Featured Poem

The poems appearing below were recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize. 

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Late Night

Craig Kirchner

Insomnia and I decide to get up

and check out some late-night TV.

It’s a mutual decision, but he gets credit for the idea.

I’m going to have a coffee, hazelnut,

and he’s down with the 12-year-old bourbon, neat.

He just couldn’t get comfortable,

and I was struggling with the bad knees.

He tells me I should get them replaced,

compares them to the week-old bread on the counter,

and the dishwasher that just went up.

We very seldom see eye to eye,

perhaps because he’s often hard to look at.

I wanted to watch a Ken Burns documentary,

he’s pushing for a Soprano’s binge,

something that could keep us up for days.

I beat him at Gin, but I think he lets me.

He loves when we think of something to write about,

always suggests we scribble, then rewrite.

He never seems to have any ideas or input,

says it’s not his job to interfere.

When we lay back down, he gets creative,

We need to discuss the big moments,

relive the details as best we can,

and he justifies that strategy by explaining,

We’ve been here for over 40 million moments.

When we’re ready to call it a day,

we need to play those top two dozen oldies,

keep putting quarters in the juke until

we get through all the greatest hits,

start with that blonde in the eighth grade.

When up, I need to start getting him to help out.

If he can’t suggest a line or a metaphor,

he could empty that new dishwasher he’s impressed with,

do a load of laundry. If I could talk him into walking the dog,

I might be able to get back to sleep.

Originally appeared in Glacial Hills Review, 2024.

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Night Riders

Carol Hamilton

There is something mad

about a rocking horse.

My children's had slick plastic

and thick springs that sent them

flying over dream fields, away,

away from our haunted Ohio house

even as I read D. H. Lawrence's

short story of doom beneath them.

On and on they went …soon discovered

 that the distance never shortened

despite all their hard riding.

That red shingled house set in the woods,

a Sears Roebuck prefabricated home

from 1910, that house creaked

at the stairway's landing,

 never quite put together right.

I loved it despite all of its sorrows.

We left that house and the horse

behind forever. We rode far enough,

fast enough, hard enough to escape

at last the voices there

that would not be stilled.

Originally appeared in Coneflower Cafe 2024.

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Sister                                                                                                      

Jane Richards      

Anne could knit one heck of a sweater,

pink and purple and teal zig-zags,

a little loose at the neckline;

I own it now,

don it on the coldest days.

I can almost sense her fingers in the weave,

the warm imprint of her body.

There are so few photos of her,

no grave to visit, no urn of ashes,

nor tree planted in her honor,

no memorial service pamphlet--

she wanted none of that.

Instead, she is knitted into my life,

her gifts appearing with regularity:

the butterfly pin from Mexico,

a stained recipe for jelly tots,

the commercial grade measuring spoons,

her advice to avoid buying

those dowdy print dresses.

Her loss defies convention,

refuses to sit in its seat,

stay in the cupboard,

be silent.

So like her.

Originally appeared in Coneflower Cafe 2024.

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What We Leave Behind

Nancy Haskett

After we’re gone

there will be baskets of rocks

collected from rivers and shores

across years of travels

unidentified keys

that hang in a closet under the stairs

or hide among mismatched earrings

in a wooden jewelry box,

collections of photos

with people and places

our children won’t recognize,

but they will look through some of them,

and our daughter will say,

I remember that dress!

and our son will say,

I learned how to drive a stick shift in that car,

and they will keep just a few

that mean something to them

go through our shoes and clothes,

try on several things,

put some aside for the grandchildren

who have other things to do that day

besides cleaning out the house

but there will be a moment

when they open a kitchen cupboard,

or pull out a drawer,

and some small, insignificant thing

will overwhelm with memories,

and they will laugh

before they start to cry.

Originally appeared in Coneflower Cafe 2024.