the hand of winter stretched out
his grey gloves and poured snow
out of his pitcher it fell upon the
world in cold numbing waves it
washed away all the colors of fall —
it beat back my favorite lilies into
the hand of white dust like people
are prone to beat one another into
the dust for a sense of self worth. [...]
I watched as the white of snow
starched the earth clean of sins —
like the Savior washed me white
by his blood. It seemed a stark
contrast of his shedding white for
red and the earth shedding scarlet
for white, but I think He favors the
irony just as much as we do. I stood
in the bone numbing cold of winter,
letting [...]
I watched the world around me;
winter swallowed me in snow —
the skies were somber and grey.
Only a cardinal pierced the scene
of melancholy waves that washed
their newness upon the earth with
the promise of renewed hope. As
the pains of yesterday were taken
from the land in ivory tears, I was
poured into chalices of reflection.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian [...]
It’s here I pause with each December, where
the snow-trimmed walls of timeworn brick align
beneath the windowsill and winter’s bare
limbs bend beneath a delicate and fine
glossing of frost. It’s here I garner all
my thoughts of months gone past, beside the sheers
and yellow paisley chair. A woolen shawl,
a pearl and knit of smiles and raveled tears,
is wrapped [...]
How ugly you all are,
An all-over ugly!
Iris bulbs unearthed and scythed
Of top leaves,
I lay your twisted, tuberous
Bodies across a gutted paper sack
And take a moment to grimace
At your grotesquery.
Dirt clings to your stringy reaching roots.
Not even warm water and bleach
Can pretty the rough hide of your skin.
Poor horrid hags!
But wait—don’t droop,
Shrivel dry in shame.
For I [...]
(for R.D.)
river rushes north
along aged Indian
trails cupping hands
with scout guides
and ghosts of foreign
navigators once lost
among mosquito marsh
and dense brush, asking
sustenance from
unforgiving earth
plucking berries
you picked in autumn
before she turned
gold to silver and
mud brown—the
end of hunting
and the creation of
renewed paths, when
beauty paved the road to
harshness, we gathered
dancing in deer skins, to
the sacred drum, hoping
to find the heartbeat [...]
I walk barefoot through the grassy
knoll,
your heaven – remembering your
green thumb and long sought after
gardens
lost to daydreams or disease.
The flowers you planted I never
learned
the names of, something exotic,
I was never good in Latin. These
you spent
the most time with, watering them
like children. I think they listened to
you more.
Your sister says I have no business
gardening – I [...]
I keep the totem in my pocket
as a harp song sung with a
steady bear paw, wedged
between your photograph
and an eagle feather. Before
we parted, you whispered it
would serve me well on rainy
days when my road was too
much to stand on. This morning
I pulled the car to the shoulder
to watch an osprey hover with
a cold sun. I [...]
blue birds
cut
and hover
over rich
reds
and pumpkin
leaves –
swell
with lush
lilies lying
nude
along the cold
stream, peeling
effigies
of a great painter.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
Bradley McIlwain is a Canadian-based writer and poet who lives and works in rural Ontario. His poems have been published in national and international print and online magazines. He holds a Bachelor of Arts, Honours, from Trent University, with [...]
Do the dead know when we speak of them?
Cell phone to my ear, I hear Alex say, “Yes,
every time we say their names—it is like food
to them.” I’m in Liberty Park, watching
a gray squirrel negotiate the irregular bark
of a broad, green locust tree. “You
know,” he says to me. “I didn’t think
to mention this before, because [...]