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

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.

Friday, July 25, 2025: Jan Steckel's "Kol Nidre"

2025-07-25T07:37:00.000-07:00

Kol Nidre

My cantor cousin has a leaky valve

like one of those grand old cars

that cruise my neighborhood –

an old 1967 Ford Galaxie, say,

or a 1956 Thunderbird. He started to cough

black exhaust when he wanted to sing.

Show us the scrolls, the sound a sob.

The cantor creates no vault, no dome,

but desert where God hears sorrow surpassed.

Plainsong’s ancestor launches toward heaven

to pull God down, hits the world’s topography,

ricochets back, echo-locating each Jew’s heart

that hollers “Why?” The only answer: absolution.

My cantor cousin told me the brothel

across the alley from great-grandfather’s bar

had a Negro owner, but no Negroes

were allowed as clients.

The Polish whores wouldn’t sleep with them.

Show us the scrolls, let black smoke roll.

I feel my cousin’s voice in my chest.

The cantor’s opera-singing mother

(dead these many years) nods her approval.

Jan Steckel’s debut fiction collection Ghosts and Oceans came out from Zeitgeist

Press in 2023. Her poetry book The Horizontal Poet (Zeitgeist Press, 2011) won a

2012 Lambda Literary Award. Her poetry book Like Flesh Covers Bone (Zeitgeist

Press, 2018) won two Rainbow Awards. Her fiction chapbook Mixing Tracks

(Gertrude Press, 2009) and poetry chapbook The Underwater Hospital (Zeitgeist

Press, 2006) also won awards. Her creative prose and poetry have appeared in

Scholastic Magazine, Yale Medicine, Bellevue Literary Review, Canary, Assaracus and

elsewhere. She lives in Oakland, California.

Friday, July 11, 2025: Two Haiku by Barbara Anna Gaiardoni

2025-07-11T07:39:00.000-07:00

dog-day cicada a fence post

view of the sea and sunset an asterisk

(Haiku Girl Summer, Aug 03, 2024)

Barbara Anna Gaiardoni is among the winners of the 7th Basho - an international English Haiku Competition and has been nominated twice in the Touchstone Award 2023 and 2024,

She has been recognized in The Mainichi’s Haiku in English Best list for 2023 and 2024 and received an Honorable Mention at the Fujisan Tanka Contest 2024.

Her Japanese-style poetry has been published in 250 international magazines and translated into 12 languages.

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

"I can, I must, I want" is her motto.

http://barbaragaiardoni.altervista.org/blog/haikuco-2/

Friday, June 27, 2025: Ann Huang's "Aftermath"

2025-06-27T07:25:00.000-07:00

Aftermath

after Schubert’s Minuet in A Minor

Peace has maintained

You— someone so special
other-worldly, complacently
living out of a hope

You’ve endured many ordeals
for wearing off your devils
by the sitting bone
at dawn
de-franchising the blood cells
from slapping pains.

You’ve found joy
releasing want on earth
from your much-earned matriarch
fracturing bones
of eternal hooks

After a sage opens her window
a butterfly leaves her cocoon
outside limbo
She has obtained
the light of the high-light

Ann Huang is a poet, filmmaker, non-profit administrator, full-time frenchie parent, and part-time Traveling Show Manager for The Marin Poetry Center. Ann is making her seventh experimental film BRAZEN SAILS from Ann Huang Presents. She loves to stroll on the beach with her frenchie and practice reformation Pilates with her peers. Find out more about her work at AnnHuangPoetry.com and SaffronSplash.com.

Friday, June 13, 2025: Diana Rosen's "How to Write a Love Letter"

2025-06-13T07:36:00.000-07:00

how to write a love letter

it should singe leave an edge

blackened by fire not destroyed

not all ash its beautiful, inked

words proof of your passion

that fire in your body that slow

fire of desire deep wanting

quenched only by warm kisses

touch skin on skin relished or

savored consumed when if

you ever can meet again

Diana Rosen is a poet and flash writer whose hybrid book of poetry and flash, High Stakes & Expectations, was conceived, written, and published during the lockdown, no doubt to avoid laundry. She lives in Los Angeles where her "backyard" is the largest urban green space in the U.S., Griffith Park. She writes commercially about tea. Please visit her portfolio site, authory.com/dianarosen