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Home My WebLink About2021 PIP Adult postershere. my cupped hands. let pieces of the moon fall through them, draw silhouettes of leaves on my arms and pretend they are faces, smiling. watch sunlight creeping down the steps and let it, let my hands catch everything, let us stay. here. Anabel Maler We walk together, your knees lifting high, bobbling feet unsteady, still learning how this is done. You put your hand in mine, chubby fist filling my palm. Bright-white joy bursts from my heart. Little One Carol-Jean Boevers This can’t be the mom his brother says, pointing at the tallest of the two snow people. Oh yes, he says, standing on tiptoe to add another stick of hair, sometimes the mom is bigger than the dad. Sizing It Up Carol Tyx َ َفلا َسلأا َََلَعَُةَّيِناَجْرَمْلَاَُبْعَّشلَاَِتْمَنَاَمَك َُيِزِمْرِقْلَاََيِ ن ْيَبََيِ ن ُبَ،ا َهِفَلَْسَاََماَظِع َ.َ َاَهِماَظِعََقْوَف Coral builds on the bones Of her ancestors. My crimson house Builds on her bones. The Ancestors Cecile Goding Following a trail of tracks Beside frozen wetland marsh Beaver, deer, rabbit, coyote, fox The shush shush of skis through snow The syncopated pock pock of the poles The distant honking of strings of geese And above me one eagle silently gliding Meditation at Sycamore Bottoms David Duer Finest shoots of spring, slender spears; sulfurous, viscous herb holding within it-- wild sun pulled from the atmosphere, feed glowing cells reaching aloft. So tell me, why do we sing anthems to bombs? Leaving Eden Dena G. Miller In the Spirit of my Ancestors The trees, The rain clouds that conquer the skies, Protect our mother so the unborn can play in our hearts And in our EYES. Dawson Davenport (Meskwaki) In the Spirit of my Ancestors I am learning to love my body’s anomalies Freckles kiss my face in constellations The stripes of weight fluctuation hug my thighs Lines are being carved into my face where they had not appeared before But as I look into the seas of my eyes I see myself blooming. Drake Hughes Hey! You! Six feet from here! I see you smiling with your eyes Drew Remember, O my soul, how I am raised in silence. How the empty ghost in the hallway, the dead end of a phone, the sacrificed subtext matters. Don't try to loosen the definition of loss, how it shapes you. Let a thousand dead flowers bloom. Negative Facts Emily Waddle I’m sloppy with time, careless, always misplacing it. This morning, for example, I had a whole hour just lying around. Tonight, in the dark, I’ll still be looking for it. Why I’m Always Late No. 57 Gina Hausknecht Deerhoof heart-halves print the page of this snowfall—or little sunken lung scans— either way either toward us or away. After Watching a Rover Pan the Martian Landscape, Walking a Hound at Hickory Hill James D’Agostino I cradle the wispy bird in my gloved right hand- no tender breath drawn through its slender beak no rise of its satiny soft-curved chest Just a fine charcoal form with a quiet black eye searching the sky. I lay the gentle corpse into a box, and place it on snow near a stand of crusty gray-limbed trees. Snippets from “Valued” Janet Skiff Only wispy contrails that dissolve into sky Only a breeze that rustles the pages of my book Only my dog’s languid pose in a patch of sunlight Only summer warmth Only a sigh Nothing Else Matters Today Janvier Abramowitz glowing spears reaching down white dust pirouettes amid hushed aura sun pierces through light bending stiletto Icicles Jeff Piper There is a tow line Forever pulling me into The heart of the sea And the sea of the heart. Forgive me; Surrender comes slowly For this old soul. Jessica Melkus Oh red lollipop I slide you across my clothes You remove the lint JW Sabha Toddler Tips (A Haiku) our kitchen calendar is a series of squares events crossed out on the inside March 2020 Laura Felleman Tangles of tomato & pepper plants sag their harvest weight, but this garden’s no barefoot song. As you weed & water parched roots, heat swells its long, still drought. from Yardwork for the Last Days Mackie Garrett This poem was first published in Blue Collar Review: A Journal of Progressive Working Class Literature, Summer 2015 silhouettes of birds fly across a pumpkin sky chanting frogs, small streams sigh a vesper lullaby After Autumn Rain Maxine Carlson The next planet will be smaller, lighter, A porcelain teacup, A handful of white sand, A dangling thread, almost touching the floor, The smallest feather on a hummingbird’s red throat, A polished stone, like a third eye, Watching time closely. Philip Beck The Next Planet tilled velvet fields wait for planting need human touch faithful hands work in tandem promise hope forgetting past failures Anticipation Rosalea Ragland The neighbor's pine tree next to the chain-link fence, that divides our yards, is skyscraper high. Lean, straight and pointed like an arrow or a missile aimed at the sun. I notice it wavers and sways with gusts of air. I think, as I sit beneath it's extravagant stature, I hope your roots are as deep as you are tall. T.C. Hamilton covid somewhere beyond the edges of my yard neighbors and strangers pass by on sidewalks probably wanting visitors too untitled Tim Happel I'm walking these ephemeral paths Past versions of myself beckoning inviting. I revel in whispers and promises. Imagining-- what has been what will be. Valerie Decker