As has been our custom for several years running, the theme for the 2026 Winter Muses’ Gallery is poet's (and artist's) choice. No particular theme or form required, Highland Park Poetry asked poets to their best work.
Poems require readers. What connections emerge in your mind?
Many thanks to all of the poets who honored us by sharing their writing. Scroll to the very bottom of this page to meet all of the poets and artists participating in this issue.
Enjoy!Jennifer Dotson Highland Park Poetry Founder & Editor-in-Chief
Enjoy!Jennifer Dotson Highland Park Poetry Founder & Editor-in-Chief
Monica Cardestam, Photographer
The Water Speaks, a persona poem by Emily Calvo
Chicago, Illinois
Too much. Too little. You distill us. Dam us. Harness us for powerbut we are shapeshifters.
Drops carve gorges. Fog blinds you. Ice freezes you.Snow buries you. Waves tumble your biggest ships. Or we lie passive in a glass. We are above you creating clouds that rain and deep in oceans’ abyss feeding creatures you cannot name. While we shower you clean,hydrate your plants,You make us murky with plastics, oil spills.
You too, are a body of water. You—lungs, blood, tears—hold us. You need us. The difference? We do not need you.
Drops carve gorges. Fog blinds you. Ice freezes you.Snow buries you. Waves tumble your biggest ships. Or we lie passive in a glass. We are above you creating clouds that rain and deep in oceans’ abyss feeding creatures you cannot name. While we shower you clean,hydrate your plants,You make us murky with plastics, oil spills.
You too, are a body of water. You—lungs, blood, tears—hold us. You need us. The difference? We do not need you.
tanka by Charlotte Digregorio
Winnetka, Illinois
after standing stillwith my footprints sinkinginto soggy sandi walk away from the sealeaving no trace of myself
A Harsh Teacher by Linette Rabsatt
U.S. Virgin Islands
my thoughts comparefrostbite and sunburnand I don’t knowwhich one is worsenone are welcomedor celebratedbecause it meansone has shiftedto conditionsbeyond whatthe human bodycan endureand the simple cureis to find safe shelterwarmth from the frostbitecooling for the sunburnbut knowing your limitis the most importantlesson one learnswhen the weatherbecomes a painful teacher
Residuals by Patrick Allen Wright
Silsbee, Texas
No more sharp rocks,just gravel nowto mark the trail—
in snowmelt streams,the rounded stones—
backwater bogs,an acrid ooze—
and on a beach,flat sands to greet the waves.
in snowmelt streams,the rounded stones—
backwater bogs,an acrid ooze—
and on a beach,flat sands to greet the waves.
Bradley Bridge in January by Helen Oneal, Photographer
Winter Pastoral by Michael Escoubas
Bloomington, Illinois
There is a soft crushof snowunderfootair is light and crisp.Nature's breathbarely movesburgundy leavesclingingto brancheslately swept by wind. This cold airis alive, freshening life—water flows beneath thin icesky, bold and bluepierces something deepinside, something enduring—blue water, blue skyand barren trees . . . whisperinklings of lifeflowing under the bridge . . .biding time to rise again.
First Snow by Arlene Gay Levine
New York
From the warmth of our kitchen tablewe watch the whirling crystalsand wordlessly wish for happier timesThis night before Christmas Eveboth our old scars ache from the coldremembered and recent sorrowsthat would keep our heartsfrozen, fearful, gazing outsideat what looks like another troubleto stew over when our potis already full
Still I can’t help but noticethe ascending spiral of white caught in the street lamp glow,the way these feathery flakeshave settled on the branchesof the six-foot fir, the one you savedfrom a cutting infested with bugsparading in its red-foil wrapped potas a Christmas tree so many years ago,can’t help but heed the lightas our eyes meet, here, inside,where we live
Still I can’t help but noticethe ascending spiral of white caught in the street lamp glow,the way these feathery flakeshave settled on the branchesof the six-foot fir, the one you savedfrom a cutting infested with bugsparading in its red-foil wrapped potas a Christmas tree so many years ago,can’t help but heed the lightas our eyes meet, here, inside,where we live
sticks optimistick by Jen Meyer
Highland Park, Illinois
they emerge from the ground October eager standing sentinel along sidewalks narrowing my porcupine path as I go with my dog weaving, the leash catching the sticks, snapping back
optimisticks await snow’s arrival tall orange a white stripe or twonear the top, crossing guards for blowers and plows, never needed for shovelers, they find their edge with a bump
divination rods for drifts that don’t appear as days advance with mere dustings, an inch here, a flurry there, their positivity starts to wane, the optimisticks lean fretful into the path
an impossible limbo for all but the snow, at angles acute or obtuse, they break, splintered at the basestruggle to stand straight the ground brown surrounds
white stuff stays awayit doesn’t seem snow will ever arrive with the gustoit once had, and I tell them, hang in there optimisticksthe snow will fall again
*these sticks are also known as fiberglass reflective snow stakes or driveway markers or snow markers and come in packs of 20 or 40.
optimisticks await snow’s arrival tall orange a white stripe or twonear the top, crossing guards for blowers and plows, never needed for shovelers, they find their edge with a bump
divination rods for drifts that don’t appear as days advance with mere dustings, an inch here, a flurry there, their positivity starts to wane, the optimisticks lean fretful into the path
an impossible limbo for all but the snow, at angles acute or obtuse, they break, splintered at the basestruggle to stand straight the ground brown surrounds
white stuff stays awayit doesn’t seem snow will ever arrive with the gustoit once had, and I tell them, hang in there optimisticksthe snow will fall again
*these sticks are also known as fiberglass reflective snow stakes or driveway markers or snow markers and come in packs of 20 or 40.
Snow Fort
by David J. Rogers
Highland Park, Illinois
As a boyI built a snow fortIn my yard Working all dayWhile others played,And hosed it downSo it would freezeIn the frigid December Night air. I was proud. It was a sturdy structure--So beautiful, I thought,But not sturdy enoughTo endure for longI suppose because When I went out to admire itIn the morningThe fort was shatteredInto a hundred pieces,By whom I would never know. I wondered and often haveWhy someoneWould be so cruelAs to destroyA snow fort like mine,And I never built another.
Norwegian Rosemaling by Barbara Wolter, Photographer
Journey Home by Jim Hanson
Collinsville, Illinois
The town of his birth aged with himand his dim dreams of relentless hopesstill to find a future for his pastof people going backwarddown roads leading nowhere
so he traveled east up the highwayto a city of opportunity– college degree, resume, career, and rented rooms and anonymity passing voices slurred, faces blurred
and when talking to first name people he began to whisper to himself – leave this noisy place whereeveryone belongs somewhere elseand go back where you belong
so he traveled west down the highwayhome to the past of his futurewith bright dreams of renewed hopesto be with people having last names and faces in high school yearbooks.
so he traveled east up the highwayto a city of opportunity– college degree, resume, career, and rented rooms and anonymity passing voices slurred, faces blurred
and when talking to first name people he began to whisper to himself – leave this noisy place whereeveryone belongs somewhere elseand go back where you belong
so he traveled west down the highwayhome to the past of his futurewith bright dreams of renewed hopesto be with people having last names and faces in high school yearbooks.
Ode to Rosemaling by Jan Chronister
Albany, Georgia
Praise to the dispossessed artistspainting flowers, vines, scrolls,accenting edges with innocent dots.They travelled Norway, decorated churches,cupboards, plates. Accepted room and boardinstead of pay. Praise to the resisters
during Nazi occupation who hidHaakon’s royal cypher in the centerof blossoms and swirls. In winter
I walk a white landscape, recall forgotten colors, return home,spot a rosemaled box my father left me. His stubbornness, his stoic faithemanate from curled leaves,plump teardrops. Praise topaint and brush and woodthat keep our dreams alive.
--- First appeared in Peacock Journal, 2018
during Nazi occupation who hidHaakon’s royal cypher in the centerof blossoms and swirls. In winter
I walk a white landscape, recall forgotten colors, return home,spot a rosemaled box my father left me. His stubbornness, his stoic faithemanate from curled leaves,plump teardrops. Praise topaint and brush and woodthat keep our dreams alive.
--- First appeared in Peacock Journal, 2018
Wardrobe Change by Marjorie Rissman
Highland Park, Illinois
From summer green to reds, goldsand browns, we witnessnature’s wardrobe changebefore white becomes the color of the day, color of the landscapesky above.
Red Maple Arches
by Wilson F. Engel, III
Beachwood, Ohio
red maple archesshed leaves as mice burrow deepblack mulch masks frenzy.garden porch flowerssport their last blossoms, long sincehummingbirds have flown.Chinese dogwoods and Japanese snowballs are past their primes this season.children love chill air,practice ball games for ardenttalent scouts seeking.excited for gamespeople count down days, revel,each fan an expert.deer love chopped pumpkins,distant skunk smells fill the aircrabapples ripen.
Monica Cardestam, Photographer
a cardigan life by jacob erin-cilberto
Carbondale, Illinois
there is newnessto my oldnesslearning about ageas it knits a sweaterof wrinkled fabrickeeps me warm with memorable thoughtshas stitching unfamiliarfits snugly in placesbut too loosely in othersscares me when I remove itand chilland really scares me whenI realize I cannot functionin the cold of latter lifewithout it.
fall leaves haiku by Monica Cardestam
Lake Forest, Illinois
Wind rustles, leaves dropFall reminds us how lovelyIt is to let go
Saturday Chores on Greenbrier Road By Carol Parris Krauss
Portsmouth, Virginia
My mother will tell you. And my grandmother, too. To cleanhardwood floors properly, you must get down on your hands and knees and talk to them. You must counsel the gougein the living room, you need to comfort the water stainby the back door. Gently coax and whisper out the flour, sugar,and holiday crumbs near the bottom edges of the oven.You need to soap, scrub, and oil these 82-year-old planks.Each slab of timber will listen to you. Each tongue, groove, and peg will hear your psalm of work on this cool winter morning. It will take hours to complete this ritual, and you will feelthe aches in your hips, knees, and wrists tomorrow. Your body will talk to you. The language of yourhardwood floors.
good at any age By Carl "Papa" Palmer
University Place, Washington
so what do you saywanna give it a try
remember the last time you did itme either
we’ll start out slow and easybe patient and understanding
no use rushing right into itwe don’t need to keep score
nothing to proveI’m sure it won’t be anything
to write home about or tella close friend probably best to
keep it secret it’s reallyno one’s business
how well we bowl
remember the last time you did itme either
we’ll start out slow and easybe patient and understanding
no use rushing right into itwe don’t need to keep score
nothing to proveI’m sure it won’t be anything
to write home about or tella close friend probably best to
keep it secret it’s reallyno one’s business
how well we bowl
"Jynx the Jungle Cat" by Jennifer Dotson, Photographer
Slow Down by Khalid Mukthar
Northern Illinois
you've been thinking quite a lotnow you're positive you got itthen your brain cells pawned a trinketand you sadly went and bought it
see with thinking you can’t focuson the payoff or the hoursit’s a passage through a foreststop awhile to smell the flowers
see with thinking you can’t focuson the payoff or the hoursit’s a passage through a foreststop awhile to smell the flowers
The Slugs
by Pamelyn Casto
De Cordova, Texas
At my feet drudge three small slugswriting their damp plump bodies, their gleaming visceral sentences,as they skate on their fine edge of the world. They gaum out a tangled calligraphy of where they have been-- damp curlicues of confused directions,false starts, beginning again then sliding in new directionscreating moist plaits and knotslinks, ellipses, and lacunasThe tiny rotund slugs, in the damp corpulence of unexpressed ideasare the Word made plump fleshskating and flourishing the rough surface of grey cement-- They leave behind tiny time linesgleaming in the morning sun like a pedestrian and radiantsilver, not golden, Book of Kells.
---1st Place winner of the Susan Daubenspeck Prize, 2014
I Knew Again We Were Forever by Carol L. Gloor
Savanna, Illinois
after we turn the house upside downsearching for our black cat,we sweep outside with flashlightsand endless here kitties,then hold each other in silence imaginingcoyote, fox, bobcat,all that devours.We hold each other sleeplessin this the sixtieth year of our marriage madefrom stars, mountains,valleys filled with gnarled treesthat bear bitter fruit.I drift off at fourand at six you wake mewith I found her safein the bushes, get some rest.
In English We Say by Julie Isaacson
Santa Barbara, California
In English we sayObservant
In Poetry we sayon the park bench overlooking the sea,I feel the paint which bears a messageas though in Braillecalling out, sayingSit with me awhile
In English we sayGratitude
In Poetry we sayevery cell in my soulfeels the essence beyond the senses that breathes love into usseeinghearingabsorbingand caring forall we can touch
In English we sayDivine
In Poetry we saythe greatest gifts bestowconnectioncommunicationconsummationthat tell us we are wholly perfectholyperfect
--- Poem first appeared in East on Central, Volume 24, 2025-2026
In Poetry we sayon the park bench overlooking the sea,I feel the paint which bears a messageas though in Braillecalling out, sayingSit with me awhile
In English we sayGratitude
In Poetry we sayevery cell in my soulfeels the essence beyond the senses that breathes love into usseeinghearingabsorbingand caring forall we can touch
In English we sayDivine
In Poetry we saythe greatest gifts bestowconnectioncommunicationconsummationthat tell us we are wholly perfectholyperfect
--- Poem first appeared in East on Central, Volume 24, 2025-2026
"The Black Cat" by Carol L. Gloor, Photographer
Resilience by Sarah E. Royer-Stoll
Duluth, Minnesota
Wholehearted leaning inGazing up, and moving aheadThis can look like many things
But most of all, I think of the crocusSign of spring's valiant arrivalTimely and trustworthy
Its cupped, delicate blossomPeeking up to the dayOpen air with open petals and open heartWholly committed, no matter where it has rooted
Whether pristine gardenOutside its stately home Where fire's flicker warmly welcomesOr the city's filthy curbside
Bursting its fierce and vibrant violetThrough violent groundAmong tossed condoms and used needlesDetermination the factor, and not the setting
It is the knowing beyond the knowingThat we are worthy of fighting to thriveWherever we are
And it is the hope beyond the hopeThat we can journey forwardWhen our landing no longer holds us
Wholehearted leaning inGazing up, and moving aheadThis can look like many things
But most of all, I think of the crocusSign of spring's valiant arrivalTimely and trustworthy
Its cupped, delicate blossomPeeking up to the dayOpen air with open petals and open heartWholly committed, no matter where it has rooted
Whether pristine gardenOutside its stately home Where fire's flicker warmly welcomesOr the city's filthy curbside
Bursting its fierce and vibrant violetThrough violent groundAmong tossed condoms and used needlesDetermination the factor, and not the setting
It is the knowing beyond the knowingThat we are worthy of fighting to thriveWherever we are
And it is the hope beyond the hopeThat we can journey forwardWhen our landing no longer holds us
Flight by Elizabeth Marino
Chicago, Illinois
Did you run before you walked?
Toddler grin snaps openBefore she discovers flight.
Mira! Mira! Look!The chair – as if across an ocean.
Crumpled eyes as she waversThen the excited cries land
Doubt against doubtThen a moment of risk.
They will tell her laterAbout the timeShe first took flight.
Toddler grin snaps openBefore she discovers flight.
Mira! Mira! Look!The chair – as if across an ocean.
Crumpled eyes as she waversThen the excited cries land
Doubt against doubtThen a moment of risk.
They will tell her laterAbout the timeShe first took flight.
Wave Mail by Tricia Knoll
Williston, Vermont
In 1990 some 90,000 Nike shoes fell into the northern Pacific when a spring storm off Alaska tossed several containers from a cargo ship. Shoes float – and wave mail rolled those shoes onto beaches in Oregon, Washington and British Columbia for months. Beachcombers picked up rights with no lefts or vice versa and advertised to find matches. Over time sneakers made their way to Hawaii and Japan, sailing the ocean’s carrier routes. For me wave mail began with the backbeat of my mother’s blood-pulse in utero. Variations of throb and thrum. I knew I was destined to be alone. My father who had worked as a lifeguard in college taught me to swim by tossing me into Lake Michigan’s tumble-roll. Flotsam choice – learn to kick. In my twenties I draped a stinky fishnet over a bikini for a day at a beach on Long Island Sound, a net cast up in white caps of surf-churn. By sunset around a bonfire, I modeled as mermaid. Later at Lake Beautiful on Vancouver Island I looked in the flat mirror of alpine water. My work then had so little to do with poetry. I began to write a novel about three wise women and a sasquatch surviving a pandemic. Much later, on a northern Oregon beach, I found two unmatched red swoosh-shoes and carried them home through mist below foghorns and a lighthouse. I kicked seafoam. Now I live near where military sonar causes dolphins to strand and whales shift refrains to refresh love songs. Spume here is tainted with farm waste. Think Keats’ name writ on water, obit’s finger in the wave mail.
Monty The Havanese by Mark Hammerschick
Dogs by Mark Hammerschick
Naples, Florida
Always make time for your doghe is only a few years of your lifebut to him you are his whole life.Eyes that have no depthfur that feels like silkand those goofy earsthat can hear eternity.How they sniff and sniff and sniffable to smell a million timesmore sensitivethan our own noses.Foragers, hunters, scroungersmuzzling the musty leavesin this October yardlost in layers of maple leavesmoss, branches and dirtrunning as if time didn’t mattersince for them it doesn’tall that matters is being next to yousnuggling and sniffing you.You are his essence his hope his joyhis entire sense of selfis just being next to youwatching you watching watching watchingwondering what you’ll do nextand as you stare back at thoseblack eyes that can see infinityyou realize a dog’s lifeis what heaven is like…
The Last Thing She Did by Michael W. Thomas
United Kingdom
The last thing she didwas wipe down all the topsand still the shadow of her handon the glaze of the white potby the toaster. One of those sprayswith citrus at one endand love-in-a-mist at the other,whose smell congeals in an hour or soas it takes on the weight of the air and becomes a pudgy cleanlinessas in rooms all banqueted out,lobbies once the beaten week throws off its lanyard,assembly halls in the silencethat buckles against a new school year. A day or two later a wasp unzipped the kitchen. Thinking but not, I opened a window. It hitched the smell to its back, sped away to hang it on the thornsof the world. Only then the tears.
Love Vs. Hatred by Terry Loncaric
Hampshire, Illinois
It is blind,hidden,slowly simmers,until it explodes,slashes, and destroys.Hatred makes one big mistake,it underestimates the fierce aim,the piercing strengthof love's arrows.
The Road by Adrian McRobb
Cramlington, Northumberland, UK
It used to be a track through wild landRomans marched it into a paved wayThen they laid the Macaddam roadwayOld fashioned cars and buses rode on itIt became wider with three marked lanesElectric cars hushed silently on errandsSometimes, at night dream people appearThe ones who came to grief within its history...
Photo of Sego Canyon Petroglyph - https://www.theancientconnection.com/ancient-rock-art/canyon-petroglyphs/
Diplomat by Mike Wahl
Athens, Alabama
The aliens visited once when she was small, alone in her giant backyard with fireflies. She welcomed them with wonder, and kept their secrets, so they came back at 65 and took her home.
The aliens visited once when she was small, alone in her giant backyard with fireflies. She welcomed them with wonder, and kept their secrets, so they came back at 65 and took her home.
Aliens by Jackie Chou
Pico Rivera, California
He scanned my emerald green cheongsam with chrysanthemum brocadelike a doctor's penlight
I was supposed to carpool with other freshmen to the Halloween partybut his lips formed into a familiar question of why I didn’t drive
He searched for cluesabout what planet I was fromwhy I was dressed as myself or some dancing girlfrom 1940s Shanghai
There was no indication in his demeanor that he noticed how pretty I looked with my raven hair and Chinese dress
Nothing but a foreign coolnessin his dark eyes
I was supposed to carpool with other freshmen to the Halloween partybut his lips formed into a familiar question of why I didn’t drive
He searched for cluesabout what planet I was fromwhy I was dressed as myself or some dancing girlfrom 1940s Shanghai
There was no indication in his demeanor that he noticed how pretty I looked with my raven hair and Chinese dress
Nothing but a foreign coolnessin his dark eyes
How to Catch a Star by L.B. Sedlacek
Lenoir, North Carolina
A slingshot isn’t long enough to span the seaswhere hope’s expressed in message filledbottles, or with sails lingering on ancient boatsbobbing or dipping for starfish or evensand dollar treasure chests filled withwonder, magic and just a little bit of anticipation.
Orion by Terry L. Slaney
Sugar Grove, Illinois
Only in winter, waking earlywalking out the front doorBrilliant skies greet medeep with four carat diamond starsOrion heaves his weight overheadPlanets as big as moons rise; a stage setCoyotes howl gold and garnet sopranosThe sky lightens, the day risesand flings the view westwarddisappearing until the earth revolves again In November I wait for you when I wake at nightYou reassure me when I see the three stars of your beltThe shining glitter of your masculinityI count on you to be there in the skyCloudy nights are hard In March your steady presence is my guide in the skyas I prepare to do battle with the dayYou go aheadI see your starry thread move southwestand ITo bed, to be ready I rest
Monica Cardestam, Photographer
Creatures of the Wind by Lynn White
Gwynned, North Wales, UK
We’re all creatures of the windholding upa damp finger to feelwhich way it’s blowing.
We’re all creatures of the windtrying to weather the stormstrying to stand straightor at least to not bendtoo far.
We’re all creatures of the windand nowwe’re suckedinto a tornado. ---First published in Voices Unbound Anthology, Fresh Words, May 2025
We’re all creatures of the windtrying to weather the stormstrying to stand straightor at least to not bendtoo far.
We’re all creatures of the windand nowwe’re suckedinto a tornado. ---First published in Voices Unbound Anthology, Fresh Words, May 2025
Ouranos by Carolyn Adams
Beaverton, Oregon
When Herschel finally looked up,he was, of course, wrong. I wasn’t a star on firefor millennia with a looming shelf date.I wasn’t a comet hurrying my burdeninto the void. Among the clocks and instrumentsof science and time, I’m a lovely anomaly. A side-sleeper in the sky, my moods ice overin frigid cloud-tops. I don’t resent your strange fascination with me. After all, you could have named me worsethan Heaven. You should come and revel inmy years of summer,ride wild with me throughmy opposite rotations. We’ll count the ringsof my undulations,name more of my moons than anyone knows.
give me my sky by linda m. crate
Pennsylvania
want to sewbonds with the celestial bonds
meant to shareconstellations with me,
too many peoplehave wasted my timeand squanderedmy love;
like a pirate they haveplundered every ship of my joy untilnothing but darkness was left—
so i am reclaiming thenight sky,i am a moon;
where are all my starsand suns and planets and novas?
have you seen magicthat is meant to dance withmine?
send them my way, wouldn't you?
meant to shareconstellations with me,
too many peoplehave wasted my timeand squanderedmy love;
like a pirate they haveplundered every ship of my joy untilnothing but darkness was left—
so i am reclaiming thenight sky,i am a moon;
where are all my starsand suns and planets and novas?
have you seen magicthat is meant to dance withmine?
send them my way, wouldn't you?
In the Shadow of the Moon: Hiking the Eclipse
by Timothy Sroka
Twilight skipping lightly off therippled waves of sunlightstirring the woodpecker’s funereal cry.Grackles search for their nestsamidst the mournful call of doves,woodcocks, cardinals,while three mute swans floatnobly in the water. Winds build over rolling hills,children of the lunar dance today.A stillness,unique,not nightfall,perhaps the dawn,a strange pewter-graynessgauzes over the sepia scented spring fields. The sun wanes.Has time stopped,reversed itself?The very life of time,dismissedby the shadow of the moon? Time past, time present,time that was andwill be,has hidden briefly and somehow changed, evolved, and rebornas Selene sulks from her celestial stage.
Winter Lake Michigan Sunrise, Photograph by Jennifer Dotson
Contrast by Anthony Ward
United Kingdom
The rain replenishes,Not just the exterior,But the interior landscape,Making the returning sun all the more bright. Without contrast life would be one long season,A day without night would be incomplete.We need to weigh the light against the darkness.Darkness conceives light as light determines shadows,Light displays and dispels the darkness. Darkness is depth as light is length.An expressionist shadow play of a black and white movieCaptivates and intrigues the imaginationWith its monochrome duality,A Plato’s cave where we abscond reality. The ivory snow brings out the ebony branches in silhouette,Reminding us of summers that have come to passAnd springs yet to come,The dried-up river reminds us more of the flowing water,Like tears of sadness leading to tears of joy.
Every Morning I Look at My Painting by Colleen McManus Hein
Riverwoods, Illinois
Every morning I look at my painting, the one from the local artists’ fair. I was never there to buy, but saw it: my own mined moment from walks with the dog captured in acrylic. Every morning I look at my painting, river reflecting sky, tinted mauve by mist melding with maples.
The sun's strong face is passion-slashed with solid strokes, the river’s serene. Ghost branches point at yellow-lipped witch's hazel.I feel the cool, the warmth, the greens. I resonate then in the artist's shimmered daybreak dream. Every morning I look at my painting.
The sun's strong face is passion-slashed with solid strokes, the river’s serene. Ghost branches point at yellow-lipped witch's hazel.I feel the cool, the warmth, the greens. I resonate then in the artist's shimmered daybreak dream. Every morning I look at my painting.
Brambly Words by Daniel Cleary
Chicago, Illinois
Brambly words in the thicket.Brambly words in the breezeShaking the bushes and hedgesAre filled with choleric wheeze As they keep coming and goingTrying to articulateWhatever it is that besets them---Hear them bicker and prate! Prodigious pools in the guttersEncapsulate lowering skiesPiled up leaves on the roadwayMake a dry rustling noise. An overall, damp, misty graynessCovers up now on everything---To our thickening worstedsSmall beads of moisture cling. Lately, we miss the summer,Miss its exalted airs,Miss its unvanquished evenings--Its hallowed nights full of stars.
Words by Mantz Yorke
Manchester, United Kingdom
Your words ringin my mind – a peal carrying from afar,summoning attendance. Rain spatters a peaty tarn,its circles intersecting: deep down, the sedimentsenses their patterning. A pale radiance suffuses morning mist: bracken unfurlsin melting snow.
The Towhee by Terry Glass
The Bay Area, California
The way it flits to my feederwith its tail tipped up,the way it nestles into the butterfly bush,the way its’ colors captivate my eyes:black head, white speckled wings,burnt sienna sides with matching eyes—oh, so handsome, the towhee.I welcome this winter guestas I would St. Nicholas,but it prefers to stay outside my window.But oh, the gifts it brings.
December Musings by Emma Alexandra
Highwood, Illinois
Birds still, sparse.Hawk sighting, mereMemory. Cold late fall winds, mayCoax them back to theirFood source. Will I find them,They find me? I continue.
Replenishers by R. M. Yager
Deerfield, Illinois
At my age, I now gravitate towards those souls who build me up,do not deplete or discourage me,who make me feel joyful in their presenceshow up when needed, are genuinely interested in my life,goals, dreams, who accept me as I amencourage me to be my best selfand show their love openly
At my age, I now gravitate towards those souls who build me up,do not deplete or discourage me,who make me feel joyful in their presenceshow up when needed, are genuinely interested in my life,goals, dreams, who accept me as I amencourage me to be my best selfand show their love openly
Only in the Silence Can I Hear by Patrizia Castiglioni-Fanucchi
Benoni, South Africa
Only in the silence can I truly hear!Not in the
great cacophony of uproarious crowds;the babble of voices of destruction;the clanking, clashing sounds of belligerence;the icy swoosh of winds of hostility:the deafening dull stabs of ignorance
sliding, slipping degenerationshattering disintegration – collapse!Anarchy and chaos unthreading h a r m o n y and hurling disarray.
Only in the silence can I hearthe chatty rustle of the palms in thebreeze, the buzz of bees in lavender, canI begin to imagine the delicate whirr of wings: rainbow dragonflies!
Only in the silence, in the lush silenceof the dew sparkling like diamondsin the sunlit-bathed, bright red leavesgently cascading to the growing green,only in the silence of the white lilies stretching up peacefully in the shade of the great Elm, only in a child’swordless full hearted hug can I hear:
only in the silence can I hearthe murmurings of my heart.
great cacophony of uproarious crowds;the babble of voices of destruction;the clanking, clashing sounds of belligerence;the icy swoosh of winds of hostility:the deafening dull stabs of ignorance
sliding, slipping degenerationshattering disintegration – collapse!Anarchy and chaos unthreading h a r m o n y and hurling disarray.
Only in the silence can I hearthe chatty rustle of the palms in thebreeze, the buzz of bees in lavender, canI begin to imagine the delicate whirr of wings: rainbow dragonflies!
Only in the silence, in the lush silenceof the dew sparkling like diamondsin the sunlit-bathed, bright red leavesgently cascading to the growing green,only in the silence of the white lilies stretching up peacefully in the shade of the great Elm, only in a child’swordless full hearted hug can I hear:
only in the silence can I hearthe murmurings of my heart.
"Writer's Block" by Monica Cardestam, Artist
Vegan by Alex Siminoff
San Francisco, California
When someone asks me whyI echo our planet's battle cry
We don't eat fish or meatWe cook what grows beneath our feet
Even when the label reads "cage-free"Not even honey stolen from a bee
You can call us radicalBut I'll say we're ethical
Save your doubts on plant-based diets Till you eat a meal without the violence
Every vegan has a reasonEach one protect our planet's seasons
And to answer your questions about our cuisineYes, we get enough protein
We don't eat fish or meatWe cook what grows beneath our feet
Even when the label reads "cage-free"Not even honey stolen from a bee
You can call us radicalBut I'll say we're ethical
Save your doubts on plant-based diets Till you eat a meal without the violence
Every vegan has a reasonEach one protect our planet's seasons
And to answer your questions about our cuisineYes, we get enough protein
Chalk Line by Mary Bone
Wilson, Oklahoma
The body of evidencewas cold to the touch.A chalk line drawingon the sidewalk-blood splatters of a crime.Lights were flashing,as questions were being asked.Yellow tape marked offthe scene of a homeless man's death.
---First published in Lothlorien Journal
Reverie by David Stanford Burr
Maplewood, New Jersey
The Hackensack Meadowlands is on fire again—the rising sun fireballs Phragmites communisfrom the east, the water reflects them backfrom the west, and here in my phone’s blown-upphoto—golden conflagration of light,reeds on fire, water on fire, air on fire,somewhere hidden below, burning for years,real underground fires, the four elementsin accord as one. The wind shoals the reedsback and forth, swirls the swaying seed heads likehelmet plumes, eggs on phalanxes thatstretch as far as I can see, an army’saureate spears scintillant in their waves. Here once was the world’s greatest garbage dump,also for gangster’s corpses, and shamblesfor pigs and horses, a vast white cedar forest,hideout for highwaymen, the first movie setsbefore Hollywood. Methane smolders beneath,threatens to flame wetlands—but not today. I’d like to ply these estuaries in a kayak,through narrowed passageways, over shallows,in the maze of tall tan marsh grass,put up the startled herons or cormorantsthen bushwhack its wilderness on foot witha metal detector (and lots of OFF!)sweeping for pirates’ hidden swag, treasuresburied in landfills, seek out those granite bones of old Pennsylvania Station.
Secret Forest by Amy Barone
New York City & Haverford, Pennsylvania
In the foothills of the Catskill Mountainsbelow Cairo’s abandoned sandstone quarry, a few hours from New York City, sits a prehistoric forest with rocks and fossilsroughly 385 million years old. Where dinosaurs may have traipsed,scientists walk through ancient trees’ rare roots, safeguarding a delicate space as theydelve into the age of plants and trees in one of the world’s oldest woodlands, preserving one of Earth’s treasures unsullied by human hands.
Bev Seiffert, Photographer
Crashing, Churning, Roaring by Bev Seiffert
Highland Park, Illinois
Crashing, churning, roaring with great force,The lake is raising its angry voice,Shouting - do you see my awesome beauty you surely must adore,As I curl and spit and roll angrily towards the shore.
You see- the wind encourages me,To roll and crash more forcefully toward thee,As I unleash my fury against the beach,I replace the sand and stones within my reach.
Do you realize fury comes at a cost?For you watched from a distance my waves turn and toss,And in my anger I heatedly scared you away,I pray you will come back near me another day.
So tomorrow when my fury settles down,And I am once again making soft and calm whooshing sounds,You look out and see my gentle waves lap the shore,For I am again at peace as I coax you to come close to me once more.
You see- the wind encourages me,To roll and crash more forcefully toward thee,As I unleash my fury against the beach,I replace the sand and stones within my reach.
Do you realize fury comes at a cost?For you watched from a distance my waves turn and toss,And in my anger I heatedly scared you away,I pray you will come back near me another day.
So tomorrow when my fury settles down,And I am once again making soft and calm whooshing sounds,You look out and see my gentle waves lap the shore,For I am again at peace as I coax you to come close to me once more.
The Ocean Poem by Hanh Chau
San Jose, California
Life of the ocean playschasing the tidesin a speeding race
a paint of clearcrystal vivid imagelinger with memory
embrace in a long distanceof a roller display
carry the bluefresh sweet offragrance spray
comes with crest riseof receding motion swayat a high and low pace
Take control of all the ridesto the infinite sweepat the endless stage
sweet lullabysing along withthe symphony
A gentle caressof calmness wavefalls into a subsided stay
Life of the ocean playschasing the tidesin a speeding race
a paint of clearcrystal vivid imagelinger with memory
embrace in a long distanceof a roller display
carry the bluefresh sweet offragrance spray
comes with crest riseof receding motion swayat a high and low pace
Take control of all the ridesto the infinite sweepat the endless stage
sweet lullabysing along withthe symphony
A gentle caressof calmness wavefalls into a subsided stay
The Blanco River by Monty Mittleman
Decatur, Illinois
Pulled by the promise of bluebonnets, we drifted with the grit of a West Texas wind into the heart of the Hill Country, where burnt orange Longhorns don’t jump over moons, they ram them. We were weightless souls, floating through a land of velvet. Sometimes snagging on the river's chalk-white limestone fingers long enough to cast spinners for bass, then resting under interlocking cottonwoods and oaks, where the sun and shadows roamed in celestial patterns on the roof of our Hill Country chapel.
A lifeline for me, missing you. Fishing journal- your name first appears.
---
First published in Inkwell Volume 2, anthology of Decatur Area Writers
Winter Tanka by Mark Hudson
Evanston, Illinois
Very little snowlingers on the ground beneathIt snowed late last nightit is already meltingstrange weather we are having
"Ice Crystals on Glass" by Jennifer Dotson, Photographer
How by Joan McNerney
Ravenna, New York
did the snow fall on each barn and shedover cultivated grassand every bush?
I heard the Canadiangeese honking last week here inDecember.They fly in flocks with V shaped precision
The willow tree is still green yet snow fell in that boughwhile other trees are slightly trimmed with white.
Yet birds still singhere in this winter of my life, I still question how?
I heard the Canadiangeese honking last week here inDecember.They fly in flocks with V shaped precision
The willow tree is still green yet snow fell in that boughwhile other trees are slightly trimmed with white.
Yet birds still singhere in this winter of my life, I still question how?
The Divinity of Island Nights by Danielle Martin
Trinidad and Tobago
Pearlized glimmers of soft, white lightcascade like falling leaves upon a sultry human formslung in the cool, cotton threads, of a hand-woven hammock. I swing, slowly, to the rhythm of my heartbeatcatching the play between silky shadows and the inked outlineof tropical leaves, and galvanized rooftops, mimicking lazy dreams, yet to be. Untethered by threads of fear, I lean into the darkness burying my soul, in thin layers of greying clouds. Searching for stars, to lead me to the truth, hiding in the night’s cold pause. Lost, in the round, fullness, of this supernatural theater enthralled by the notes of a distant steel pan, yet, hauntedby island folklore, where truth is only seen, by veiled eyes from birth. And on the cusp of sleep, my thoughts break, with the crackling, zig zagging trail, of harsh blue light, plummeting like anxious waterfalls, greedy, to grace, the earths’ brown flesh. In the hammock, on the veranda, swaying, gently,I know profoundly, a war is brewing, in the heavens, in the dark, in the beauty, in the illusions, toying with humanity and those, seeking truth – as to why we are here, battling and loving, this tempered world, of sin and song.
Les Crudités by Lynn Fitzgerald
Chicago, Illinois
I didn’t learn about radishes or les crudités until I went to France; red with green pointed stems dipped into a shell of creamy butter, spun in fleur de sel. Their purple shadows rolling down the gingham tabletop as we basked outdoors, smell of yeast from the baskets of bread, triple crème sagging across a painted plate. We listen to the sounds of Ben oui! Si, si, si, oh, la, la, chais pas…bumping around the spikey green tips. And your face, flushed, healthy as plein air and, oh! the crunch and the sting of salt and bitter skin, so sweet to us, as with our eyes, we tugged the whole tablecloth of flowers, les crudités, grasses, and glasses into mid-air.
---
Poem is published in the author's collection, Her Dress Does a Flip (Kelsay Books, 2025)
On Freedom by Michael H. Brownstein
Jefferson City, Missouri
We built a large and sturdy wall,It's footing deep, it's brick strong,Able to stop a Humpty Dumpty fall.
When they came with chain and ballWe held on to our rights, sang songs,We built a large and sturdy wall.
Our dance, our speech, our ideas tall,We did not need to agree to get along,We made it so Humpty Dumpty could not fall.
Nonviolence, marches, we knew our call,We fought against what was wrong,Built a large and sturdy wall.
Freedom often needs to be redrawn,We must always keep a sturdy wall,Not conform or follow, but hear its gong,Keep Humpty Dumpty from his fall.
When they came with chain and ballWe held on to our rights, sang songs,We built a large and sturdy wall.
Our dance, our speech, our ideas tall,We did not need to agree to get along,We made it so Humpty Dumpty could not fall.
Nonviolence, marches, we knew our call,We fought against what was wrong,Built a large and sturdy wall.
Freedom often needs to be redrawn,We must always keep a sturdy wall,Not conform or follow, but hear its gong,Keep Humpty Dumpty from his fall.
"Bird Nest in Signage" by Jennifer Dotson, Photographer
Speed Dating with Shame by Mary Beth Bretzlauf
Waukegan, Illinois
I’m Shame, nice to meet you my nights are spent instilling distortions of your memories while you dream it’s so easy since I breathe in your embarrassment, let it fill my lungs to get my cruelty juices going, exhale your mounting self-doubt giving back to you tenfold I’m generous that way My favorite food is judgment pizza sprinkled with grated nightmares peppered with minced anemic praise loaded with past mistakes – you sure do have a lot, don’t you? That’s what feeds me. Well, time’s up – I have others to weigh down!
Foreboding Abode by Nick Sweet
Shepherd, Texas
The stench hit as he entered,that moldy, mildew fragranceHis boyhood home sat vacant,vandalized by vagrants
Squirrels had claimed the attic,they scamper overheadHe viewed the broken family portraitwith a sense of dread
Publicly, his father preachedpiety and diligenceAt home, he was a tyrant,dripping with grandiloquence
His mother; sadly self-absorbed,indifferent and aloofThis unhappy dwellinghas a badly leaking roof
He smiled in a mirrorfull of cracks and scratchesAnd hurried to his car to fetchhis gas can and matches
Squirrels had claimed the attic,they scamper overheadHe viewed the broken family portraitwith a sense of dread
Publicly, his father preachedpiety and diligenceAt home, he was a tyrant,dripping with grandiloquence
His mother; sadly self-absorbed,indifferent and aloofThis unhappy dwellinghas a badly leaking roof
He smiled in a mirrorfull of cracks and scratchesAnd hurried to his car to fetchhis gas can and matches
The Unjust by Sandy Rochelle
Highland Park, Illinois
Although long ago this has stayed with me as unjust.Painful and permanent.Not done with intent just random..Which in a way makes it beyond judgment.But with consequences beyond appearance.Conspiracies of accidental cruelty.There must be much of this unseen in the world.Done to the very young and the old.To the ignorant and the educated.To the brilliant and the slow.To the child and the adult.Done with misguided love.And unintentional cruelty.Those guided by love.And those guided by kindness.And those who never knew a kind word.We honor them all.
The Nuances of Battle by Michael P. Wright
Highwood, Illinois
My Large B-Cell Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma of the Brain, Stage Four had issues. Initially I felt like a monster from an American 1950's horror classic. A red glob was on my forehead. The emergency room was definitely startled.
Introduction 101, Cancer.There were dizzy spells and the prospect of a room collapsing on me. Seriously ill, the chance of death loomed on me. Operated on my skull - remnants of Herman Munster.
Breath was flowing and I consumed cocktails of Chemotherapy. A harrowing battle between life and death. Take it day by day and the only alternative I had.I reiterated, be there or be square, I will defeat this.
The gracious Oncologist’s job was getting easier.I could stand erect and I appeared healthy.My cancer got easy at times.Lost my hair for a while. Battle ended in remission on July 9th, 2014.
Introduction 101, Cancer.There were dizzy spells and the prospect of a room collapsing on me. Seriously ill, the chance of death loomed on me. Operated on my skull - remnants of Herman Munster.
Breath was flowing and I consumed cocktails of Chemotherapy. A harrowing battle between life and death. Take it day by day and the only alternative I had.I reiterated, be there or be square, I will defeat this.
The gracious Oncologist’s job was getting easier.I could stand erect and I appeared healthy.My cancer got easy at times.Lost my hair for a while. Battle ended in remission on July 9th, 2014.
Drinking Tea at a Family Reunion - After Thirty Long Years Separation by William Marr
Downers Grove, Illinois
Down at one gulpHow unbearable it would have beento taste drop by dropthe cup of thirty bitter years You smile and say to megood teashould be sipped and savored --- Previously published in Chicago Serenade (The Cultural Institute of Solenzara, Paris, 2015) andA Dreamless Night: the Selected Chinese/English Poems of William Marr (Chicago Academic Press, 2021)
Home Place by Gail Denham
Bend, Oregon
Multi-flavored leaves flee their treelike rats from a burning ship, landing beyond the fence. I wonder if they miss their mother’s security, the tree, where they sprouted and lived their short summer life? Quicker to leave the nest than some grownchildren, longer than the nuthatch babieswho occasionally visited as adults, and often gathered to chat on the roof of their tiny birthplace house.
---
First published in Pennessence, an anthology of the Pennsylvania Poetry Society (2018)
Jennifer Dotson, Photographer
Alarms by William T. Carey
Highland Park, Illinois
Painstaking pizza pestoCauli crust creationSerious sweat, no jestoNews flash: I’m no cookVeered a tad off-book Tempted to experimentHigh oven temp and bad ventCharred smoke conflagration911 “no fire”Just one truck nothing direSkull-split sirens and buzzersHall neighbors, plenty of othersPanic is not my druthersBut the pie tasted damn good!
Jennifer Dotson, Photographer
The Big Melt by Richard V. Kaufman
Florida for the winter...
Float in a boat.Wear a raincoat.Once there was land.The scenery was grand.Purple mountain majestiesare beneath water casualties.High above the enameled plainonce were amber waves of grain.But now, the waters are all around.Does anyone remember the ground?
Good News Comes in Two Shells by Jennifer Dotson
Highland Park, Illinois
When you’re losing hope that there will ever be a future with us (humans) in it,think about the Wild Oysters Projectwhich created a man-made reefoff the coast of Englandabout the size of a football pitch(or soccer field for Americans)and released 10,000 oysters.
I never knew before how importantbivalves are to a healthy marine life.A single oyster filters 50 gallonsof water, cleaning out carbon dioxideand other pollutants.
The bivalve is an ecosystem engineer,forming reefs that are a naturalbreakwater, reducing storm impactsand supporting other marine creatures.Stay alive and thrive, you wild oysters! --- First published in Inkwell, Volume 2, an anthology of the Decatur Area Writers (2025)
I never knew before how importantbivalves are to a healthy marine life.A single oyster filters 50 gallonsof water, cleaning out carbon dioxideand other pollutants.
The bivalve is an ecosystem engineer,forming reefs that are a naturalbreakwater, reducing storm impactsand supporting other marine creatures.Stay alive and thrive, you wild oysters! --- First published in Inkwell, Volume 2, an anthology of the Decatur Area Writers (2025)
"Sunflowers at Farm on Ogden" by Jennifer Dotson, Photographer
Participating Poets in the 2026 Winter Muses' Gallery
Carolyn Adams’ poetry and art have appeared in many publications and have been nominated multiple times for both Best of the Net and a Pushcart. She is the editor and publisher of the Oregon Poetry Calendar. “I live in Beaverton, Oregon. My favorite season here is the Spring, because wildflowers are in full bloom, and waterfalls are at their fullest, flush with snowmelt.”
Emma Alexandra born in Casablanca, Morocco in 1950, emigrated with her Eastern European parents to the United States in 1961. They settled in Chicago. She is fluent in Eastern European and Romance languages, story-telling a cherished tradition. Her published autobiographical poetry book is Apricots to Za’atar. She is emerita of East on Central's founding Board of Directors.
Amy Barone explains, “What I relish most about winter is the pure air, slower days, and trees’ bare branches that resemble antlers. I have a new poetry collection, Treesongs, coming out in 2026 from Broadstone Books.
Mary Bone’s poems have appeared at Poetry Catalog, Highland Park Poetry, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, 100 Subtexts, eMerrge and other places. “My favorite season is Fall, when all the leaves are changing into vibrant colors.”
Mary Beth Bretzlauf lives in Waukegan, Illinois and is the author of The Path That Beckons: Poems about the Journey. Her favorite thing about winter is warm blankets, hot cocoa and the silence before the snowplows.
Michael H. Brownstein
David Stanford Burr authored Ledger Domain (poems) and The Poet's Notebook: Inspiration, Techniques, and Advice on Craft. David taught at New York University as an adjunct associate professor, was a managing editor at Macmillan Publishers, and continues freelance editing. As a denizen of the East Coast and its variable seasons, his poet’s sense embraces and is nurtured by them all.
Emily Calvo, poet and visual artist, has had enough of summer’s heat by July, and embraces fall's cooler breezes and vibrant colors. See more of her work at emilycalvo.com or Inside Emily's Head on Substack.com.
Monica Cardestam creates art, dabbles in photography, and writes poetry where inspiration many times comes from the simple things in life. Her favorite season is Fall where she admires Mother Nature’s colorful artistry in the season of letting go.
William T. Carey lives with his wife in Highland Park and writes poetry when little emergencies arise. He wards off winter chill with snowshoeing and hearty Cabernet.
Patrizia Castiglioni-Fanucchi teaches English to students in their final year of school. She writes poetry compulsively whenever the muse visits her. “Road Trip Past Majuba” was nominated for the Nina Riggs Poetry Award. Her work is published in The Last Stanza Journal, Highland Park Poetry, Westward Quarterly and others. She has a BA(Hons) degree and an HDE (postgraduate) from the University of the Witwatersrand.
Hanh Chau is from San Jose, California. She enjoys reading, listening to music, ballroom dancing, and poetry writing. She works for Kaiser Permanente as a patient care services representative for twenty years. She holds a bachelor’s degree and an MBA degree in a business study.
Jackie Chou is a writer of free-verse poems, Japanese short-form poems, and occasional rhyming poems and flash fiction pieces from Southern California. “I love winter, though there's no snow where I live, because it's my older sister Janet's birthday on Christmas Day and we celebrate by going to restaurants. I also enjoy holiday songs and poetry.”
Jan Chronister is a retired educator who now splits her year between Wisconsin and Georgia. Spring has always been her favorite season. Though often messy, it is full of promise and growth.
Daniel Cleary posits, “Maybe my love of the present season has something to do with the fact that I was born in November in a land of cloudy skies that Romans called Hibernia, or, Land of Winter, which they refused to invade it as a result. My fifty years or so of living In Chicago have not changed my preferences in the least.
Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer. Her favorite season is autumn, as it is cozy and she loves the changing of the leaves.
Gail Denham has published poetry, essays, news articles, short stories and photos in many magazines, on web sites, in newspapers, and books for 50 plus years (my how time flies). It's always a joy to find words that seem to fit together. Highland Park Poetry is a favorite online site for Denham to see her work in print.
Charlotte Digregorio has authored nine books including Wondrous Instruction and Advice from Global Poets: How to Write and Publish Moving Poems and Books and Publicize Like a Pro. Honored by the Illinois Governor for literary achievements, she blogs at: www.charlottedigregorio.wordpress.com. She survives winter by staying indoors a lot and having the chance to write more.
Jennifer Dotson founded Highland Park Poetry in 2007. She is the author of Late Night Talk Show Fantasy & Other Poems (Kelsay Books, 2020) and Clever Gretel (Chicago Poetry Press, 2013). She and her husband purchased a full face-cord of dried hickory and cherry logs to enjoy fires in their fireplace this winter.
Wilson F. Engel, III, Ph.D., a Beachwood, Ohio, poet, whose elegies in his distinctive “silver print” form comprising six haiku with linked themes, help him brave the savage yet beautiful winter months with their Erie Lake effects and unpredictable weather. He is working on a long epic poem for our times titled, "Voyage of the Spaceship Arcturus."
jacob erin-cilberto lives and teaches in Southern Illinois. Originally from Bronx, New York, he has been writing and publishing poetry and reviews since 1970. Having lived 30 miles south of Chicago through most of grade school and high school, he is not only used to but also enjoys the colder weather of winter.
Michael Escoubas is Senior Editor and Book Reviewer for Quill and Parchment, a 24-year-old literary and cultural arts online poetry journal. His favorite season, by far, is summer . . . with its sea breezes, palm trees, and enchanting nights.
Lynn Fitzgerald is a published poet and adjunct professor of literature and writing for the City Colleges of Chicago, where she currently teaches. Her newest chapbook, Her Dress Does a Flip, was recently published by Dancing Girl Press.
Terri Glass is a writer of essay, poetry and haiku and teaches poetry workshops throughout northern California. Her most recent books of poetry are Being Animal and a forthcoming chapbook of haiku, A Bridge between Worlds, both from Kelsay Books. She lives along the Smith River near Crescent City, CA. Her favorite season is autumn, although she loves a first snowfall in winter when the world becomes white.
Carol L. Gloor has been writing poetry since she was sixteen, and waits for the poems to come to her, sometimes in pieces, sometimes whole cloth. She survives winter by embracing it on those sunny, not-too-icy days, walking in the woods, the neighborhood, by the river, and catching those ever-later sunsets.
Mark Hammerschick writes poetry and fiction. He has a BA in English from the University of Illinois in English and has had several poems and fiction published recently. His favorite season is Autumn, and Highland Park is absolutely fabulous in Fall. After surviving 55 years of Chicago winters, he now lives in Florida to survive and thrive in this milder weather.
Jim Hanson is a retired university researcher and a tired sociologist living a second life in Collinsville, Illinois as a lay Buddhist and poet. Jim explains, “I try to winter winter to spring spring.”
Colleen McManus Hein lives and writes in Riverwoods, Illinois. She survives winter by consuming buckets of hot tea and cocoa.
Mark Hudson is happy to have his winter tanka published on Highland Park Poetry’s Muses’ Gallery. It will make him grateful during the cold months of winter.
In her seventh decade of living Midwest winters, Julie Isaacson, with a friend and her dog, drove to a new seasonal interpretation. She now anticipates warmer winters in California near her grandson, and for this edition of Muses Gallery is a poet from Santa Barbara. Highland Park continues to be Home!
Tricia Knoll’s The Unknown Daughter was a finalist in the 2025 New England Poetry Club chapbook contest. Her poems appear in journals as diverse as Kenyon Review and New Verse News and nine collections, full-length or chapbook. She favors fall, the turning wheel. Website: triciaknoll.com
Carol Parris Krauss is honored to have published in Highland Park Poetry, Louisiana Lit, the Arkansas Review, Salvation South, Eclectica, One Art, Story South, The South Carolina Review, and the Mid/South Sonnet Anthology, among others. Fernwood Press published her full-length book Mountain.Memory.Marsh. in November of 2025. Carol was born in South Carolina, to mystical mountain people, raised in North Carolina, and attended Clemson University. She currently lives in Virginia with her St. Bernard, Martha June. Carol adds, “Winter is my favorite season because it forces the world to slow down and strip away the unnecessary, revealing nature's honest bones beneath the snow. I love the sharp, clean smell of cold air, the peculiar light that turns the sky pale and infinite, and watching Martha June, my St. Bernard, explode into joyful zoomies across the white expanse.
Arlene Gay Levine is the author of 39 Ways to Open Your Heart: An Illuminated Meditation (Red Wheel/Weiser) and Movie Life (Finishing Line Press). Her prose and poetry have found a home in The New York Times, numerous journals including Negative Capability Press, The MacGuffin, frogpond/Haiku Society of America, Unity Magazine, Quest: The Journal of The Theosophical Society in America and is forthcoming in Braided Way. http://www.arlenegaylevine.com/. Arlene says, “Every season possesses its own splendor. Winter whispers: ‘Go within.’"
Terry Loncaric is the author of 5 books of poetry. During the cold winter months, she enjoys reading a book and chasing it with a dark roast coffee with a splash of Bailey's.
Elizabeth Marino is a Chicago poet, educator, and performer. Her work includes the hybrid collection Asylum, the chapbooks Debris and Ceremonies, and contributions to over 25 print anthologies. “I survive winter by keeping watch for the bright sunny days, making stews for my sweetheart, and holding my cat, Rocky, close.”
William Marr is a bilingual (Chinese/English) poet and the former president of the Illinois State Poetry Society. When asked about the season, William responded thus:
Winter
The colder the day
the brighter the furnace burns
There is no energy crisis
in our hearts
Danielle Martin, is an emerging poet from Trinidad and Tobago. Her writing is a blend of soothing tropical notes and emotional waves as evidenced in her debut collection, Kissing Shadows: Caribbean Love Poems. Danielle's poems also grace several online and print anthologies. Follow her on FB @DanielleM. “Being from the Caribbean, the dry season is my favorite, because it is full of warm, brilliant sunshine, as opposed to the rainy season that often heralds hurricanes. But I can also reflect upon winter, its biting cold that digs into bone, a time of hibernation, where nature's colour disappears, traded in for bleak greys, whites and branches without leaves. A season I will never get accustomed to.”
Joan McNerney’s poetry is published worldwide in over thirty-five countries in numerous literary magazines. Four Best of the Net nominations have been awarded to her. The Muse in Miniature, Love Poems for Michael I, II and At Work are available on Amazon.com. A new title Light & Shadows was recently released. Joan says, “I think winter is beautiful. The amazing flights of snowflakes are always exciting for me. Hot drinks make cold weather easier to deal with. Hot chocolate is the best.”
Adrian McRobb says, “I have survived thus far as writer, with lots of help from people who run poetry & writing groups.My favourite achievement has been winning the Luxford Trophy in 2013. My favourite time of year is Autumn (Fall) the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. As for surviving Winter, I have always found soup (broth) beneficial.”
Jen Meyer lives in Highland Park and is looking forward to lots of snow.
Monty Mittleman retired from the Illinois Department of Corrections in 2022 and is a licensed EMT. His first chapbook will be published by Finishing Line Press in 2026. He gets through long winters by working on an ambulance and tackling tons of art projects.
Khalid Mukhtar is a poet and short story writer and shares some of his works on his substack publication, The Chai Chronicles. His work is predominantly influenced by eastern culture and Sufi thought.
Carl “Papa” Palmer is author of “Old Mill Road,” and illuminates his thoughts on winter: “These shorter, darker, chillier, wetter days keep us indoors this time of year. But also this time of year is the holiday season with coupons, promotions and sales giving my wife reason to get out of the house leaving me home by the fireplace to read.”
Linette Rabsatt is a Virgin Islands poet whose work may found in her Kindle book, Be Inspired: Poems by Linette Rabsatt, on her blog, Words of Ribbon and in various journals, magazines, and anthologies. “My favorite season is Summer because that's when we get all the local fruits such as guavas, mangoes and genips.”
Marjorie Rissman serves as treasurer for ISPS and East on Central Association. She assists Highland Park Poetry helping at monthly meet-ups and occasionally as an editor of one of its books.
Sandy Rochelle says, “I am originally from Boston, so the dark and cold months are not new to me. Actually I love it. I have ridden horses all my life and have showed extensively. Most recently--Arabians. My history is that of a long acting career. Several years with Lincoln Center. I am the mom of an exquisite young man, named David. I feel blessed to have had so much love and creative expression in my life.”
David J. Rogers was first published in a magazine at the age of eight. As a child he wrote poetry, and as an adult mostly non-fiction, and now he’s back to writing poetry again. His favorite season is autumn.
Sarah E. Royer-Stoll says, “Living in the often harsh Lake Superior region/Northland of Minnesota, I have learned to truly love winter, and consider its transition from fall to be a dark gift. Noticing the death cycle of things reminds me that new things are coming, and that I can rest in stillness, trusting there is sacred beauty in what is not yet visible.”
LB Sedlacek's most recent poetry book is Organic Soup, published by Bottle Cap Press. She lives in the North Carolina mountains and endures the dark, cold, and sometimes snowy weather with hot tea, hats, hoodies, boots, blankets, and snuggling with her puppy.
Bev Seiffert tells us, “Originally from South Florida, I have always been entranced with water. So what a gift we were given when we moved to our lake front home in Highland Park in 2008. Daily I am totally captivated by the rolling waves of the lake and the abundance of flora and fauna found in our ravine. In essence the lake and ravine have become my muse bringing forth an abundance of poems expressing my joy watching all of nature around me. And how I love each season at this beautiful Lake Michigan lakefront - from the turbulent Fall lake storms, the ice bergs that morph and change shape daily in the Winter, to the new trees budding forth in the Spring, culminating in the plethora of birds and flowers in the Summer. We are blessed to be in Highland Park on this gorgeous lake."
Alex Siminoff is a climate poet with a background in marketing. He’s passionate about promoting sustainability and climate solutions through his work. Winter feels like a pause in the world’s noise, a season where silence becomes a canvas wide enough for your thoughts to echo.
Terry L. Slaney knows dance and words saved her life, having taught and performed in the U.S. and Athens, Greece (She holds both Greek and American citizenship). Born on a snowy Christmas Eve 80 years ago, and son on Christmas Day, she loves cold chilly winter days. Her MSW taught her to be grateful for every minute. Thanks to H.P.P.
Timothy Sroka
A freelance stage director since 1977, Nick Sweet has directed more than 150 productions, including the historical outdoor drama "Trail of Tears" at Oklahoma's Cherokee Heritage Center. He was named Senior Poet Laureate for Oklahoma (2010) and for Texas (2013) by the Amy Kitchener Foundation. Nick’s favorite season: Spring!! “When I was in junior high in Kentucky, I had a morning paper route. My alarm clock rang at 4AM EVERY morning. During winter, I couldn't ride my bike because the roads were slick and walking my route took twice as long! The first day of spring meant no more "slip sliding away." I could ride my bike every day. On most spring days at daybreak, there was actually a light blue hue on the dewdrops. I could actually see BLUEGRASS!! Wearing sunglasses helped.”
Michael W. Thomas
Mike Wahl (mikewahlpoet) writes at his organic farm in northern Alabama, where he lives with his family. His short poems and stories examine the nuances of politics, nature, religion, & family, freely mixing fact and fiction, with recent short stories appearing in several anthologies, and published poems in Living Adverbially (Finishing Line Press, 2020), Rooted in Christianity (Kingdom Winds Press, 2021), and In Harmony with Homophones (Finishing Line Press, 2021).
It’s just another unbound winter gray,
fingers, ears, nose, toes, all froze,
waiting for fire
beside only embers,
waiting for thaw
beside pain that remembers,
waiting for spring,
beside early December.
Anthony Ward loves the way words sound through silence. He is inspired by the nature of the world and the expression of art as humanity decrees to discover itself. He survives the winter months by slowing down life and taking it easy.
Lynn White lives in north Wales and her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. “Late spring/early summer when everything is growing afresh is the best season for me!” https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
Michael P. Wright is a Highwood poet and longtime contributor to Highland Park Poetry as well as a regular attendee at HPP's open-mic events. He has also been published by East on Central.
Patrick Allen Wright was born and raised in Southeast Texas, mainly the Big Thicket area of Hardin County. Patrick enjoys, as much as possible, all seasons and weather, perhaps favoring the beauty of spring as a notable dynamic to draw out rebirth after winter slumbers.
RM Yager continues to be a grateful productive writer! She survives winter with warm quilts, hot chocolate and the knowledge that spring and summer returns!
Mantz Yorke tells us a little bit about himself: “I am a former science teacher and researcher living in Manchester, England. My collections ‘Voyager’ and ‘Dark Matters’ are published by Dempsey & Windle, and ‘No Quarter’ by erbacce Press. With energy costs so high, I survive the winter by wearing extra; layers of clothing to make up for the lower thermostat setting.”