Poem November 2026

Poem November 2026

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Reaching

By Clint Bowman

I.

In my grandfather’s house

of antiques and dusty books,

his spirit sits

in the leather chair

of his office.

When he gets up

for a drink—

curtains move,

floors creak.

 

II.

In my grandfather’s house,

his office was replaced

with a white-washed room,

now used for storage.

His chair was sold at auction

to a woman who said it

would look perfect

reupholstered.

 

III.

In my grandfather’s house

of linoleum floors

and shiny appliances,

you’ll find a young couple

and a baby in a bassinet

who’s always giggling,

reaching for my grandfather’s nose.

                   —  Clint Bowman 

Clint Bowman is a writer from Wallburg who now lives with his family in Black Mountain. His debut full-length collection of poetry, If Lost, was published in 2024 by Loblolly Press.

Poem October 2026

Poem October 2026

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Dish Towel

Terri Kirby Erickson

One of my parents’ dish towels

hangs on the handle of our stove.

 

It is aqua-blue, covered with red

and yellow poppies. How many of

 

their dishes this towel must have

buffed, plus silverware, glasses,

 

cookpots and pans. For decades

Mom washed them and Dad did

 

the drying. But after he died, she

stood alone at their sink, letting

 

the water grow cold—soap suds

like glaciers slipping into the sea.

 

Six months a widow and she, too,

was gone, leaving a lone bowl in

 

the drainer, a single spoon, a fresh

dish towel draped just so on a ring.

Terri Kirby Erickson is a widely published poet and the author of eight collections of award-winning poetry, including The Light That Follows Us Home.

Poem September 2026

Poem September 2026

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Proto-Indo-European Speakers

Ross White

Those steppe-dwellers had words for apple

and bee, so we can guess at where they were

and weren’t, can guess at the wheeled wagons

and lactose-tolerant mutations and skills

on horseback that helped them spread the tongue.

I love learning how thick forests kept languages

isolated, how textiles weren’t possible until sheep

ascended mountainous terrain in western Asia

and evolved longer wool, and all these factors

led to a family of shared sounds reaching

across continents, across time. Our words

for mouse and mead and star and new

aren’t so different from theirs, and I can’t help

thinking that they looked drunkenly

at the night sky and felt the same wonder

and renewal that I do when I stumble

into the darkness and am swallowed by a night

whose constellations form the same shapes

those nomadic herders would have seen —

bear, serpent, warring god — each a light

from someone else’s sun, so distant

it might as well be eternity. And someday,

my human descendant may reach

one of those planets and may have on the journey

a record of the words I spoke during this time

of ignorance, and he may see in his own words

some parallel to mine: remember or solace or joy.

 

Ross White is the director of Bull City Press, an independent publisher of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. He is the author of Charm Offensive, winner of the Sexton Prize for Poetry. He teaches creative writing at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and co-hosts The Chapbook, a podcast devoted to tiny, delightful collections.

Poem August 2026

Poem August 2026

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Poem August 2026​

Terri Kirby Erickson

Day at the Beach

I’d like to feel again, my six-year-old self

skimming a long, sea oat-surrounded trail

to the ocean like a skipping stone, the wind

in my dark hair, legs pumping like pistons.

And oh, that first plunge into the water, the

squealing — how it felt to be hit by a wave

and tumble to the shore, as light as a shell.

Now, it’s hard to walk the trails to the beach.

Each step works my calf muscles, my bare

feet sinking deep into hot sand. And the sun

is like a blowtorch, not the gentle source of

warmth that I remember, the ocean rife with

dangers I knew nothing about as a child. So

I settle into a folding chair with a book, my

aging body slathered with the highest SPF,

and watch a couple of kids scoop wet sand

into bright plastic buckets while others splash

in shallow pools, their faces the definition of

delight. If only I could snap my fingers, step

out of a body that has become too weary and

cumbersome, and run to the water like I used

to — limbs weightless as a plover, my thoughts

no heavier than a beach ball, a paper kite rising.

— Terri Kirby Erickson

Terri Kirby Erickson is the award-winning author of eight collections of poetry.

Poem July 2026

Fourth of July Night

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Fourth of July Night

The little boat at anchor in black water sat murmuring to the tall black sky.

A white sky bomb fizzed on a black line.

A rocket hissed it’s red signature into the west.

Now a shower of Chinese fire alphabets,

A cry of flower pots broken in flames,

A long curve to a purple spray, three violet balloons —

Drips of seaweed tangled in gold, shimmering symbols of mixed numbers,

Tremulous arrangements of cream gold folds of a bride’s wedding gown —

A few sky bombs spoke their pieces, then velvet dark.

The little boat at anchor in black water sat murmuring to the tall black sky. 

 

                                      — Carl Sandburg

Carl Sandburg (1878-1967) was a poet, biographer, journalist and editor. He was awarded three Pulitzer Prizes, two for poetry and one for a biography of Abraham Lincoln.

Poem June 2026

Poem June 2026

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A Swift Thought

A car engine rattling.

A busted radio preaching the end 

of the world. That soft, hazy sun racing 

behind the horizon, peaking only for the 

thought of crashing. The Earth’s breath, 

hot and fast, blowing the trickled sweat 

from my hairline to my forehead. A swished 

whiskey hits the adrenaline, causing 

a swerve left, then right. The radio speaks, 

“Blazing temperatures bring hysteria!” I turn it 

off without a care in the world and without a 

second to spare.

— Joi Floyd

Joi Floyd is the assistant editor of O.Henry magazine. Should you wish to contact her, just look for a woman writing under a tree — or email her at joi@ohenrymag.com.

Poem May 2026

POEM

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FLOATING

A hawk drifted over as I backstroked

through the neighborhood pool.

It glided more effortlessly

than I’d imagined possible,

circling and diving on the breeze

without thrash or beat of wing,

so I puffed up my chest

and floated awhile, wondering

if he’d spy me and swoop down

to make a meal of my laziness.

Maple seeds helicoptered

into the depressions

between ripples, bobbing expectantly.

Drowned, fat caterpillars

littered the blue between lanes.

There are graveyards

where the bones rest

less tranquil than that afternoon,

but I ripped it into lines,

and still I am ripping it into lines,

looking for sad, explosive meaning,

proof that I skimmed

that particular magnificence

and didn’t go under.

— Ross White

Poem March 2026

Poem

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Poem

Julian

In christening gown and bonnet,

he is white and stoic as the moon,

unflinching as the sun burns

through yellow puffs of pine

pollen gathered at his crown

while I pour onto his forehead

from a tiny blue Chinese rice cup

holy water blessed

by John Paul II himself

and say, “I baptize you, Julian Joseph,

in the name of the Father, and of the Son,

and of the Holy Spirit.”

Nor does he stir when the monarchs

and swallowtails,

in ecclesiastical vestments,

lift from the purple brushes

of the butterfly bush

and light upon him.

  — Joseph Bathanti

Poem January 2026

POEM

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The Other Side of the Mirror

“Let’s pretend the glass has got all soft like gauze . . .
And certainly the glass was beginning to melt away,
just like a bright silvery mist.”

    — Lewis Caroll, Through the Looking Glass

 

There’s always a reason I’d rather stay home,

as I brush my hair, gaze into my reflection, sit

before the dresser where I combed my curls

as a girl, forever getting ready for the life

that hadn’t arrived yet. Mirrors remained

unfazed, as I exchanged one image for another,

changed my hairstyles and hats, traced fingers

along a scar, abandoned myself for imperfections.

I have come close to escaping into another world,

always about to leave or about to live, my eyes

child-like, clear as glass, considering what time

it must be . . . to keep from disappearing

into my own unbreakable stare.

— Linda Annas Ferguson