Poetry Winter 2022 fiction all issues
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Cover
Li Zhang
Ana Reisens
Pam asked about Europe
& other poems
Krystle May Statler
To the Slow Burn
& other poems
Kristina Cecka
On Remodeling
& other poems
Belinda Roddie
Bless The Bones Of California
& other poems
Summer Rand
Alexander tells me how he'd like to be buried
& other poems
Alexander Perez
Toward the Rainbow
& other poems
Karo Ska
self-portrait of compassion…
& other poems
David Southward
The Pelican
& other poems
George Longenecker
Stamp Collection
& other poems
Mary Keating
Salty
& other poems
Talya Jankovits
Imagine A World Without Raging Hormones
& other poems
Laurie Holding
Sonnet to Mr. Frost
& other poems
David Ruekberg
A Short Essay on Love
& other poems
Elaine Greenwood
There’s a thick, quiet Angel
& other poems
Richard Baldo
Carry On Caretaker
& other poems
Jefferson Singer
Dave Righetti’s No-Hitter…
& other poems
Diane Ayer
A Fan
& other poems
Kaecey McCormick
Meditation Before Desert Monsoon
& other poems
Meg Whelan
Resubstantiation
& other poems
Katherine B. Arthaud
Possible
& other poems
Aaron Glover
On Transformation
& other poems
Anne Marie Wells
[I'm crying in a sandwich shop reading Diane Seuss' sonnets]
& other poems
Holly Cian
Untitled
& other poems
Kimberly Russo
Selective Memories are the Only Gift of Dementia
& other poems
Steven Monte
Larkin
& other poems
Mervyn Seivwright
Fear Mountain
& other poems
Diane Ayer
A Fan
My neighbor’s circular fan sits
between parted pink curtains
as July’s sun sets on it
it glows, a face embraced by loving hands
cupping, they settle a revolving mind
equanimity frames fears, ideas, replays
that have spun all these years
feel that whir within
imagine hands that steady
wait out time
believe the pulsing wind
giving life
singing certainties:
you can stop
your mind’s spinning
at least for one night
it is all all right
Railroads
Downtown railroad juncture delays my going home—
swift waters cut below weary branches whose
yellow leaves race under the bridge, under me,
astride the mills and creaking railroad cars
River ran the thread mill, railroad made it profit—
mill’s quiet now, train’s tattoo entrances
Grandpa drove locomotives
hauling coal out of blue ridges
he’d bring home his paycheck and his love
and then disappear in a cloud of smoke
Grandma called theirs a fatherless family—
he was too busy following rails
through the Shenandoahs—
kept the kids coming
while he kept going
Last car rumbles by, its red light
fades into leaning birches
as the gate goes up
Traffic jostles across and I see the sun set
on oiled rusty tracks shimmering gold
like promises to keep, paychecks to deliver
A Breath for the ISS
The mission of the International Space Station (ISS) is to enable long-term exploration of space and provide benefits to people on Earth.—PBS.org
Dead winter out, its darkness cloaks the trees—
dim inkblots cutting forms from blackest blued
night sky. A weight within, but then a frieze
appears: Dog Star, North Star, the Bears construed.
Infinity inspired, I climb the hill
and take a vantage spot. Check time, search for
west’s angle. Catch my breath, my heart: the drill
to remind me blood and air must mix much more.
Once crowded mind grows sparse, drunk on air, then
shoulders fall back, pointing this heart toward sky,
night’s silence wraps around; inhale and when
I hold my breath, I witness what comes by:
A star is gliding over hills, towns, states
(they’re weightless in there from speed, not
a lack of gravity), this ship of fates
then flew over me, 5:10 on the dot.
Exhale serene. It’s passed, peace has possessed:
my burdens lighten when watching the ISS.
Still
The strength of your absence:
worse than winter’s fog
erasing forests, fields, lifetimes with mere mist
The oak stands unseen across briars, brambles,
but it lives still; the cold pale veil is temporary
as grief is meant to be
it refuses to fall down in the face of oblivion
Furnace shuts off
silence penetrates
still all is all still
Your voice should fill this abyss
frame dark lines around the blur
I almost don’t hear it anymore
can’t quite conjure you up out of that haze
And what if the dawn’s rays can’t chase
ground clouds up, freed, transcendent?
we’ll all travel blind-folded
with cotton in our ears
as I do now without you here
Your absence while I’m present
won’t let me forget I’m waiting still
for winter fog to rise, dissipate
with the sun’s hopeful breath
Invitation to a Reverie
come watch the cat fall asleep with me
tiger stripes undulate, mesmerize
soft snores from a pink nose
rhythmic sighs of content
drain the day’s pains
in a purr
stop that chase
running you ragged
come here, feel the cat sleep
plush white belly side up
paws knead your worries away
while the cat sleeps
let your spool unravel
feed their feline dreams
with the weight of that thread
it’s a daydream in a sunbeam
let’s curl up let’s cat nap
come watch the cat sleep with me
Diane Ayer
is a writer and high school English teacher from Connecticut. She appreciates the loving support of her family and friends.