Don’t Arrive Before You Get There by Deborah M. Prum

Photo of three ambiguous, differently colored shapes of people
 

My writing mantra used to be, Fine is good enough. I made sure whatever I sent out was the best it could be. However, I worked fulltime and was the primary caretaker for three children. When I finished a manuscript, I checked for issues, then hit “send” before anyone came down with croup, required a ride to music lessons, or needed four zillion forms signed. I never lingered at the finish line, which meant some manuscripts went out not quite fully polished. You’ve heard of the tyranny of the urgent? Those years, I happened to … Continue reading Don’t Arrive Before You Get There by Deborah M. Prum

On Writing A Condolence Letter by Trudy Hale

Photo of crows sitting atop a fence
 

I find it hard to write a condolence letter, not a note, but a letter. And three condolence letters wait for me. They sit like black crows on a fence, cawing, scolding. I delay, stall, guilt-gnawed and sometimes, I admit, never write the letter in time. Instead, I email or call. Not the same! My fear is that my condolence will be a minefield of cliches. I saved a letter from the Palliative Care Social Services counselor at the Motion Picture and Television Home sent after my husband died five years ago. I remembered it … Continue reading On Writing A Condolence Letter by Trudy Hale

Finding Isabella by Sharon Perkins Ackerman

Song thrush perched on branch
 

It is two weeks past Mother’s Day, late afternoon, when I see a doe on the neighboring pasture. Light slices across the grass from its peach horizon, nearly blinding. Around the fringes of haze, I see there is also a tiny fawn with noodle-like legs behind the doe, and a few feet away, the neighbor’s small bulldog bluff-barking the two of them. The doe does something that I’ve never seen her do before in her elegant tiptoe strolls—she lifts one leg and hooves the ground, then the other leg, same motion. Her head thrusts forward … Continue reading Finding Isabella by Sharon Perkins Ackerman

Space Junk by Claire Scott

black human silhouette against swirls of stars at night
 

……………………………………………..Collision risks are growing every year ……………………………………………..as the number of objects in orbit ……………………………………………..around Earth proliferate. ………………………………………………………………………—CNN How can prayers make it through 130 million pieces of space junk careening and colliding at 18,000 miles per hour in an orbital graveyard bits of broken satellites, the remains of booster rockets and wreckage from weapons tests As violence spreads like head lice more and more prayers swirl the skies jostling and jiggling to make it to heaven and petition the Lord please one night without sirens ………….wailing us awake let my daughter learn to walk ………….on … Continue reading Space Junk by Claire Scott

A Confession by Fred Wilbur

Photo of woods and blue ridge mountains
 

We usually consider mea culpas as good things, honest actions, purges of guilt, wiping clean the chalk smudged slates (to start again.) We want to regain a certain state of innocence, of internal peace. A sincere confession seems more purposeful than an everyday apology, a “sorry” which has become almost a place word in auto-fill conversations. So, what transgression(s) prompt me to spill my guts? Throughout my writing years, I have made notes on how I think poetry works (or doesn’t) along the lines of academic poets who write how-to books on how-to write poetry. … Continue reading A Confession by Fred Wilbur

It’s Not a Madeleine But by Rachel Lutwick Deaner

Photo of medeleine cookies lined up in two rows
 

I have always been sensitive to smells and tastes, but this was too much. On a four day getaway with my husband in NYC, the city of my girlhood, I sat down to a sesame bagel with scallion cream cheese. I took the first bite–soft, chewy, crispy, nutty,  creamy, tangy, sharp. I burst into tears. Covering my face with my hands, my sobs alternated with laughing. Shock. Shame. To be so flooded with memories at 9 a.m. on a Monday morning in midtown. Fresh bagels were the central experience of my childhood. At least once … Continue reading It’s Not a Madeleine But by Rachel Lutwick Deaner

Satellite Dream Dish and Blackberry Picking, 2 poems by Charles Mines

Photo of building with numerous satellite dishes sticking off it
 

Satellite Dream Dish Another dream where I’m in trouble for being naked.And the NSA is scoffing at my latest memoir, Songs for Getting Drunk in Your Room. I awake to find it unreal installed in this beautiful field with only four seasons, transmitting messages through space through substances stickier than the concept of God. And when I feel this way I want for my brethren in orbit to send down their fears and insecurities for a change. To set them against the thousands of images taken from a thousand miles away, parabolically schemed to confirm … Continue reading Satellite Dream Dish and Blackberry Picking, 2 poems by Charles Mines

Minimalist Photographs by Michael C. Roberts

Photo of dandelion fluff on stem
 

    Michael Roberts describes his delicately conceived photographs as “minimalist.” “Starting last fall,” Roberts remembers, “I wanted to capture the very basic forms and graceful structures I would perceive while hiking in the Sonoran Desert. Carefully composed images with certain lighting and reduced background lent themselves to minimalism in nature and without the intrusion of color that often supersaturates photographs today. I love the simple complexity of natural structures. The images focus on one’s own perceptions and interpretation. “I seek to portray things and scenes that are overlooked or are mere backdrops to everyday … Continue reading Minimalist Photographs by Michael C. Roberts

Now She Resembles James Dean by Eric Forsbergh

Picture of young woman sitting on middle line of road
 

  Do you notice anything? Her comment, laid down like a mark. Often I’m the kid caught napping in a class. But not today. She came home with his haircut, not the soft shoulder flow we found agreeable before. Suddenly, it’s swept-back sides, almost a crest on top. Not even a tight bounce as she walks. Did I forget some part of her? Should I not assume an always tender look? This hair could stare down the police. Always, always I support her choice of cut and clothes with brief remarks. But appreciation as an … Continue reading Now She Resembles James Dean by Eric Forsbergh

Ars Poetica by Trudy Hale

Photo of forsythia with green leaves and yellow flowers
 

The forsythia outside my window has given up the brilliant citrus yellow and is fading back to the sticky green leaves. I am trying to hold a dull panic at bay. My aim is to steady myself, my nerves. I do not want to doom scroll exhaustively, rants and laments of our country’s frightening descent into chaos. Look out your window, I tell myself. Write about the forsythia’s brave first burst that ushers in the redbuds’ purple halo. See the lime green of spring grass and tiny leaves. In Dostoevsky’s The Brothers’ Karamazov, Ivan, the … Continue reading Ars Poetica by Trudy Hale

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