Al-Khemia Poetica: A Women's Arts and Writing Journal

Friday, September 11, 2026: Tribute to Dolly Parton: Singer, Songwriter, Philanthropist, and Feminist

2026-09-11T12:33:04.333-07:00

we’ll always love you

thank you, dolly,

for all the good you

put into this world;

every day it is hard

to wake up and pour

myself a cup of

ambition but you inspired

me to never give up

on my dreams—

you made something

of yourself but never let it

go to your head,

and gave so much of your

wealth away that you were

never a billionaire;

you're the only sort of rich

person i could ever

Respect—

i hope you rest easy,

your impact will never be

Forgotten;

we”ll always love you.

Tanka for Dolly Parton

with Dolly gone

we need to be kind

to each other

and save ourselves

from the dark

Little Tiny Tasseltop

When Dolly was a little girl

She had a dolly of her own.

Her mother made the doll from a corncob

And Dolly named her Little Tiny Tassletop.

She wrote a song about her doll.

She couldn’t write yet but her mother wrote it down.

She was only five but she could write and sing a song

And her family knew she’d be singing for years to come.

She would grow up and make money from her singing

And from that money, she’d make things grow.

Like her nephew said, she was a farmer’s daughter

And a farmer herself. She grew

Many things with that money. She made sure

Kids everywhere could learn to read and write

She believed in kindness and she spent

Her money wisely, wherever money could grow things for

People who needed help.

A little ear of corn grew out of a cornfield

Never suspecting she’d become a doll.

A girl grew out of the fields

And sang until the world was a rosier place.

There’s a place where corn and roses grow

Entwined, nourished by a song

To bring a little bit of heaven to earth.

Her Holiness of the Torch

Medusa de Dolly Lama has some big old sutras, daddy.

and spools of poisonous albino cobras for hair. A curling

mass of steamy snow bled snipers at her scalp. Draped

in crimson robes, she takes her place on fourteen carat

cushions spun from the tossed jewels of greater gods

and lesser goddess, she seats herself on a raised pallet

in perfect lotus posture. Standing in front, you might catch

a glint of her rhinestone panties—if you hold real still with

your deserving intact and incongruencies noted. Look how

she sings so serene, fingers rested in mudras around the mic,

her spirit sailing on unsalted seas, from 9-5, with that wild mane

of serpents spinning incantations, seeking next prey, entwining

infantries on advance, while Medusa de Dolly, waits for her next message.

Under the weight of her white mane, she lowers her register to sing

once more, till it raises the hair on all our hopes. And… I … E…

I… will always love you.

I Don’t Mourn Celebrities Who Die: Today Was the Exception

This afternoon, I took a break from life as I am apt to do and took a walk to do a bit of reading. I do most of my reading while in motion because it helps to ground my attention, keeping me focused on what’s in front of me. I am prone to distractions, and today was no different. During my walk, I paused in a local park to record a video for social media. When I opened the app to upload it, I came across a post stating that Dolly Parton had died. Not trusting anything I read on social media, I googled it, and learned the information was correct. I don’t cry when celebrities die. I don’t grieve the deaths of people I don’t know, but Dolly’s death, apparently, was different.

When I was a kid, I listened to her music—some of it. My friend Libby was a Kenny Rogers fan, and it was at her house, on her radio, that I heard Parton and Rogers singing “Islands in the Stream.” Like many songs the two of us fell in love with, we listened to it repeatedly. It was because of my early interest in Dolly that I started listening to, and eventually liking country music. Yes, I am a lesbian from New York City and country music is one of my preferred music genres. This surprises people. They tend to look at me with a rather funny look in their eye when I admit it. Country music tends to be popular in places that aren’t exactly accepting of queer people—people like me. I’m speaking from experience. Those are the states where I’m often looking over my shoulder and wearing a hat to hide my short hair.But Dolly, unlike other country artists—or people who listen to country music—didn’t adhere to bigotry. On many occasions she was known to express her acceptance and love of the LGBTQ community. She may have been Christian, but her brand of Christianity did not condone hate.

Not only did Dolly refuse to condemn or judge others who were different, she embodied the love that for many Christians seems elusive. Instead of hoarding her wealth, or spending it on frivolous endeavors as many rich people do, she famously supported numerous charities. I never understood the whole concept of tax breaks for the wealthy. I was in high school (in the late 1980s), the first time a teacher explained trickle down economics to me. Now, I am terrible when it comes to money. I am incredibly comfortable in the world of words, but numbers confuse me. So, when Mr. Cronin explained why rich people should be excused from paying taxes, it didn’t make much sense to me. He said the more money people have, the more they will spend it in ways that benefit others. But at fourteen-years-old, I looked out at the world, and what I saw did not confirm his declaration. Rich people spend money indulging themselves. How did this ease the lives of others? It didn’t. But Dolly Parton was different. She invested her money in people and animals—yes, animals as well; she built a sanctuary for bald eagles—improving lives wherever she saw the need.

Not only did Dolly refuse to condemn or judge others who were different, she embodied the love that for Education, especially, was important to her. The ability to read is an essential skill, and she wanted to ensure that all children had a path to literacy. As a former teacher, as someone who is passionate about books, I can appreciate this. Dolly’s Imagination Library put books in the hands of thousands of children, children who otherwise might not have had the opportunity to own books.

I didn’t know Dolly. I had no personal connection to her, but her donation to Vanderbilt University for research felt somewhat personal. COVID killed my father. I wrote extensively about his death and the callousness of the government at that time. As I watched the news, the rising death toll, I hoped that science would soon find a vaccine to end the dying. In late 2020—too late for my father, but not too late for millions of Americans—Moderna announced that they had developed the much awaited vaccine. The also announced that the money Dolly donated to Vanderbilt University for research purpose had been used to fund research for the vaccine. Other celebrities use their money their own elaborate lifestyles. Dolly was different. She helped ensure that fewer people would suffer the same fate as my father. And she didn't stope there. Even while a portion of the population denied the virus, denied its potency, and belittled the lives of those who died, Dolly not only got vaccinated, she encouraged others to follow her lead.

So yeah, I don’t mourn the deaths of celebrities. I don’t mourn the passing of people who use their talents to collect wealth, and then do nothing with the money we put in their pockets, except live a life far more than most of us could ever dream of. I don’t mourn celebrities because I refuse to that they were somehow more important than the average person. But Dolly was different. If she was just a celebrity, someone with a great deal of talent, I would have seen the post about her death and kept scrolling. But I don’t grieve the death because she was a celebrity. I grieve because the world will be less kind, less welcoming, and less loving without her in it.

How Many Mornings

(For Dolly Parton and Robert Frost)

before dawn I wake, remember

she is gone. Losing my mother not

this many tears.

The way biscuits and stone

soup warm a winter belly,

that rainbowed poetry

cape I hang by the back door,

swirls when I twirl dizzy

with possibility.

How many cat-mornings will

words of her songs sing me awake,

brain nothing more than

a radio receiver, signal strong

enough to open my mouth,

take a breath—

Keen for Jolene;

my mother, my cousin

all the women who could have

held me up the way her mother

did her.

She didn’t know my name, yet

promises “I will always love you.”

A poet said

nothing gold can stay.

Dogs lead me into sky

air smells like rain,

horizon rolls

rafts of cloud

pink, salmon, magenta

my camera chases after

How can you feel safe around

a woman you have never met?

Days riding in a white pickup

windows rolled, radio.

Singing along “Please don’t take her

just because you can.”

Nothing gold can stay.

Aren’t we all gold?

Oprah’s Book Club, no.

My dream, The Magic Blankie,

A Piglet for David, my books

for the Imagination Library,

my hands slip copies into Little Free

libraries we pass as we walk.

I bury my wet face

in sunrise.

Keep walking.

love watered

by the tears of my song,

Jolene

I Have Always Loved You

As a young teen girl

I was mesmerized by your words

Once that I discovered I too, could write

my dream was to be able to create

as poignant and importantly as you did

I too, grew up as a have not

and my grandmother sewed plain dresses

I could imagine my hand gliding across

my very own “Coat of Many Colors”

I wanted to be able to make folks

understand real life with my words

During the failing of my first marriage

“Here You Come Again” hit hard

And that, was when my words

began to take on bigger meaning

When I knew too

could help others with paper and pen

It became so clear during that year

every single soul who ever heard “Jolene”

knew what true heartbreak

and desperation sounded like

Doing my very best to follow in your footsteps

I wrote my first collection “Love and Licorice Whips”

to help others understand

Women need a hand-up, not hand-out

Dolly, you were like an older sister

You guided me to inspire

to go higher with what I had

You were only nine years older

but, so much bolder than I

You became my guiding light

Thank you

And “I Will Always Love You”

She wrote I Will Always Love You and Jolene on the same day

You can’t force someone to love you.

You can’t choose who you fall for.

You loved your patchwork coat’s colours,

failing to understand it labelled you poor.

What's sadder than giving your all and losing?

Dolly knew not to give false hope.

Be dignified, be better, wish him well,

no matter how much it hurts inside.

No matter how much it hurts inside,

be dignified, be better, wish him well.

Dolly knew better than to give false hope.

What’s sadder than giving your all and losing?

Failing to understand it labelled you poor,

you loved your patchwork coat’s colours.

You can’t choose who you fall for.

You can’t force someone to love you.

My Last Chit-Chat with Dolly

I braced myself to ask if I could have my very own Dollywood.

‘Would it be he patio at the end of your smirky garden?’

‘Yes.’

‘In your remote Europe?’

‘Yes.’

‘There you could, but shouldn’t sweetie. Just think of the incident we had in mine. Stranded passengers on my FireChaser Express--a flywheel flung, a safety sensor tripped. A tram collision in the parking lot. A grease fire, a girl-fell-out situation. People stuck in the Timber Tower. Chain decoration hurting guests at the Mystery Mine. You don’t deserve so much fuss at your thriving hellebore beds. Why don’t you start your own Imagination Library?’

‘I have, Dolly. I have. I met a bartender, not at Wishy-Washy, all he had read was Ken Follett. I overwhelmed him with Hesse and Huxley, Bradbury and Karen Blixen, Amos Oz, Kundera, Henry Miller, Bukowski, Sylvia Plath and Iris Murdoch, then I relaunched the project step by step, asked for his opinion. He ended up quoting Beckett, oh gosh, is he becoming Tom Shepherd's lobster?’

‘Wow, that guy is your perilous swamp, your tainted Dollywood, indeed, why don’t you urge him to pick some of your hellebores when at least one flower on the stem dropped its stamens and tried to form a tiny seed pod? And why don’t you ask him if he’s a punched persona or a dolled=up mercy diva or just--for your hopes-- a half-sophisticated sofa? Deep inside your pub friend might hate you for your kindness, he may plan a counter attack, he’s nobody's fringe-head or lobster. You’re called Sarah, right? You’d rather build your own personal Eden, your own Sarah-la-la. Keep the hellebores, read Riding Hood to the neighbor’s kids, bake flapjacks and hummingbird cakes, serve them with mango-habarnero lemonades and tell your own story, your Sarah experience.’

Dolly Parton Recovers Voices at Meadowlark

I was married to Evarts G. Loomis, MD, who founded Meadowlark, America’s first holistic medical retreat in Hemet, California. Much to his surprise, Dolly Parton booked an appointment with his. Dolly shared she’d lost her voice.

“I know my career is over without it,” she said.

Evatts suggested she stay at Meadowlark for a few weeks and explore how she might get her voice back. She readily agreed and participated daily in the program he pioneered.

In addition to a full medical examination, guests were introduced to therapeutic fasts, nutritional counseling, exercise, homeopathic medicine, meditation, acupuncture, yoga, art and music therapy, body work, and psycho-spiritual counseling. Daily group therapy sessions incorporated dreams, journaling, and meditation. Most important of all was the use of love as a healing agent.

Dolly even volunteered to have her photo taken in a shimmery green blouse and dark blue skirt to promote sales of the thrift shop tucked into the grounds. Her wig created a glowing nimbus around her head (see photo).

The shop brought in limited funds to help support Meadowlark.Many patients spent all their money seeking a cure, and were unable to completely pay their bill. Evarts always took them in, and treated each person with respect.

While at Meadowlark, Dolly never pushed her celebrity, or personality.

In time, Dolly’s voice returned. She left the sanctuary, refreshed and ready to take up her career.

After thirty-three years of operation and treating more than 6,000 patients, Meadowlark closed its doors in 1991. When Evarts passed in 2003, I received a card from Dolly expressing her gratitude for his help in a time of crisis. She also shared her grief at the loss of this medical humanitarian. Her kindness reminded me that Dolly, too, was a humanitarian.

Friday, September 4, 2026: Beverly M. Collins' "Arrows Waiting"

2026-09-04T13:51:01.115-07:00

Arrows Waiting

While I waited for the Ferris wheel recently,

I trailed the long line behind a couple that

were completely silent in one another’s

Company.

They spoke to (and only looked at)

their two children. Remained muted as

human land-mass on lookout for a subject

to float the waters between them like

lost sailboats between rocky cliffs.

Whenever I see a union in this condition,

I wonder if tomb-like quiet, with eyes in

different directions, is the avenue some couples

move to after too many rounds of emotional

hand grenades have been tossed?

I first noticed this type of couple

as a small child. I would quietly ponder.

Are each of them silent forts with

words tucked like arrows waiting?

Is this the white-flag-way, dogs give in to

the leash kind of living, that is, “as-happy-

as-its-going to-get” final surrender?

Or did I simply observe them in a “separate-

contemplation-while-together” moment

I hope so.

Bio: Beverly M. Collins, author of the books, Quiet Observations and Mud in Magic. Her poems and short stories appear in publications based in USA, England, Ireland, Australia, India, Berlin, Mauritius, Lebanon, and Canada.

A 2019 Winner of the Naji Naaman Literary Prize in Creativity (Lebanon), four times nominated for the Pushcart Prize, once Best on the Net, prize winner for California State Poetry Society; 2 nd placed winner; June 2021 Wilda Morris Poetry Challenge (Chicago) and guest editor of California Quarterly.

Her photography can be found on: The cover of Peeking Cat 40 (England), California Quarterly,

and more.

www.https://beverlym-collins.pixels.com

Friday, August 28, 2026: Elizabeth Jaeger's "I Though I Hated Cats

2026-08-28T09:02:39.110-07:00

For forty-nine years, I hated cats. No, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t hate them, but I didn’t exactly like them either. At some point in my youth, I developed a minor aversion to the furry creatures because their presence, when in close proximity, caused me a great deal of discomfort. Every time I visited someone who had a cat, my eyes became irritated—itchy and red. My sinuses flared and I couldn’t breathe properly. I spent my time blowing my nose and wiping my watery eyes. There was no way I was ever going to welcome a cat into my home knowing he or she had the power to make me feel so miserable. Besides, those litter boxes made the houses smell horrific and I struggled to function normally if I was surrounded by foul orders.

For some reason—only recently revealed in my autism diagnosi—bad smells affected me more severely than other people I knew.

While I was anti-cat, I did love dogs. I had a dog—a golden retriever—growing up and I adored her. A love of dogs runs in my family, and through much of my son’s childhood, he begged us to get him a dog. However, for the first twelve years of his life, I was either unemployed or underemployed, which meant we often did not have enough money to pay for our basic necessities. Not having much money sucked, especially since I hated denying my son something he desperately wanted. Therefore, I promised him that we would get a dog as soon as we could afford food and a vet bill. Needless to say, the moment I landed a full time job, he implored me to keep my promise, and not only do I hate breaking a promise, I despise disappointing my son, but dogs are a huge responsibility and not very independent. They require several walks a day and, with all of us out of the house for extended periods of time, no one would be home to let a dog out in the middle of day. Also, dogs cannot be left home alone for long weekends—and I love to get away whenever I can. Plus, summer is the time to travel, and if we had a dog, it would cost way too much money to hire someone to walk him or her multiple times a day for three, four, or five weeks.

I was in a bit of a quandary.

That first summer of employment, my son and I took a three week road trip together exploring much of the mid-west. One of our first stops was in Hannibal, Missouri, home to American author Samuel Clemens, known more famously as Mark Twain. While there, we learned a bit about Twain’s early life and how he incorporated his own experiences into his novels, specifically The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. My son, then thirteen years old, enjoyed exploring the caves that inspired Twain, the caves in which Tom Sawyer confronted Injun Joe and where he and Huck Finn discovered the treasure that made them both wealthy.

That night, my son and I stayed in a campground not far from Twain’s childhood home. In the morning, after a much needed shower, I found my son sitting on the patio of the coffee shop petting severa adorable kittens, kittens who didn’t appear to be more than several weeks old. He was enamored with them, as was I. Their tiny paws, fur so incredibly soft, and their blind trust of the human hands reaching out to pet them. My son wanted to take one home, but they were too little to be weaned, and I still could not fathom allowing a cat into my home. But we still had more than two weeks on the road, two weeks to dwell on their cuteness. Two weeks of listening to my son tell me that if I got him a kitten, he’d stop asking for a dog.Two weeks to contemplate what my life might look like if I opened my home—any my heart—to a cat.

When we returned home, I proposed the idea of getting a kitten to my spouse. She required no convincing. She had wanted a cat for years, and at one point even admitted that if we got divorced she’d get a cat immediately. To protect myself, I laid down some ground rules. Any cat entering my house would not be allowed in my bedroom or my study. I needed certain places in the house to be dander free so that I could retreat to them when my allergies overwhelmed me.

As for tending to the cats, I made it clear that under no circumstance would I ever clean out the litter boxes. My spouse’s biggest fear was that a cat would wake me up in the middle of the night, and considering how much I hated being woken up, considering the foul mood it always put me in, I would end up getting angry at the cat.

The day before Christmas Eve, we brought home a feral black kitten that had been trapped near th highway. My son named him Kramer after the character on Seinfeld. He was skittish and afraid of everything. The moment we got him home, he went into hiding. He was a sweet, gentle little boy, but he wouldn’t let us hold him and he didn’t like to be touched. Sadly, even with an adorable kitten, my son didn’t really feel like he had a pet. How could he when Kramer rarely made an appearance. I, however, had fallen so much in love with the kitten that within days I broke every rule I insisted upon. My bedroom and study door remained open and I had no qualms about cleaning out the litter box. My spouse was shocked that when Kramer inadvertently woke me up in the middle of the night, I didn’t mind—not even a little. We were also surprised that after a couple of months, I showed no sign of being allergic. Since my eyes weren’t irritated and I wasn’t sneezing, my spouse felt compelled to do some research. After a few google searches, she learned that kittens do not produce as much of the protein in their saliva that adult cats do. She also discovered that if you get a kitten young enough, before the protein is more potent, there is a potential to develop an immunity to your own cat. I have always had a good immune system, so this news was extremely encouraging.

Three months after we brought Kramer home, we went on a mini road trip down to Washington D.C. during spring break. The great thing about cats is they are semi independent, which is important when you love being on the road as much as I do. We bought an automatic feeder to dispense Kramer’s dry food and asked a friend to drop in once a day to give him wet food and to clean out his litter box. My spouse also set up a ring camera in the bedroom so we could keep eyes on the little guy and make sure he was doing ok. This camera she checked compulsively, and what we witnessed on the screen made us feel guilty for having left him alone.

Poor little Kramer looked so lonely, his sense of abandonment was almost palpable. At night, he would sit on our bedroom floor and stare up at the bed for hours as if willing us to appear. We decided then, watching Kramer watching the bed, that between my son not feeling like he had a pet, and knowing we could never leave Kramer home all alone ever again, we needed a second cat. While my son and I took a tour of the National Cathedral, my spouse sent queries to several shelters near where we lived.

Less than two weeks after we returned, we adopted Beanie, a tabby, into the family. My son named him Supreme Bean, and he was about as different from Kramer as two cats could be.

While Kramer was quiet, there were times Bean seemed to never stop meowing. He was friendly and curious, and he not only enjoyed us petting him, he tolerated my son cuddling with him for long stretches of time. My son finally felt like he had a pet and he was happy. But with Beanie bonding with him, and Kramer bonding mostly with my spouse, I—the person who didn’t like cats, the person who once swore they would never have one—suddenly felt left out. And that is how Dante, another black kitten, came into our lives.

This time I went online to search for a new kitten—not because I didn’t want an older cat who desperately needed love, but because I was concerned about my allergies and my spouse’s allergies, which it turned out were far worse than mine. Even with only having adopted kittens, she was on a daily cocktail of allergy meds and I was worried an older cat would seriously exacerbate her breathing issues. I contacted several shelters inquiring about black kittens, predominantly because I had read that they have the lowest adoption rate. Only one shelter responded and I immediately set up an appointment to meet the kitten who was ready to be adopted. I wanted to bring him home right away, but the shelter’s policy didn’t permit it. I had to make another appointment to return in a few days—which just happened to be election day 2024, a perfect time to embrace an emotional support animal.

I named him Dante. My family didn’t approve, but I liked the name and I thought it fit him. He was tiny when we brought him home, and since a new cat doesn’t integrate easily with other cats, we needed to keep him separate from Kramer and Bean while they had time to get used to him and adjust to having a new kitten in the house. Therefore, I took him into my study.

As soon as I opened the carrier, he jumped out and scurried under my desk to hide. Seriously, it must be scary and overwhelming to be so small and to be removed to a completely unfamiliar location. He didn’t know what happened, where the other kittens had gone, or why he was now in a strange place surrounded by strange smells. His body, in a corner behind the desk, curled into a tight defensive position, and he looked up at me with frightened eyes, but when I reached out for him, he let me pick him up. I carried him to the spare bed in the room and pet him until he relaxed a bit. Then, I took out the fishing pole toy to play with him and he attacked it.

For three nights, I slept in the study with him, not really giving him the opportunity to bond with anyone else. Each night, he tucked his body next to mine and I fell asleep listening to him purr. Yes, I am autistic. And yes, I have sensory issues that often make noises feel painful. A cat’s purr, however, is exceptionally calming. If I got up to go to the bathroom, when I got back to bed I’d find Dante curled up on my pillow waiting for me.

Dante is more affectionate than many cats. He loves sitting on laps and having hands pet him. And he does not discriminate. If there is a lap, he’ll sit on it. But at night, after a long day at work, when I head up to my study to write, I always call “Dante.” My voice and the sound of my feet on the stairs bring him running. He races ahead of me, stops at the side of my desk, glances around to make sure I’m there, and then he jumps up onto the cat bed that waits for him on the desk. Listening to him purr while I write is exceptionally soothing. When I pause to think, to determine what to say next or to figure out which direction I need to take a character, whether fictional or real, my hand wanders to his warm body and my fingers lightly brush his fur.

Sometimes his paws hug my wrist, pull my arm toward him, and then, his rough tongue grooms me. I don’t mind the licking, the wet saliva. Other times, he gets jealous of the computer and he stands up, stretches and then walks back and forth between me and the screen, begging me to pay attention to him, to keep my hands on him instead of the keyboard. Occasionally, he plops down in front of me, claiming his territory. I push the computer away and gently rest my cheek against his.

I lived most of my life without a cat, and that might be one of my biggest regrets. For an autistic person who craves sensory stimulation, nothing is more calming to me than a gentle affectionate cat with a soft rumbling purr that never quiets. When my fingers need to feel something soft, he’s there, eager to have my hands on his fur. Occasionally, when he puts his face in mine or slobbers all over me, my allergies will act up, but they don’t bother me, not really. I’d rather have itchy eyes and a loving presence next to me rather than no sniffles and silent emptiness. My spouse feared that a cat would set me on edge, make me grumpy or angry, instead he helps anchor and center me. Even when he’e being brat and knocking over my things or he makes a mess, I can’t get mad at him. My little one brings me too much happiness. They all do. And at night, Dante finds a warm spot between my knees or curls into my side and I sleep better knowing he is there. Sometimes, he wakes up and presses his nose against my face, demanding I pet him. I always do, it doesn’t matter how tired I am. Loving him is more important than sleep.

So often, as a parent, I make decisions that I feel are in the best interest of my son, putting my own needs on hold or making them secondary. My son’s desire for a pet, his need to love and care for another creature, were more important to me than not suffering allergies or living with an animal I didn’t think I’d like. In this case, I put my son first, and I have never been happier. I can’t imagine ever again living in a home without purring and the constant chaos of cats.

Elizabeth Jaeger's memoir Stolen: Love and Loss in the Time of COVID-19 is due out in September with Unsolicited Press. Her essays, short stories, book reviews and poetry have been published in various print and online journals, including Margate Bookie, The Doctor T. J. Eckleburg Review, Caustic Frolic, The Blue Nib, Capsule Stories, Watchung Review, Ovunque Siamo, and Italian Americana. Newtown Literary published “The Treehouse,” which is a chapter from her novel in progress. She is a Pushcart and Best of the Net Nominee. You can find her at https://www.elizabethjaegerauthor.com.

Friday, July 24, 2026: Terry Wolverton's "Mazurka"

2026-07-24T08:00:59.094-07:00

Mazurka

This ragged broom has been sweeping Hell

for too long, its straw singed from cinders

hidden in ash. When I try to whisk my

bedroom floor, it turns sooty, dirtier

than before. Same when I try to cleanse

my soul, I can’t do it. The devil

lurks in my tools. The simplest implements

harbor my mistakes; my smile grows more

crooked each year, eyes ever focused

on the wrong things: I missed the Perseids,

bedazzled by bracelets of flame.

The disobedient broom sheds straw

bristles all over the hearth. Women’s

work is never done. My mother was

a reluctant housekeeper, disdained

domestic chores, though she liked it clean.

My spouse seethes when she vacuums. The broom

turns in circles, etches a spiral

in the dust. Will it guide me to new

worlds? The shaft jabs a splinter in my

thumb, lodges in my flesh, becomes part

of me. Its ardor kindles my blood.

The smoldering broom insinuates

its spindly torso in my grasp; out

of the smoke swirl sprightly notes of Chopin,

a feverish Mazurka. The besom

leads, I strive to follow. Feet stumble

over embers, birch branches, tempo

erratic as my mercurial

pulse. Clumsy. Still, something shifts. Don’t all

things in this universe turn—world, sun,

our circulating blood? Whirling, my

crimes are sloughed, their smirch spun back to dirt.

Bio: Terry Wolverton is author of thirteen books of poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction, including Embers, a novel in poems, Insurgent Muse: art and life at the Woman’s Building, a memoir, and her most recent novel, Season of Eclipse. She has also edited sixteen literary compilations. Terry has received a COLA Fellowship from the City of Los Angeles, a Publishing Triangle award for nonfiction, and a Fellowship in Poetry from the California Arts Council. She founded Writers At Work, a creative writing studio in Los Angeles, and Affiliate Faculty in the MFA Writing Program at Antioch University Los Angeles.

http://terrywolverton.com

Friday, July 10. 2026: Rose Mary Boehm's "The Woman Who Wouldn't Take a Lover"

2026-07-10T08:11:08.041-07:00

The Woman Who Won’t Take a Lover

The afternoon slowly trickles between

her spread fingers, over her forehead,

into her closed eyes. She lets herself sink

to the floor, onto her knees.

Hard wood, splinters, rusty nails

mark her flesh.

An insect buzzes, thuds against

the dirty windowpane.

Today she feels equally

trapped. No wings or vision.

Dust motes settle.

She is still.

Head bent.

From the park children’s summer voices.

A goldfinch in the nearby pine.

The clock’s pendulum’s familiar rhythm.

Nothing has her attention

except the swelling of her lust.

Barbed wire cuts into her upper thigh.

A drop of blood congeals.

(First published by POETRY QUARTERLY in 2023)

Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels, short stories, eight poetry collections and one chapbook, her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She is a several times ‘Pushcart’ and a ‘Best of Net’ nominee. All her recent books are available on Amazon. The new chapbook, ‘The Matter of Words’, was published in June 2025, and a new full-length collection has been slated for publishing in 2027. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

Friday, June 26, 2026: Jeanie Greensfelder’s "The Backward Glance"

2026-06-26T09:17:50.756-07:00

The Backward Glance

I look back at myself climbing the nine mile

Bright Angel trail out of the Grand Canyon:

Halfway, she runs out of water, and must

panhandle sips from passing hikers,

then pours trickles over her hot head.

I love this woman who never hiked,

who practiced for months, who learned

she could helicopter out only if she broke

her leg, who learned too late she could

have sent her belongings on a mule.

She lightened her load carrying less water,

causing problems for herself and friend.

I love that woman with all her foibles

I reach for her, want to hold her,

but, like Eurydice, she’s gone.

Bio: Jeanie Greensfelder’s poems have been published at American Life in Poetry, Writer’s Almanac, and as a Poetry Foundation Poem of the Day; in anthologies: Paris, Etc., Pushing the Envelope: Epistolary Poems; in journals: Miramar, Thema, Askew, Persimmon Tree, and others. She served as San Luis Obispo County poet laureate, 2017,18. A Pushcart nominee, Jeanie’s books are: Biting the Apple, Marriage and Other Leaps of Faith, I Got What I Came For, and Time Traveler. jeaniegreensfelder.com

Friday, June 12, 2026: A.J. Huffman's "Guidelines for Confusion" and "Eternity is Breathing"

2026-06-12T07:46:16.641-07:00

Guidelines for Confusion

The warnings at the edge of time’s cliff

fly like arrows—whoosh whoosh—

pierce heats still searching for purpose.

the valves close in sequential stutter—

click murmur snap—sounds never mistaken

for anything exotic. Ears touched by proxy

listen for comfort, learn nothing

but the normal distribution of air.

Butterfly Nebula/NASA

Eternity is Breathing

against our bodies as we dance,

naked, under stars that look too much

like a cross we could easily hang from.

The wind shudders for us as we refuse

to open our eyes, preferring the ringing

of this darkness that lingers like a scream.

We call this frequency a failure of decency

as our skins resonate. Our weakness

is off key.

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has

published 27 collections and chapbooks of poetry. In addition, she has published her

work in numerous national and international literary journals.

Friday, May 29, 2026: Ann Tweedy's "By the river"

2026-05-29T07:58:37.309-07:00

By the river,

hanging my camera on the plank

of an Adirondack chair. Wading in the cold

flow–shallow, bed of smooth rocks,

slippery and hard on the soles of my feet.

Turning out of the water to a sheltered pool–tiny fish

swimming there. Almost like tadpoles but so small.

A centimeter to an inch.

Squatting by clumps of grass that formed

the pool’s barrier and staring in. Getting up, a sense of someone

watching me from behind--at the river shore. I turn and

a surprised woodchuck, large and beaver-like but with a thin tail, stares back.

It kept its eyes locked with mine as it moved

haltingly upland. Meanwhile I inched toward my camera,

keeping myself in our eye-lock.

As I got close, my toe stubbed hard on the wood chair,

the small one next to the pinky. I felt the stab but mostly was glad

to be within reach of the camera--grabbed it and proceeded

to snap. The woodchuck’s serious and cautious gaze

caught in my aperture, face with its mix of brown and black.

The rounded oval back. Alert squirrel stance.

When it was over, the woodchuck up in the grass and trees,

beyond my sight path, I noticed that my toe was blooming purple,

felt the pain it took to walk. Picture-replay revealed my camera

had been accidentally set to “effects”–photos

a mash of painting and cartoon, contrasts in color

overdone, too much black at the muzzle, the intelligence of the eyes

lost. Scathed by eagerness but left

with fascination. Those moments

looking into its eyes, the lens

our mediator, rivet my days.

Ann Tweedy’s first full-length book, The Body’s Alphabet (Headmistress Press), earned a Bisexual Book Award and was a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award. Ann also has published three chapbooks: Beleaguered Oases (2 nd ed. Seven Kitchens), White Out (Green Fuse Poetic Arts), and A Registry of Survival (Last Word Press). Her poems have appeared in Rattle, Literary Mama, Naugatuck River Review, and many other places, and she has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes and five Best of the Net Awards. A law professor by day, Ann has devoted her career to serving Native Tribes. She recently left the University of South Dakota School of Law for a position at University of Mississippi School of Law. Read more at

www.anntweedy.com.

Friday, May 15, 2026: Cynthia Linville's "Scrapbook"

2026-05-15T07:45:10.595-07:00

Scrapbook

She sees sunlight, so quiet

she can almost hear the dust.

Heat wears away the edges,

in life, in photographs.

These memories are old

like someone else’s shoes –

rigid where they should bend

pliant where they should be tough.

She didn’t know how much she wanted

until she felt ready to jump in.

By then the zeotrope had blurred –

scenes spun past too fast.

Now she sees how quickly opportunities collapse.

To want one thing is

to want a thousand things.

The real trick is to want today’s offerings.

She places the book back up

on its high dusty shelf

slips on her shoes and gloves

and steps out to tend her roses.

Bio: Cynthia Linville’s work has appeared in many publications and several anthologies. Her two books of collected poems, The Lost Thing and Out of Reach, were published by Cold River Press. Her poems have been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and two Best of the Net awards. Linville has received three mini-grants from Poets & Writers to perform in collaboration with musicians. She invented a poetic form dubbed the Linvillanelle which can be viewed here:

https://webpages.csus.edu/~sac16141/TheLinvillanelle.pdf

Cynthia is also a photographer whose work has appeared in People's Tribune, Sacramento News & Review, Capital Public Radio website, WTF, and more. You can see more of her work at CynthiaLinville.com.

Friday, May 1, 2026: Lynne Bronstein's "Tangelo Winter"

2026-05-01T09:56:00.000-07:00

Tangelo Winter

There are still tangelos on the tree, at this late date in February. Some soft large

ones have fallen on the ground; some that are high in the tree will be eaten by

racoons. I have gathered many of these fruits, pale and deep orange, some easy to

peel, some with few seeds, and some so seedy they might as well be cheremoyas. I

am thankful for the free fruit and for the mixture of sun and rain that brought on

such a rich harvest this year. It may be the most memorable thing about this winter,

which has been full of turbulence in the world, and which has brought some sorrow

to this house. I longed for treats with no trouble, fruit that was sweet with no

annoying seeds, even as I knew that the knobby seeds, like the more annoying and

painful aspects of life, are what bring on another season of fruit for us to eventually

enjoy.

Tangelo winter

Ripe rich fruit for the picking

Reward not asked for.

Bio: Lynne Bronstein is the author of Nasty Girls (Four Feathers Press) and four

other books of poetry. She has been published in magazines ranging from Playgirl

to Chiron Review, from Lummox to anthologies in England, Ireland, Israel,

Canada, and India. Her short fiction has appeared in magazines and anthologies

and has been read on National Public Radio. She also writes a column on Facebook

and Substack called Show Biz Cats.

Friday, April 17, 2026: Three Works of Art by Lorraine Caputo

2026-04-17T11:56:00.000-07:00

"Calingasta"

"Noche de otoño"

"Star in the Palm"

Wandering troubadour Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear internationally in over 500 journals and 24 collections of poetry – including Orinoco Plains (dancing girl press, 2025) and Santa Marta Ayres (Origami Poems Project, 2024). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. She is a Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honoree (2011), and Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth.

Friday, April 10, 2026: Marjorie R. Becker's "Retain the Light"

2026-04-10T09:33:00.000-07:00

Retain the Light

And it is song toward gemstones,

gemstones wild with heat and their prolong

as song remembers kinds of kindness we the Lavenders

and all the other sighing, shyest women winking,

blinking off the cruel travails of plunder near

the central sudden sea of being where

we as singers claim, maintain, retain

the light of harbor hope and home for those alone

until we sing and bring about

the bluest, azure helpful sky to sigh the light,

reply by night and dawn.

Bio: “I am a Macon, Georgia native, a professor of history and English at USC. I am fortunate enough to be the author of eight books, three of which are poetry collections, including The Macon Sex School: Songs of Tenderness and Resistance. My poetry and critical theory have been widely published, and I am one of the founding members of the Venice Poetry Collective.”

Friday, April 3, 2026: Cindy Weinstein's "Empty Hands" and "The Tower"

2026-04-03T08:44:00.000-07:00

Empty Hands

I am haunted by the ghost of my living son.

I am mourning the loss of my child not yet passed.

Somewhere, somehow, deep in the web of city streets

his body of flesh goes on,

carrying the spark of who he once was…

who he might have been.

There has been no memorial to remember.

No one to speak of his loving sweetness,

his kindness,

his generosity,

his open heart.

There are no loved ones gathered around.

No condolences, no words of sympathy.

There is no grave to visit,

no stone,

no urn,

no candle to light.

There is only

my empty hands,

finally letting him go.

The Tower

Someone ripped holes in all the metaphors

and now the artists have nothing to paint but

the naked truth.

Someone tore apart all the dreams

And now the prophets have no heaven,

Only stark reality.

The sidewalk is cracked.

The stairs are broken.

The roof is leaking.

The rats are eating the crumbs in the cupboard.

We’;re banging on pots and pans

In the kitchen.

We’re shooting off M80s

On the concrete

In the desert.

We’;re making an unholy racket.

The cacophony is a continuous thread.

Screams of the mother.

Cries of the babe.

Moans at the climax.

Wails at the abyss.

Whimpers in the dark.

Shrieks in the flame.

Howls in the air when the white bones fall.

The metaphors cannot be sewn back together.

The dreams will never be rewoven.

The sidewalk is cracked.

The mother screams.

The stairs collapsed.

The babe is wailing.

At the crash of the climax the rain pours in.

The rats are eating the bones at the bottom of the abyss.

So now the artist paints without guile, while

The prophet dances in the corner bar

To the clanging of pots and pans.

In the holes in the metaphors

In the space between life and dream,

In the heartbeat under all the voices

In the heart beat

Under the heart beat

is truth

is reality

is love.

Cindy was born and raised in upstate NY. After college she moved to Washington DC where she established her career, her art, and her family. She came to Los Angeles in 1993 with her two young children and stayed until she immigrated to the desert of Joshua Tree in 2017. She has been writing, reading and performing her poetry off and on since she was 17. She has been published in a number of Los Angeles anthologies including Poetic Diversity as well as in Cholla Needles and the Joshua Tree Voice.

Friday, March 27, 2026: Lorraine Caputo's "Ere the Solstice Dawn"

2026-03-27T08:43:00.000-07:00

Ere the Solstice Dawn

‘Neath the pearly light

of Venus & a crescent moon

a procession ascends

this cobblestone street

the Virgin’s portrait atop

two men’s shoulders

chanted prayers echoing

in the early morn

Friday, March 13, 2026: Jackie Chou's "America"

2026-03-13T07:16:00.000-07:00

America

“When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?”-Allen Ginsberg

America I have exhausted my good looks

at a dance studio in Eagle Rock

America I am no longer eighteen

dreaming of defending the innocent

America your law school admission test

is too difficult for me

America I am on social security disability income

that won't buy me an ice cream cone

America I subsist on instant coffee

America I am not hirable

because nobody wants a schizo-affective

Even if anyone does

I have no driving privilege

to get to work

America the public transportation

in Los Angeles

is inefficient

America I hope no one stabs me from behind

like what happened to Iryna Zarutska

America bless her angelic soul

America I am nobody

and so nobody cares about

the flip of my skirt in the updraft

America I am no Marilyn Monroe

Jackie Chou (she/her) is a writer from Southern California who has two collections of poetry, The Sorceress and Finding My Heart in Love and Loss, published by cyberwit. Her poem "Formosa" was a finalist in the Stephen A DiBiase Poetry Prize. She also has poems published in Synchronized Chaos, The Ekphrastic Review, Panoply Zine, Alien Buddha Zine, and Spillwords.

Friday, Feb, 27, 2026: Two Tanka by Barbara Anna Gaiardoni

2026-02-27T07:55:00.000-08:00

Tanka 1

Inspired by the Yellow Wax stone "The Great Overhang"

New Year's Eve

in the dim light

of the room

the wind writes stories

in our voids

(Originally published in VSANA, January 2026 - Link: https://www.vsana.org/ppp-44-jan-1--26)

Tanka 2 (Unpublished)

spring protest

chocolate flowers

in the guns

my boots started

to splosh

Barbara Anna Gaiardoni is an Italian pedagogist and author. Her Japanese-style poetry has been published in various magazines and translated into 12 languages. A winner of the 7th Basho International English Haiku Competition and a two-time Touchstone Award nominee (2023, 2024), she was recently named among the European Top 100 most creative haiku authors in 2025. Her work has consistently featured in The Mainichi’s "Best of" lists and received Honorable Mentions at the Fujisan Tanka Contest (2024, 2025).

Drawing, swimming in the sea, and walking in nature are her passions.

Friday, January 30, 2026: A Tribute to Renee Nicole Good: Poet, Mother, and Pacifist (part2)

2026-01-30T08:42:00.000-08:00

Morning after the latest atrocity

In mourning for Renee Nicole Good

The police are murdering people in their cars.

And it’s still a beautiful day.

The cops are kicking over memorials.

And I still feel the wind on my face.

The chants are getting louder,

I can almost hear them across the continent.

I squeeze my baby even closer.

When the bough breaks, the illusion drops.

The masked men show their teeth, their leer,

the hate in their eyes.

You thought this couldn’t happen in America.

It can happen anywhere.

And still, it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

My neighbors put packages on porches

as gifts for strangers.

Mr. Rogers taught me to be kind to everyone.

Even the scowling man with the racist flag

who looks at me sideways?

A local Nazi overdosed after

the Internet saw his face.

But I didn’t feel happy about it.

I’m not sure if there’s a peaceful way

to end things. When this country’s veins

are so thick with violence.

Still, it’s a beautiful day in my neighborhood.

And millions of protesters are on the march.

Because a woman was murdered

by federal thugs last night.

It’s a clear, crisp morning

with the sun shining bright.

My dog sniffs and pees, and his joy is mine.

Meanwhile, terrorists in uniform raid our streets.

And the birds chirp as always in the trees.

Amateur soldiers chug the poison of power,

getting off on the sick and twisted force

of oppression in their weapons.

A cat slinks around bushes

while ICE agents sow fear in combat gear.

There was a murder in cold blood yesterday,

a murder in broad daylight,

and the murderer is still able to enjoy

this beautiful day today

when she no longer can—

because a woman died yesterday

who was a wife, a poet, a mother,

whose six-year-old son

won’t have her cheek to kiss tonight,

and when he cries to know why

he will have to grow up without her,

well, then, the official lies begin

to swirl, they smoke, they shroud

the murderer in bile, the liars lie to themselves,

the television-newspaper-government lies

choke on their own bullets,

three to the head, in close range,

as she tried to escape, her spouse

screaming, blood on the seat,

and the circle of armed soldiers

yelling, pointing their guns,

on a beautiful cloudless day.

Nancy Lynée Woo is a poet, teaching artist, and community organizer in Long Beach, California. She is the author of I’d Rather Be Lightning (Gasher Press). IG: @fancifulnance

******

The Shocking, but Inevitable Death of Good

From his golden descent, he spewed forth hate—

Purveyor of simplicity most foul,

He sold society a false mandate.

Proud kids stood by for him, all cheek-to-jowl.

The fourth estate caved for the bottom line.

The sanctity of Congress was befouled.

A decade past we should have seen the signs.

Now, to masked thugs with guns, we all fall prey,

While from the muck, King Midas shapes his shrine.

Jackboots invade our cities every day,

And parents dare not send their children out,

While no one can muster the joy to play.

How long must we sit silent in time-out?

Our necks, compressed as their despotic knee

Suppresses the sounds of our mingled shout.

Cries of defiance or of the banshee—

Lamenting losses so beyond belief

While oligarchs coast through life carefree.

A people reel back, filled with disbelief,

As unlearned goons take lives they cannot lead—

Protestors gather in collective grief.

Words of peace unmanned police.

Mother, may he take your life with his fear?

Her gentle words—a whipcrack in the air.

Her gentle soul did not have a prayer,

But her senseless death shall be our spear.

“I’m not mad at you,” she declared to him,

Better woman than I shall ever be.

A future enforced by them shines but dim,

Yet like her, we must protest peacefully.

She blew a whistle at their guns, so brave.

But they come not to serve, but to enslave.

A match was struck upon a snowy street,

Anger at injustice begins to swell.

The bullets he fired become bombshells,

Everywhere, good people rise to their feet.

United, we resist the dark regime.

Whether opportunist or devotee,

So the shadows part to unveil their scheme,

Tyranny cannot force us to bended knee.

Like burning stars, we radiate with light

To rid our shores of their unstately blight.

And so the match she lit ignites the torch,

A beacon to all those who would be free.

Their time in power nothing but the scorch

Left after our return to liberty.

Hattie Quinn writes short fiction, narrative essays, and poetry. She's a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee. A multipotentialite, she currently works in broadcast media.

******

Haiku for Renée Good

Renée Good did not

come home yesterday. ICE killed

her. Join the protest.

Stephanie Barbé Hammer is an award winning poet, novelist and essayist who has been published in the Chiron Review, The RavensPerch, and Spillway among other places. Her most recent poetry collection is CITY SLICKER (Bamboo Dart Press). She lives in Santa Barbara with her husband, community organizer Larry Behrendt.

Friday, January 16, 2026: Four paintings by Farida Samer Khan

2026-01-16T08:14:00.000-08:00

Artist’s Note: This polyptych “Facets of the Feminine”; by Farida SamerKhan is an exploration of the multifaceted nature of femininity. Through the juxtaposition of seemingly disparate elements – a woman’s face, a panther, a jug, and a rose – I aim to reveal the complex, often contradictory aspects of the female experience.

The woman’s face represents the external self, while the panther embodies the untamed, instinctual forces that lie beneath the surface. The vase symbolizes containment and nurturing, whereas the rose represents beauty, vulnerability, and the cyclical nature of life.

Together, these panels form a nuanced portrait of womanhood, one that acknowledges the tensions between restraint and liberation, civility and wildness, and beauty and decay. By presenting these contradictions in a single, cohesive work, I invite the viewer to contemplate the rich, multifaceted nature of femininity.

Face

Panthere

Rose

Vase

Farida Samer Khan is a Canadian artist based in Toronto. The artist’s works are recognized by the strong representation of her artistic principles: colour theory and composition, and also by her ethnic and feminine identity. Her paintings were displayed in Arto Galleria, Gallea Art Gellery, Arts Etobicoke, Propeller Art Gallery and at many ethnic festivals and art exhibitions. Her artworks are in private collections in Toronto, Maple, Newmarket, Ottawa - Ontario; Montreal, Quebec; New York, NY, and Washington DC.

Friday, January 9, 2026: A Tribute to Renee Nicole Good: Poet, Mother, and Pacifist

2026-01-09T08:44:00.000-08:00

Icy Graveyard Blues

for Renee Nicole Good

It’s cold in Minnesota

They target practice face

It’s cold in Minnesota

ICE digs another grave

It’s cold across America

Ask any glove or coat

It’s cold in Minnesota

As only George Floyd knows.

LA native, UCLA graduate, California Arts Council Literary Fellow and Pushcart Poetry nominee, Pam was nominated as a 2024 “Trailblazing Poet” from LA Cultural Affairs. Her poetry book, Between Good Men & No Man At All, was released on World Stage Press and she’s penned essays and two novels Want Some Get Some, and Bad Girls Burn Slow, Kensington and is currently working on Banter, her second poetry anthology as well as a third novel, I’ll Get You Pretty, featuring her family’s role in the Black Dahlia Murder.

******

Holding Strong

She wrote with wings

In pauses between courage,

Turning the ordinary pain

of living into what could

be held strongly,

The world is a fragile voice

When it tells the truth,

Now her poems walk above

Into the stars of the night

In the sunshine of day

On earth every word survives

In spirit and please listen

To the earths calm tides

Where an angel still glides.

JoyAnne O'Donnell is an author of five poetry books on Goodreads and Amazon.Writes for good causes. Her latest poems are in The Galway Review and others.

******

Fermata

Renée married men twice, then a woman.

Might have called herself lesbian, or pansexual,

but for now, I’m claiming her as a Bi Poet.

Not that it mattered when bullets mashed

that beautiful brain: an end to words.

Sustained notes of details: car-door pocket

overflowing with stuffed animals. Her wife

Rebecca sobbing on the snow with the dog,

screaming for the doctor that ICE wouldn’t let

near her. Their move to Canada when Trump

was first elected, Rebecca crying that she

made Renée come back, it was her fault.

The swagger of her killer striding to the SUV

to leave the scene. The Air Force service

of the orphaned six-year-old’s dead father.

Slanders by puppy-killer and President.

Eulogies from Renée’;s mother, then her father,

dictated to reporters on the phone.

Her two older children’s voices are absent

from middle school and high school.

Rebecca doesn’t answer her cell.

Renée’s guitars strings are untouched.

Ghosts and Oceans is Steckel’s latest book. Her The Horizontal Poet won a Lambda Literary Award. Her books Like Flesh Covers Bone, Mixing Tracks, and The Underwater Hospital also won awards.

******

Ta Da

Dedicated to Nicole Good

let's see

what else?

emigrate

to the moon

Barbara Anna Gaiardoni, Italian author and pedagogist, is widely published in Japanese-style poetry. A Basho winner and Touchstone nominee, she draws inspiration from nature. Motto: "I can, I must, I want."

******

A Very Quick Reaction

Families are being separated. We all pay more for less. Different but equal groups are being forced to hate each other and blame each other. People are being trashed and persecuted for being who they are. Medicine and science are being destroyed. Nations are being violated and exploited. People are being insulted. An innocent woman, a poet, is killed by agents of fascism. What atrocity will it take for the takedown to happen? I know it goes against karma but why can't the perpetrator of all this horror meet his deserved punishment? I refuse to say his name. He tyrannizes us by daily acts of cruel stupidity that we have to notice so that we are supposed to say his name. May he drown in a lake of his own offal.May rationality and kindness triumph over stupidity and cruelty.

Lynne Bronstein is the author of Nasty Girls (Four Feathers Press) and four other books of poetry.

******

let the phoenix of hope rise again

we live in a country where

you can be shot in the face for

trying to protect your neighbors,

unarmed and driving away;

they can shoot you in the face

in front of your spouse

leaving your child without his mother—

nicole good, you deserved

so much better;

to write more poems and discover

more beauty in this tragic nightmare

of a world we live in because

there is still magic and there are still miracles—

but right now it is hard to hear the

voice of dreams,

so we must hold onto the ashes

of hope and watch until she becomes

a phoenix blazing through every nightmare again.

Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer. She has seventeen published chapbooks the latest being: only the future knows (Alien Buddha Press, November 2025).

******

Elegy to a Poet

Your voice. Silenced by a bullet

from the gun of a masked murderer.

You heart. Stopped by a bullet

from the gun of a masked murder.

Your love. Whisked away by a bullet

from the gun of a masked murderer.

The murderer praised by those supposed

to keep you safe.

In this upside-down world

you, poet, are smeared by lies.

You, mothers, are to be cut down.

You, lovers, to be reduced

to dry corn husks.

Wielding love and words

as dangerous weapons

will get you executed,

light snuffed out by the illiterate

in these times of cruelty and death.

A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels, eight poetry collections and one chapbook, her work has been widely published mostly by US poetry journals. A new full-length poetry collection is forthcoming in 2026. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

Monday, December 1, 2025: Al-Khemia Poetica Pushcart Prize Nominees

2025-12-01T15:16:00.000-08:00

This year’s Al-Khemia Poetica Pushcart Prize Best of the Small Press Nominees are:

Lorraine Caputo "An Andean Dawn" (poem)

Ann Huang’s"Aftermath" (poem)

Sarah Maclay’s "What the Trees Said" (poem)

Genie Nakano’s "Once and a While" (poem)

Jan Steckel’s "Kol Nidre"(poem)

Terry Wolverton’s "The moon showed up at my house this afternoon" (poem)

Good luck to you all, and congratulations!:)

Friday, October 31, 2025: Sarah Maclay's "What the Trees Said"

2025-10-31T10:06:00.000-07:00

What the Trees Said

(Melisande, Before He Sees Her, Weeping, by the Stream)

Sometimes speaking is not the right answer.

Too many deaths, big ones. And everyone rushing to claim

some scrap, to pull the dead over themselves to wear like a jacket

or sweater or robe—to claim them. How can they talk so fast?

Like people expect it.

How can they talk so soon?

Why not just feel it? For a long time. How can they talk?

No, sometimes speaking is not the right answer.

Still, there’s music. Crawling, curling, out of its iron crisscross cage

in the cocktail evening, crossing the open veranda and spilling

into the verdance of the late-light lawn and the swollen land-locked lakes

and the rush of trees at the base of the hill.

And that sound you hear is not a piano, no, but a sequence of diamonds—

hitting water, returning

from solid to original form

so quickly the notes

in runnels and spray

dissolve into longing and wavering

traces of shadow and reflected boughs—all reverberation

and swaying fingers and torsos

solemnly waltzing, immense

in needle-fetished, loosely armored

and gigantic limbs, this band of gathered

spruce grown rainward into spiraling,

many-handed tower-

beings changing the hand of time and the shape

of the air they move in, above the viridian pool

and the fountain spraying its jewels and the lily

surface of the statuary, weirdly still and dwarfed

below the choir of swaying trees

nodding and bowing and reaching as if this necessary wind

were only the long-expected accomplice—

the long-awaited accompanist—

heaven principle arriving to reveal form

as verb, which is their message:

Listen to the bruised heart

of your mother, whimpering in the distance.

Listen to your own.

Put down the crown. If there ever was a crown.

Place it in the water. Let the tiara turn back into tear

and let the glass re-liquefy, the rhinestones river themselves

into wavery mirror; the held and fastened facets of cut glass

spew into the air like the laughter of a chandelier

turned upside down, in circling arcs of wet light.

Let it all disappear.

Learn this word: Relinquish.

Your hair will feel like water. You’ll feel water

on your cheek.

Your waterhair a waterfall, anything you try to crystallize

will liquefy and fall just as these notes

coming through the windows of the music room, in the distance,

not that far from here, winding through the air beyond the Tudor harlequin patterns

of the panes that might have caged them, growing cool as day gives in to night

and as the ice windows melt into twilight

melting in twilight

and trees with blue leaves—

and as the tourmaline of evening deepens into a liquid obsidian

reflecting night, the nearly still surface will finally ripple

and the reflected arms and faces of the stone and stationary naiads

waking to the dark

will undulate

and move—

and as a cool allure of lunar pallor shivers over the pale pools

reflecting night:

If water can ripple,

gravity can ripple;

time can ripple

and rush.

She wanted to love.

She wanted to die.

She wanted to not remember.

She wanted to dip her hand in the holy fever.

Sarah Maclay’s newest releases are a chapbook, The H.D. Sequence—A Concordance ( Walton Well Press, 2024) and Nightfall Marginalia (What Books Press), a 2023 Foreword INDIES Finalist for Poetry, her fifth full-length collection. Her writing, supported by a Yaddo residency and a City of Los Angeles Individual Artist Fellowship, awarded the Tampa Review Prize for Poetry and a Pushcart Special Mention, has appeared in APR, FIELD, Ploughshares, The Writer’s Chronicle, The Best American Erotic Poems, Poetry International, where she was Book Review Editor for a decade, and elsewhere. She’s the producer/host of Poetry.LA’s “The Poetry of Night.” Website: https://www.sarahmaclay.com/

Friday, October 10, 2025: Terry Wolverton's " The moon showed up at my house this afternoon"

2025-10-10T07:15:00.000-07:00

The moon showed up at my house this afternoon

Isn’t it a little early, I asked when

I answered her knock. I didn’t want to wait,

she shrugged. She was so beautiful standing

there on the porch I could only invite her

in. I knew the neighbors would gossip, the news

would get back to my spouse, but she also loves

the moon and her main upset would be that she

wasn’t home to greet her too. My spouse works hard,

but devotedly follows the moon at night.

The moon squeezed her orb into my living room—

she’s bigger than she looks from far away—sat

next to a window so the afternoon light

could filter over her. She glowed. She faced half-

way away, so she appeared as a waxing

crescent. I offered her a cup of oolong

tea. She returned a musical laugh as if

my suggestion was charming but absurd:

After all, what do I have to offer the moon?

I longed to unburden my predicaments.

It felt like we were old friends, just catching up,

but of course, I’d never been this close to her,

inhaling the scent of night sky. And what could

my disconsolations mean to her, whose view

is so vast? Shy then, I stayed quiet, chiding

How stupid! The moon is sitting right beside

you, and your tongue is mush? As if she heard me,

she offered a kind wink, then began to hum.

Terry Wolverton is author of thirteen books of poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction,

including Embers, a novel in poems, and Insurgent Muse: art and life at the Woman’s

Building, a memoir. She has also edited sixteen literary compilations. Terry has received

a COLA Fellowship from the City of Los Angeles, a Publishing Triangle award for

nonfiction, and a Fellowship in Poetry from the California Arts Council, among other

honors. She is the founder of Writers At Work, a creative writing studio in Los Angeles,

and Affiliate Faculty in the MFA Writing Program at Antioch University Los Angeles.

http://terrywolverton.net

Saturday, September 27, 2025: Ann Tweedy's "Chimera"

2025-09-27T09:09:00.000-07:00

Chimera

Stryge flew when the cathedral lit up

electrical system flashing red at some unknown juncture

five thousand miles later, she landed on my shoulder

All the days since, cancer’s voraciousness.

Two feline littermates taken at 15—one beloved, the other

a difficult genius. Friends stricken, my father killed, my uncle

ailing. I know Stryge is to blame. Anger. Terror.

Who’s next? I don’t want to know. I do want to know.

I try to stem the tide. Not this one. Not that one. Not me.

Please, I beg. Please, please, please. Leave the last cat for us,

let him go some other way. Take a break, go to bed.

Rip Van Winkle finally caught up on this sleep.

Stryge sits on my shoulder, looks out

at my loved ones, my acquaintances--with an attitude of remove.

Her wings folded, her cheeks held up by delicate hands.

I hope to one day stop crying--find peace with the

endless onslaught. Stryge watches all my surroundings, head one head-length

above mine. She is heavy and light like all the other-worldly.

My shoulder droops, then rights itself.

first published in Issue 11 of PLEXUS (2023).

The Chimera (1867) by Gustave Moreau

Ann Tweedy’s first full-length book, The Body’s Alphabet (Headmistress Press), earned a Bisexual Book Award and was a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award. Ann also has published three chapbooks: Beleaguered Oases, White Out, and A Registry of Survival. Her poems have appeared in Rattle, Literary Mama, Naugatuck River Review, and many other places, and she has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes and five Best of the Net Awards. A law professor by day, Ann has devoted her career to serving Native Tribes. She teaches at University of South Dakota Knudson School of Law. Read more at www.anntweedy.com.

Friday, September 12, 2025: Genie Nakano's "Once and a While"

2025-09-12T07:59:00.000-07:00

Once and a While

it comes

once and a while

this morning

molecules moving in my ears

play the noise of silence

let the chin drop

the TMJ joint loosen

get gelatin soft

unfurl the spinal cord

the grass needs to be watered

once and a while

we can stop, hang up this world

be kind to ourselves r

rest, snooze, sleep

like dogs do when sick

once and a while

this white noise of silence

falls over the edge

of a flattened world

into a sea of maple syrup

once and a while

all the birds sleep till noon

the earth worms

move and till the earth

and the grass turns green again

"Princess Konohanasakuya", Domoto Insho, 1929.

Genie Nakano is an award winning poet, performer, photographer, Yoga and Zumba instructor. She was born in Boyle Heights, East Los Angeles, May 15, 1948. She is dancing into her elder years. She is a poet columnist for the Rafu Shimpo, an international newspaper, and has written three books of poetry. Writing tanka, is her passion, confession and joy.

Friday, August 8, 2025: Lorraine Caputo's "An Andean Dawn"

2025-08-08T15:29:00.000-07:00

An Andean Dawn

Golden & fuchsia

grow sunrise clouds

as our sun creates

this new day

as the sliver moon

& Venus fade

Wandering troubadour Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 500 journals on six continents; and 24 collections of poetry – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Santa Marta Ayres (Origami Poems Project, 2024). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. She is a Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada honoree (2011), and Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth.