yongbo)

Little lowering sun, little frail clawed foot, 

little low ankle suspended, 
brightly clasping the fishless air and water,
the splash of silver body escapes the rocks,
moves upstream regardless of age or vigor,
getting ever smaller like 

the diminishing point of a silver dart

(Helen)


Yongbo’s Translation into Chinese

老人

(诺尔查)

你是一条溪流,缓缓淌过岩砾。
明月作灯,在水面微微摇曳。
为将万般愁绪渡往彼岸,你的脊背早已佝偻。

(永波)

我们每个人的血肉深处,
都藏着一位隐忍无尽的老者。
每一副筋骨之中,
都栖着无数旁人。终有一日,他们会取代我们——
一如日耳曼佣兵,取代了罗马军团。

(海伦)


苍老的雄鹰栖于临水岩上,周身萦绕水汽。
银白霜色,凝在弯钩般的喙尖。
盛年之时,它曾是力量与朝气的象征。
如今白羽零落,似鬓边霜丝;
利爪之上,承载的远不止流水。

(诺尔查)


苍老的雄鹰,你已是族群最后的孑遗。
利爪间,攥着逝去的童年。
天光渐寒,旧日巢窠早已空寂。
或许这个冬日,便是你生命的终章。

(永波)

也许,暮年之鹰的羽毛将散落在溪水中
久久不肯沉落,伊卡洛斯早已消失
在另一片水面。也许,水流入海以前
水面突然开阔,而在高处,那鹰的幻影
依然俯视着大地与流水,利爪中
依然紧握着黑色的巉岩与雷霆
羽冠斑斓,渐次消融于落日的金黄

(海伦)

落日低徊,纤足细弱,脚踝悬荡,
耀眼地紧握住无鱼的水与空茫。
银亮的身姿溅起水声,挣脱岩石,
逆流而上,无视年岁与筋骨,
越来越小,如银镖尖端,逐渐淡去。

(诺尔查)

© Ma Yongbo, Helen Pletts, and Nolcha Fox

Ma Yongbo 


Ma Yongbo is a Ph.D., a 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.

Helen Pletts

Helen Pletts 海伦·普莱茨 is the English co-translator of the Chinese poet Ma Yongbo 马永波, who is her official Chinese translator. She is a committee member of CB1 Poetry, the established monthly poetry reading event in central Cambridge, UK, which has organized poetry readings for many years. CB1 features up-and-coming writers and well-known poetry names. Her work has been translated into Chinese, Bangla, Greek, Vietnamese, Serbian, Korean, Arabic, Italian, Albanian, and Romanian. Website: https://www.helenpletts.com/.


Nolcha Fox


Nolcha Fox’s poems have been curated in print and online journals. A best-selling author, her poetry books are available on Amazon and Dancing Girl Press. Nominated for Best Of The Net and the Pushcart Prize multiple times. Editor of Chewers by Masticadores and LatinosUSA.
Website: https://writingaddiction2.wordpress.com/.


Tuesday, October 13, 2026

Beneath Coupled Boughs by Callum Featherstone

Alari Tammsalu

Beneath Coupled Boughs

Your sunups arise within us

bringing dayspring—

from our quickbeam and ivory tusks


we smile like rust

beneath coupled boughs 

dripping dawned hours


I wish for 

just one more sunrise 

with you


as moonlight set within your arboreal eyes

in the mourning, daybreak had taken—


you


pink, red, orange

aurora surrounds blue

my early glimpse of

your dayspring laugh


with gapped front teeth


and your Thorneywood 

arboretum's path—


same cranny

as the rift between our two Rowan trees


come sundown twilit 

those two Rowan trees

stood still—

fell to their knees

their drooping branches dropped—

berries, leaves


pink, red, orange

sown into honeydew

overcome by your loss—

feeling your last hush of treen


they, too, wish for

just one more sunrise 

with you


dripping dawned hours 

beneath coupled boughs

we smile like rust


our quickbeam and ivory tusks

bring dayspring—

as your sunups arise within us.


Notes


Treen — Small wooden objects, especially those made from hardwood. 

© Callum Featherstone

Enjoy more posts by Callum Featherstone HERE.

Callum Featherstone

Callum Featherstone is a poet from Nottingham, England, whose work explores ecology, grief, memory, and place. His poetry examines the relationship between landscape and emotion, often focusing on nature as a site of loss, healing, and remembrance.

Monday, October 12, 2026

My Near-Death Experience by Shirley Smothers

Jo Kassis

My Near-Death Experience
Someone asked me what my Near-Death Experience was like.
For the first time since it happened more than 35 years ago, I have found the courage to put it into written words.
When I was 29 years old, I went into the hospital for a D and C (dilation and curettage). This procedure is common. Mine was being done because I had several miscarriages within a short period of time.
I was placed under general anesthesia. During the procedure, my tube ruptured. In fact, had not had a miscarriage, but had a tubal pregnancy. My blood pressure went very low, and my breathing was minimal. The doctors realized what was happening and were able to remove the ruptured tube. I was given a pint of blood, and this saved my life.
But not before I had a NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE. I was floating in the air. I looked down and saw myself lying on the operating table. My surgical team was all talking at once. I could not hear what they were saying because there was a loud whooshing sound. But then there was nothing but blackness. What looked to be a million miles away was a faint light like a twinkling star. It grew bigger and stronger. It was vibrant and brilliant, not blinding.
A voice said, "Shirley, it's time to go." I said, "What! No! I'm not dead!" The voice said, "It's time." I still refused to go. Other individuals who were refusing surrounded me. They all seemed to be unaware of the others. They were lost, desperate, desolate souls. We were between worlds. This world was nothing, just a bone -chilling bleak darkness. I saw people in the light. They seemed to be dancing and beckoning us. It seemed to be welcoming, loving, and accepting.  
The voice said, "You may return; there is a soul waiting to be born unto you." I returned, and then two years later, I had my son, Matthew Smothers. So I was allowed to come back to give my son a chance at life. I now know there is life after death. I have worked to become a better person and to help others realize they should work to become better.
© Shirley Smothers

Shirley Smothers
Shirley Smothers is an amateur writer, artist, and poet. She mostly writes short stories. Some of her short stories can be viewed at Shirley Smothers @storystar.com. Her second book can be found at Shirley Smothers "Solasta" @pothi.com. Creative Beacons published her online poetry flip book, Shirley's Poems from the Heart. 

Sunday, October 11, 2026

Tell me again the story by Dorisa D. Costello

Leeloo The First

Tell me again the story

of us in the midnight

corners, how you

called my secret name

among your stars

I have breathed you in:

felt the amalgam water-dust

of my limbs reach for you

and heard the universe

stretch to meet me

what are the galaxies

but the expansion of 

your lungs as you sing

a lullaby for your children

and call us into the infinite

© Dorisa D. Costello

Enjoy more posts by Dorisa D. Costello HERE.

Dorisa D. Costello

Dorisa D. Costello is Associate Professor of English at Jessup University. Her poetry and prose look for the sacred in the mundane and the holy in the human. She is a 2026 Pushcart Prize nominee in poetry and lives in Northern California with her cats, Benedick and Beatrice.

Saturday, October 10, 2026

Hospital train by Mykyta Ryzhykh

Hospital (Medical) Train Doctors Without Borders

Hospital train

Definite article

Infinitive of rain

The carriage is filled with emptiness

The body which had lain on the floor for three days

No longer shudders from the sound of the wheels

hitting the rails

Time is draining from the station walls

Here in the basement people with weapons are hiding

They will kill the air they will eat the names

of the murdered

The carriage hurtles into the unknown

The world revolution of the revolutionary world

Messy red tumor of the bloody world

From the left edge of the sky the right rain falls

And metallic rain falls from the naked air

And acidic rain falls from the trees in

endless autumn

Old-hoarse voice stopped the stop for the sleeping 

And the dead and it is not clear who is who

Sleeping death made of smoke and cigarette butts is

chasing the train

Nothing is certain

Everything is flooded

(Previously published in Tidings of Magpies)

© Mykyta Ryzhykh

Enjoy more posts by Mykyta Ryzhykh HERE.


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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