Poem May 2026

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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

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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

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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

Poem December 2025

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A Christmas Night

It was a cold night

And there was ice on the road,

Our car started to slide

As it moved up the small hill,

And the headlights caught the old man

In a thin jacket

Pushing a cart filled with sticks.

There were some bundles and a package

Piled on top, and the old man

Grinned and waved at us

As he pushed the cart

Into the yard of the little house

Where a single light shone.

The tires gripped the road

And we drove on into the darkness,

But suddenly it was warm.

Poem November 2025

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November 2025

Why I Bought the Economy Size

Because she was not pretty,

her overbite designed to rip prey,

canines sharp as javelins, slight

lisp. Because she could stand

to lose a few pounds, and wore

a flowing flora, and a gray cardigan

strained across her chest. Because

she smiled when she talked, her voice

soft as a mother soothing a fussy child;

because she suggested the best bargain

but did not insist, just gently opened

the jar, offered it like a sacrament,

invited me to dip my finger into the cool

face cream, gently imploring, try it;

because I needed moisturizer, and she

needed that job, I bought the large size,

thanked her for the free gift, samples

wrapped in tissue paper and tucked

inside a pink pouch, the color of her dress.

— Pat Riviere-Seel

Poem October 2025

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October 2025

Little Betsy

A ghost is no good to a child.

Maybe he crooks a finger, as if to beckon

the girl to play. Maybe he bounds spritely

down corridors, into kitchens.

But if she hands him a dolly or ball

and he reaches with his spectral hand,

he cannot clutch the gift, and if his failed grasp

surprises him, if the lack of resistance —

for everything real resists the touch —

unbalances him, his incorporeal fingers

might graze the child’s offering hand.

What would you call the gooseflesh

raised by the frolicsome dead?

There is no joy in it, only a deep well

of longing cold, the kind that claws

through every crack in the wall.

— Ross White

Poem September 2025

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September 2025

On the Way Home

from my father’s funeral,

a mime is performing on the corner,

laid out on the concrete like a corpse,

pulling herself up with an invisible rope

as if hope were a cliff to climb,

then levitates over a pretend chair

as if preparing to eat, drinking

an empty glass of air, her palms

bringing into being the nuanced

shape of bread to be broken.

I sit on the edge of a scrap of plywood,

a makeshift seat, perch as if on a ledge

heeding the gravity of all the unsaid.

Everything her eyes imply is about

the last meal I shared with my father.

“Do you hear me?” she hints

with her hands that have

become her voice, her frown

a phrase, a black drawn-on tear

a lost syllable, then,

as though life were something tangible,

sets up an imaginary ladder,

points to a nebulous cloud

she intends to reach, waving goodbye

as she begins to climb into the sky.

— Linda Annas Ferguson

Poem August 2025

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August 2025

What We Talk About When We Talk About the Moon

In myths and poems, it keeps company with the rose.

Cold scythe of winter. Hammock of summer.

There’s no eclipsing its power over the sea.

In the game of hearts, we “shoot the moon,”

while each new phase of darkness

smolders with anticipation.

Our yard trees may fence us from it, but waxed full,

it offers delivery with argent bath of light. 

Mystics’ elixir. Astrologers’ purlieu.

The moon harvests our dreams.

— Elizabeth W. Jackson

Poem July 2025

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July 2025

Balancing Act


I was once content with walking railroad
tracks to school, stone walls to church,
touching my toes to the sidewalk
for balance, stepping over cracks
that needed mending.

I balanced on city curbs,
my arms extended like wings
that would fly me to a nearby tree,
a wild turkey perching safely
on the lowest limb.

In school we balanced skinny legs
on beams six inches off the floor
to please Miss Brown,
especially proud
to do it backwards,

and I heard the story of
Dayton’s Great Flood of 1913,
how victims inched their escape
across telephone wires from the railway
station to Apple Street and safety.

Now I walk one tight rope after another,
and wonder about people
who tread on pavement with no cracks,
no broken mothers’ backs,
in sensible shoes, arms to their sides,
with no inclination to fly.

— Marsha Warren