Georgia O'Keeffe

I.
 
I wore my black dress. 
I opened your door, 
you were not home. 


II. 
 
I waited for you.
I looked out at the old tamarisk tree, 
the cottonwoods,
at your walking stick in the corner;
I thought I heard footsteps, 
I turned, but found only the wind. 
 
III. 
 
The herbs rested on your counter; 
the jar was labeled 1930. 
I paged through The Road to Shalimar
and pondered the woven fibres against your white wall; 
the fireplace, empty.
 
IV. 
 
I went outside to look for you there.
Past the white ram’s skull, 
the collection of rocks
and bones,
the green bowl.
I climbed the ladder, 
the sky was just as you like it, 
white wisps and blue; 
the paintbrushes, dry. 
 
V.
 
I opened the gate-
past the prickly pears, 
the cane cholla, the
sage brush;
down to the "White Place",
where I knelt and sifted the red sands, 
waiting, hoping, until-
the stars looked down, 
the coyote howled. 
 
VI. 
 
Alone, with nowhere to go, 
in my black dress
I waited, 
the bats darted, 
the owl swooshed, 
the moon came and went, 
still, I waited. Then
the lavender-crimson dawn woke
the desert mesas and whispered, 
in a still, small voice they whispered:
"Pederno.”
The sun rising, 
I ascended the 
flint mount--
and there, 
amongst the ochres, 
siennas and 
umbers, 
under the cerulean blue, 
 
I found you.
 
Joanna Wiggin 
 
Joanna Wiggin and her family currently live in Nairobi, Kenya where her husband teaches. She, in turn, gets to spend time falling in love with the people and beauty that is Kenya. While they miss the seasons of Minnesota terribly, they are grateful for the honor of calling Kenya home right now. Writing and art have always been part of her life and a way to understand the world. Georgia O'Keeffe’s art moves and inspires her. On her fortieth birthday, she made a pilgrimage to her home in Abiquiu, New Mexico, and was able to walk where she walked, stand in the spaces she lived and created in, and look up at the sky and out at the land she so loved. It was a sacred moment of time. 
 

​Little Garden All Around
  
Once airborne child, now grounded adult, I crave 
away-days, time 
 
apart
 
from the quotidian: tea from the usual tin, Post-it notes 
stuck to the edge of my desktop, pencil-revised 
poems in a corner of the floor.
The 24/7 sameness of my routine.
 
Like Matisse, I need to scissor
and draw
directly in the colour… 
create
a little garden all around me where I can walk.
 
So I cut
 
not from beige paper but brightly painted sheets:
five days alone
with poems, books, wine
on a patio surrounded by a tumble of magenta bougainvillea, 
startling white gardenias, 
giant birds of paradise with midnight bracts, ivory petals, 
green banana-like leaves, discover 
a new way
 
in old age
to flower.  
 
Judith Fox
 
Judith Fox is a finalist for the 2025 Bellevue Literary Review’s John & Eileen Allman’s Poetry Prize. Her chapbook, Between Verse and Chorus is a finalist for the 2024 Nine Syllables Press Chapbook Contest and semifinalist for the Wolfson Press Chapbook Prize. Her collection, Bridge to New Music is a semifinalist for the 2024 Longleaf Press Book Prize. Two of her poems are semifinalists in the 2024 Crab Creek Review Poetry Prize. Her poems appeared in Rattle, Poet Lore, Jabberwock Review and other journals. Her photographs are in the collections of six museums.

Figure at Night Guided by Phosphorescent Tracks of Snails
 
They roil around the sky as it darkens into night,
 
the figures, you know which ones—the martini glass,
which you realize full well is not a martini glass,
 
and will not offer you libation, the nonelephant
waiting for the twelve blind men of knowledge,
 
the wagon wheel rolling inexorably towards tomorrow,
a sickle moon slashing white across the sky.
 
The phosphorescent snails have lost their way. 
Black and orange fragment in battle.
 
What song does the bird of truth sing now? 
​
Ruth Bavetta

Ruth Bavetta’s poems have appeared in North American Review, Nimrod, Rattle, Slant, and many other journals and anthologies. She formerly taught Art History and Drawing at a community college. She loves the light on November afternoons, the music of Stravinsky, the smell of the ocean. She hates pretense, insincerity, and sauerkraut.

​Far in the Old Homesteader’s Field
  
the elk wake me. Cold morning, early fire. 
As if the world should be beautiful here, now, 
 
cloud bank portending not snow 
but the glaze of cow fences, my finger burn of cold.
 
Amid the world burning, amid this razing,
this moment’s abyss turns me back to naked trees in white sunlight.
 
How can I speak this in another way? 
Flute, piccolo, wild coyote din: other worldly
 
the elk blend into the dim fields, and I see them 
as I want: full racked, prow-necked, their breath like pillows 
 
of steam. And now, the heart pins itself to the snowy egrets 
I found in a morning river drifting long from here, 
 
all the darkness I spilled into the water still 
summer green with its snow of flotsam, the cottonwood 
 
calling out their abundance.
Do you hear them in the river light? 
 
Let there be gold in white feathers, let 
there be moments we wake up out of our silence, 
 
like now: the elk in song they teach us, the gully 
just below.

Kathryn Winograd
 
Kathryn Winograd is a happy retiree from forty years of teaching. A lifelong poet, and then essayist, and now, too, photographer, she wanders the banks of the South Platte River in Colorado and the meadows of the old 1800s homesteader, who once wagon-drove the milk of his cowherd up the road I walk on to the old Cripple Creek and Victor railroad along Phantom Canyon. She is the author of several poetry and creative nonfiction books. Her most recent book, This Visible Speaking: Catching Light Through The Camera’s Eye, (The Humble Essayist Press)  is a hybrid of poetry, prose, and photography

​Atrium
 
It is a coy game we play
glass and steel stretch to the sky
from a concrete foundation
a seduction with a skyline 
everyone succumbs. that is why we dot
the sidewalks with young trees, 
balance true nature with our creations,
the ying and yang, leaving blight
in the shadows to be gentrified
ducking stray bullets, is it
the strength of surviving or the luck
of position.  yellow taped wild 
neighborhoods or sculpture gardens
on the river. do the walled banks stand 
forever. corners vie for a raw dollar
while exchanges manipulate millions
here we are bending around reflections
a coi in a still pond. sinking our fears
for a moment but we can only contain
our fires for so long.  dragons await
embers burn into bigger flames

​Circumvent
 
We are tracks in the sand
to be blown away
or slapped by the tide
 
in this sloshing globe
it is strenuous to keep
our heads above water
 
we are water framed
in bone and flesh that thinks
we are permanent
 
history testifies otherwise
our time is barely
one letter on the page
 
the sun always ascends
you can hold hands
sit and watch
 
but you can never
out run. night
always comes
 
lets walk each other
home for another day
build castles of memories
 
before the storm surges
erode the dunes
& flood the streets
 
We can only float
for so long before
we are crab fodder

​Manhole Covers
 
Trying to keep
a lid on these streets
never works
 
water always collects
taxes at the lowest
recollections a bit blurry
 
blinded we drown
in worry looking to
regain focus
 
street lights are
constellations from
our own spirit animals
 
sometimes it takes
embracing a night sleep
to free our beasts
 
I know too many
fallen soldiers
erased by the buff
 
or waiting for kites
and I allow the everyday
to block the wind
 
forgive me, I
haven’t forgotten
I am searching for
 
the perfect line
to get us from A to be
swollen from the sting
 
we have gone square
escaped the skyline
rippling behind us
 

​Daydreaming 
 
It is all Dr. Strange
a hand spun portal
 
apparitions reveal
ghosts that were
 
always there
glaring as slant light
 
creek a prism
to see ourselves
 
easy to get lost 
on linear ideas
 
but we all circle
to where we started
 
have we ever broke
free from our water wombs
 
soaking in the sun’s
energy on mother earth
 
bridging the gap
only to realize
 
we know nothing
we are all green
 
don’t Ophilia
we will all be
 
one soon
live mad
 

Night Is on My Mind
 
Crazy Horse & Mickey’s
wide mouth bottles
spray paint fat caps
& markers
 
our attempt
To bring light
only sunk us deeper
into loneliness
 
so I rock darkness
as a cape dragged 
behind me, around me
when still, it hides me
 
my mutation is
I slip comfortably
quietly into the shadows
just beyond Streetlights
 
boom boxes, boom-bap
Aiwi walkmans with big
cupping headphones
cutting us off
 
from those that can’t
hear the thump of our
chest feeding us oxygen
head nods and affirmations
 
angels speak in
repeated refrains
even after the song
stops playing
 
backpacks, baggie clothes
collar polos like Grand
Pupa reel to reel
dimes of dirt weed
 
uniforms of stumbling
souls like me and you
tunnel vision drunk
tagging mailboxes
 
the bread crumbs 
of aerosol and ink
hoping to be seen
in the sunlight
 
row homes store fronts
small streets and alleyways
a Philly Stonehedge
waiting on the moonrise
 
standing in puddles
of survivors guilt
splashes drowning
smirks and grins

Gary Fox
 
Originally from Philadelphia, Gary Fox currently resides on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. He went from a neighbourhood kid writing graffiti, to a hip-hop producer, and now he is a retail manager, father and husband. He draws in influences from graffiti writers Seen, Donde, and Stephen Powers to classic artists like John Willliam Waterhouse and J.M.W. Turner, and Monet. He has published poems in The Shore, Cathexis Northwest Press, and The Broadkill Review and has a B.A. in English and a certificate in creative writing from The Pennsylvania State University as well as doing the Arts and Humanities Program at The University of Manchester.

There Is Only Here (My Mother Thinks of Diebenkorn in San Francisco)
 
I, I thought, yes, I. And turned to the windows at dusk, so different from
the void they tell you it will be, the windows’ leaded glass pulling blades 
 
of Bay light deep inside themselves, almost like holy communion or 
the warmth of wine filling the glove of the throat like a toast. I always 
 
wondered why antebellum homes shrouded their mirrors in black gauze
upon the death of a beloved. It nearly startled me back from a dead sleep 
 
the first time I looked into a mirror and saw absolutely nothing, not even 
the thinnest cigarette slip of my face, me, repackaged into seamless 
 
energy blazing invisibly in the rooms where I last lived, only the dog
thwacking his tail on the door to greet me. My daughter. My only 
 
daughter is sitting on the edge of a bed as my hand strokes her back as
my lips kiss her hair. She collects the fenestrations of the night, rolls 
 
them into the blue ball of the living, asks, Where are you? Where, here,
looking South from the windows at dusk, the world spills itself open 
 
like a Diebenkorn bedecked in planes of light.   
 
Valarie Hastings 
 
Valarie Hastings is the 2020 winner of the Steve Kowit Poetry Prize, finalist for the 2023 Laura Boss prize, and recipient of an Honorable Mention for the 2020 Allen Ginsberg Award. She has published her poetry in more than a dozen literary journals including Innisfree, Gyroscope, and Literary Mama.  Her first collection of poetry, Searching for Dandelion Greens, came out in 2021, with Garden Oak Press. She currently serves as Director of Judges for the Steve Kowit Poetry Prize.

​Handle with Care
  
Beauty’s a brute, and breaks
             all that is made to last--
trees, dust, fields fretting their long grasses,
            wild water which wants to drown
 
in its own amplitude, the wind in its cups,
            vaunting its formless voice,
and all the fires the mind conjures
            not quite enough to quit these thoughts.
 
Underneath, the creak and squeak
            of small creatures scurrying
along their paths. Above, wings shimmer
            in summer sun,
 
on the ground, a peacock preens his quills,
            screeches his amorous song--
if there were no peacocks, would we miss this shriek,
            try to re-imagine such a being?
 
Can we imagine a world without birds?
            Recalcitrant bees?
Could we configure a space of luminous silence
            where you and I would meet?
 
Woman, silk, dolls, fields and flowers all crack,
            manifest in space, time seems to bend,
Before and After
twist in a strange embrace.
 
I once was a girl, she mutters, 
            and danced through the rapture of night,
the chariot of dawn came down for my dark eyes
            and bruised lips.
 
Be gentle with the past--
            it comes back,
roots in the present,
            taunts the desperate light.

Shaheen Dil
 
Shaheen Dil was born in Bangladesh and lives in Pittsburgh. Her poems have been widely published in literary journals and anthologies, nominated for the Pushcart Prize, won two honourable mentions in Passager Poetry Contests, and one was short-listed for the 49th Parallel Award in Poetry (Bellingham Review). Dil has published three full-length collections of poetry: Acts of Deference (Fakel), The Boat-maker’s Art (Kelsay Books), and Letters to My Younger Self (Gyroscope Press). She holds a BA from Vassar College, a master’s degree from Johns Hopkins University, and a Ph.D. from Princeton University. Additional information is available on her website: https://shaheendil.com. 

In The Artist’s Hands

Today he’s not holding his briefcase, its brown leather cracked and puckering. Not holding his bus pass for the driver to check before he trudges down the aisle and slumps against the seat, where he will read until he is deposited downtown. Not holding the elevator for the new secretary so they can ascend the gleaming tower together. Not holding his liquor during another long lunch. Not holding his calls while he indulges in a little office slap and tickle, or better yet, an afternoon assignation at a nearby hotel. 

No, not today. Today his right hand holds a long-neglected paintbrush. In his left is a photograph of this introverted child, ever more remote, but still tender with her pet. She’s got that awful haircut his wife likes, keeps calling it a Dorothy Hamill, but it’s basically a bowl cut. The kid wants to grow her hair, let her grow it out. But that’s his ever-widening wife’s domain. Like his domain is the briefcase and the bus and the office. Downtown.

But not today. Today he is at home in his den, where he holds the photograph up to the light and inspects it in all its peculiarity. Looks like the kid is kissing the bunny, or vice versa. But he knows this outdoor rabbit, racer of coyotes, is just accepting a piece of carrot from his daughter’s mouth. 

He dabs the tempera on the canvas, surveys his progress. He can’t get the girl’s arm and shoulder right; they’re awkward in the photo but absolutely alien on the canvas. The arm appears dislocated, maybe broken. It reminds him of that time when he...well, that’s best forgotten. 

He looks at the clock: cocktail hour. He swizzles his paintbrush in a cup of water. Clean enough. Maybe he’ll try again tomorrow. Maybe it’s not too late to fix this.

Tracy Royce

Tracy Royce is a poet and writer whose words have appeared in / are forthcoming in 100 Word Story, Five Minutes, The Mackinaw, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and elsewhere. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys hiking in the region’s many mountains, playing board games, and obsessing over Richard Widmark movies. You can find her on Bluesky. ​

Rescuing Bare Twigs

Small twigs—finger-like
on a thin maple branch
poke out
beckoning me
from the snowbank
I made by
shoveling our sidewalk
this morning.
 
What tree spirit
have I consigned
to that cold, cold place?
The twigs seem to move
plead for help.
 
I extricate
these fragile bits
of tree blown down
by the snowstorm’s wind,
then buried by me.
 
Once inside, I arrange
these two slim, elegant pieces,
in a vase on a sunny 
windowsill. It’s not likely
even sun and warmth will
be enough to sprout the leaf
buds lines I spot along
the twigs, but at least 
they know I appreciate
all their beauty --
bent bare branch and 
its fine, elegant twig fingers.
 
Joan Leotta

Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. She’s been published as essayist, poet, short story writer, novelist, and is a nominee for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her poetry, essays, and stories have appeared in many journals in the US and abroad, including Lothlorien, One Art, Gargoyle, Verse Virtual, and Storyteller Poetry. She performs folktale programs most often highlighting her heritage, food, family, and strong women, and offers the one-woman show, “Meet Louisa May Alcott, Author, Nurse and Writer.” 

Spirit of God  
 
Voices awaken, gathering 
from spaces of expanding light.
 
Morning light washes over the air 
and sunrays enter through furls of white fabric. 
 
A quiet wind cools the room. 
 
Particles of light sketch shapes in the air,
fine threads of radiance weave your figure.
 
Your eyelids half-open, half-closed,
pupils gleaming like glass eyes in a doll, 
 
Creases in the corner of your eyes,
wrinkles at the edges of your mouth.
 
Your face is complete, nothing is missing.
 
Shadows of gray leaves cast on bright drapes
in hues of fine cream hiding from the harsh sun.
 
Mom, you lie on the carpet in your room.  
Your body wrapped in the thin purple Nightgown
you so loved to wear. 
 
Your hands rest on your belly. 
Your long fingers reveal the aristocratic origins that denied your existence.   
Fingers faintly swollen, always swollen, ruddy, wide and strong,  
the hands of a hardworking labourer. 
You spread them out before me,
proof of your existence.  
 
They will move no more.
They will no more take pride in their work.
 
Your mouth is slightly open
as if halted mid-motion - 
Perhaps you had something more to say.
 
Your lips are blue cracked and dry -
Perhaps you got out of bed to moisten them 
In the middle of the night.
 
You’re beautiful, Mom. You’re beautiful.   
I hold your cold hands, I stroke your long fingers,
thick and weary, your gleaming forehead,
your fine hair pulled back.
 
And once more the leaves whisper:
 
This is the spirit of God blowing  
This is the spirit of God hovering
Over the face of the deep.
 
Michal Perry

Translated by Joanna Chen.
 
Artist's note: I began painting the portrait, Mother Sitting on the Green Sofa, while my mother was still alive; she passed away in late 2019. The painting, as a testament to her presence, set against the poem in which she surfaces in memory—alive/dead—creates a link between memory, form, and words.

​Michal Perry is a poet, writer, painter, and multidisciplinary artist, born in Jerusalem.  Michal was awarded an Honorable Mention in the prestigious Haaretz Newspaper's Short Story Competition 2025 (Israel). Her poems have appeared in leading journals and she has three poetry collections in Hebrew: Like Waking up From A Dream to A Dream (Emeda Publishing House), Lost Space of Time (Ktav Publishing House), and Between Light and Light (Argaman-Meitav). Michal Perry was manager and curator of the Klarfeld Perry Gallery. In addition, she presented solo exhibitions and participated in international group exhibitions in the US and Europe. www.michalperry.com