Winter Vespers
by Michael Escoubas

Her place as she sat and as she thoughtwas less about taking the photographthan on the soft hues of blueand the variances of yellows blendingwith orange sun-streaks nuzzling clouds
and though the moment was colda certain warmth fell over her—the blue ice, the icicles hanging downtipped by crystal beads, the snowy barextending its reach into the lake.
Everything found resonance, sang withinher spirit, as if something larger andbrighter had been seeking after her.Before the shutter clicks, she hears,a voice whispering, Pause and simply be.

Winter's Crystals
by Monica Kay Allen

Plummet verticallyFlutter horizontally DanceFloatCrash Bold and beautifulTender and unassuming Wholeb r o k e nCompletely unique A messy beautyA beautiful mess

Motivation
by Isabelle Audiger

It’s a cold eveningA January night
Inside and outsideMagnificent silenceAnd grey light
They will soon disappear
The inside cloudWill linger
Isn’t it timeTo light a candleOr a soft fire?
To warmMy skin, firstMy heart, next
To remember the warmthOf arms and handsKisses and embracesCaresses and gentle words
Yes, it’s bloody timeTo forget winterAnd let the ideaOf springOf sweet surrendersOf sunny afternoonsRun freely and happilyUnder my skin

Storm of '78
by Colleen McManus Hein

Full moon, high tide. No school.Weatherman as oracle, fear a Pleasant tingle. Dawn at my windowWas real; the Atlantic pullingThe summer people’s house down With frothy fingers and wet arms.A rear wall slithered under the sea and I spied a jar of Tang; so wrong, exposed Canned goods an invasion of privacy Worse than a naked bedroom scene. The Atlantic came for us next. WeScrambled to know in seconds whatWas precious. When waves chased Us into the car, the floor of my dad’sSedan disappeared in salty suds.  The Massachusetts National Guardsman who hoisted me up, Pathetic parcel, had eyes as green As his truck. We huddled, Silent stares begging What just happened? The gym at the school was aMakeshift motel with blankets forBeds. I squeezed next to my sisterAt the left net post, fully schooledOn life versus death.

Rod Raglin, Photographer

Winter Solstice
by Rod Raglin

I am the least of lightdeep quiet you fall intodark ever lurking at the edge of shallow day.
I am sharp, brittle cold, silver clarity,frost rime dazzling dust of diamonds.
I am naked boughs, aching bones, the sun’s false promise.
I am empty streets, frozen landscapes, fields forgotten. 
I am rituals enacted, prayers murmured, muted voices singing, shadows dancing.
I am fading memories, mourningdwindling light, loathinggrowing night.
I am longstill longer with more to come,surrender celebrated,
I am peace you fall into.

Wild Weather
by Lynn White

Weather wasn’t always like thiswith the feral forever winds bouncing off mountains bringing the chaosof flailing and falling leaf heavy boughsbroken, and the gush and rush of wild, wild waterspiralling in chaotic cascadesin this feral fury of a blizzard.
---

First published in Last Leaves, Feral Issue, October 2024

Curriculum Vitae
by Donna Pucciani

A life’s work on paper,sifting like fast-moving cloudson a night when tornado warningsset off the local sirensand folks with any sensehead to the basement. And yes, I have always beensensible, doing what was required, from the schooldays of blue uniforms and all A’s, certificates of merit,now moldering in the basement. Tonight, I sort the files,discard old transcripts of gradeshard-won, the jobs that came and went.I underestimate the courage needed to throw out the resumes and awards of a barely remembered self. I chase pages, then let go, knowing they scatter in stormsof time and space, scraps of the past. Winter is here. It is time for migration to a different clime, to wing the distanceinto new skies. I take flight,the shreds of a life flutteringbehind me in the wind.
---Previously published at Lothlorien Poetry Journal, December 28, 2023.

Winter Watchby Joan McNerney

Tangled…one raggedleaf clings to the bough.
All day my windowschatter like nervous teeth.
Stopping to see theshape of a snowflake.
Came home just in timefor the first dizzy danceof December flurries.
Crystals spin together injoyful pirouette…a cool ballet.

1950's Sitcom Mom
by Jan Chronister

Father Knows Best,Leave It to Beaver,The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet,all graced by the presenceof a high-heeled, petticoated wife.She wore jewelry all day,served a formal supper.Everything was spotless,nothing out of place.I eat on the couch,dust when drastic,dress up only whenthere’s a weddingor death.After schoolmy kids were hometwo hours without me.Mac and cheese  was a popular meal.I would never have made itas a 50s mom.

Lessons of Motherhood
by Dana Fine

I have learned many lessonsbeing a mother of two.Especially from TVlike that almost all dogs are blue.
I learned you can havea monkey living in NYC.He will walk around the townlike there is absolutely nothing to see.
Most daycares consistof a monster, pig, frog, and rat.And a teacher that is never aroundwhile the kids carry a bat.
A child and his 5 to 6 dogscan save the town.Dogs with no thumbscan save anything that is falling down.
Big red dogs actually existand on an island where all dogs run.This red dog helps everyone make the town more fun.
I have learned so muchand I feel like it is grounded in reality.I am so grateful that my childrenwatch so much TV.

Free Birds*
by Jen Meyer

It’s just us two now, don’t need muchOf this and that, and such and such.
Considering this, I’m desirous to knowHow do two free birds overspend at Costco?
The gas tank is filled, it rarely gets low,As we no longer carpool to and fro. 
Laundry soap seems an unending supply. Our Mount Everest of clothes isn’t as high.
The dishwasher has stopped its daily run,(Though the number of hand washers is still curiously one.)
Toilet paper doesn’t unspool as fast, Not that we’re striving to make it last.
We’re stunned at the bill. We look at our haul.It would appear that we’ve bought nothing at all.
Sure. We’ll eat pasta sauce ’til our skin turns red.Bulk pasta will last us until we’re … totally sick of pasta.
Nuts in the freezer, they’ll keep just fine.Hang on! We think. Maybe it’s the wine.
We wonder where in the world did our money go?How do two free birds overspend at Costco?
*My husband and I became empty nesters last September.  We don’t care for the term empty nesters. It’s vacant, hollow and well … empty. We prefer the term Free Birds.  Free Birds. Yeah!  Rock on.

Square Peg Speaksby Julie Isaacson

Pound, pound, poundOuch!I can’t fit in here!
I see the smooth round pegswith a simple tap tap tapAlignFitDo what they’re told
But see…I have these edges,These cornersWhere all my good stuff is stored
Thinking cornersBuilding cornersImagining corners
If you shave them offWe lose all my best partsMy brillianceMy uniquenessMy essence
Please let me go to my cornersTo live and breathe
Where I can build a square hole. 

untitled
by Miriam Sagan

The body in the landscape is not at peace. The curves of a woman do not reflect the soft undulations of sandstone. The crags in her face were not worn there by wind and water. The body exists in direct contrast to the prairie, the oldest tree, the shallow impression of earth. The body is an intervention, a sharp, short stab of reality. We alter the landscape to fit the theme, molding it to our vision. We are where we are in time and place. Do not use manipulation to cause beauty. Let the body be abrasive, intrusive, grating. We disturb the dust with our fingers. We leave footprints in the red clay. We are a knife cutting a thin line in the fabric of the universe. Wrap that line around your head. Observe the new planes created. 

From the project “Scarf Installation” by the creative team Maternal Mitochondria 

You As Your Own Magnum Opus
by L. B. Sedlacek

paintingsmoviesconstruction projectssurgical techniquesliteraryproductionyouin analtered formhailedasyour owngreatest achievementit’sawondersometimes howobvious youcanbe

Dream Periscope
By Srinjay Chakravarti 

Submergedunder blue layers of sleep,you drift, unanchored… Glowing fish, plankton,coral reefs,monsters, wrecked shipsmoving with the undertowof water saturated with moonlight while far above the waves,a single eye, unblinking,whirls with the horizon’s arc. A flash, a signal, or a target glimpsed,vanished in a moment— and the ocean’s rippling fabric,the purple haze of a distant shore,the sheen of a sleep-darkened sky. ---First appeared in Write-Away: WAH. Also appeared in Interpoetry, PoemHunter.com, PoetryNet: Litnet, Private Review, A Too Powerful Word, Poetry Pacific, The Fringe Poetry Magazine 2024. Also published in my second poetry collection, Apollo’s Breath [Writers Workshop, Calcutta: 2009]

Dreamscape
By Jackie Chou

I am lostthough I wish to be foundmy lips crimsonlike the beaksof certain black birdsYour fondness for meset me flutteringabove bridgesI beheldthe kaleidoscopic viewbelowmy feathersiridescent in the lightlike a grackleof your dreams

Sophistries
by Beejay Grob

To Emily
These are the days when the clocks go back — Light timers, too — advance a few —With daylight savings spent.
These are the days when the skies resumeThe old — old gray November gloom —As night creeps in too soon.
Oh fraud that does not add an hour —Nor can it weaken or empowerTime’s swift autumnal march.
Till tumbling leaves their witness bear —And softly thro’ the chilly airBank up outside the door.
Oh outworn regimental snark,Manmade communion with the dark —Do not go gentle now.
While belfry towers lose a chime —Watch faces fall at standard timeAs early risers whine!

Arrivedby Dominique Galiano

Through the rain the sun does shinerays find their wayopportunity signing inwill you take a chance
Dreams float past but never lostpushed aside they straylightning strikesjump starts your heartinvites your soul to dance
When hope wears thin love threads the waytrust mends the Spirit doubt slips awaystay true stay loyal to yourself and one daya miracle will find you 

Hymn 
By Carl Scharwath 

Sky whispers secrets through silent clouds
Mountains-guardians of timepast echoes 
River flows talking to stones quiet lullaby of nature 
As  sunrise paints hope on anew day canvas.

Meditation
by Sandy Rochelle

As I sit in meditation-eyes closedseeking enlightenmentA  Buddha appears.The timeless images of the sunand the moon the mountainsand the lakes.The echo of things long pastcompete for my attention.The earth reminds me to stay awake.

Colorized still photo from The Honeymooners 

My Brother
by  Lynn Weitz

Innocently in yoga classOur instructor asksDo you remember The Honeymooners?
I think of my brother.He passed away in 2013.When people ask how many siblings do you have?It is always painful.
I say two sistersI had two brothersOne is gone.I think of The Honeymooners.
When my brother was littleHe would flex his muscles and say,“Do you want a trip to the moon?”“Do you want a trip to the moon?”Imitating Ralph Kramden.
Do you remember The Honeymooners?An innocent questionA simple questionThe weight of it.

Graveyard Shift (Sherman, 1981)
by Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue

The night watchman spies through muckcovered windows as thick, fluffy wet flakes swirl,dip and dance in the north wind that roars down Main. And below, paper carriers, dressed in plaid jackets,winter caps with pom-poms, pop the bundles' stringswith their six-inch blades Later his flashlight guides him through the warehouse –cavernous, dark, filled with shadows cast by conveyorswith belts, looking like dinosaurs, stretching their long metallic necks all the way to the high roof.Then he locks the door, unlocks/locks the gate,actions as rote as they sound. Except for now near the street, out of the cornerof his bleary eyes, he catches sight of more snow flurries.                 As he crosses Elm, he suddenly slide shuffles, does his best Gene Kelly.  “I'm singing in the snow,just singing in the snow. What a glorious feeling,I'm happy, again.”

The Object in the Streetlight: A Writer's Birth by David J. Rogers

Working so hard on abstract Problems--being so sick of them that My brain ached, I, troubled, anxious, going out For a walk alone, without my lady love, Hoping that the cool late night air Might be therapeutic and could clear My thinking so that I might decide Calmly if a writer’s life could provide happiness. Near the beds of flowers, flat on the pavement--showered In the white light of a street lamp--was a single Object which I picked up from the ground: A book--of all things a book-- The symbol of the life I had been avoiding. I had to laugh. I then felt this book I had found, which some person had lost Or angrily thrown to the ground, Had been purposefully intended for me By the ineffable wisdom of the stars, by good fortune, As a sign, a portent, a clue, a key. And that what this epiphany of the book Meant was that I could not escape my pre- Appointed destiny that suited the architecture Of my genes, the juncture of talents, gifts, desires, qualities-- Not striving to become any of the five thousand entities Others are suited to be, but that are alien to me, Becoming thereafter one thing alone--a being gluttonous of words, A writer-poet-orator-essayist-teacher--a fish content, Self-possessed, without further anguish, Swimming in seas of language. 

Reflection
by Lori Wall-Holloway

Inspired by my 50th high school class reunion

If only I had a camera that could go deep into the recesses of my brain to take picturesof all the precious moments from my pastInstead, I must rely on art and words to translateremembrances into images I can share
Buried in my mind is a treasure trove of memories that can be imparted to the next generationGems to illustrate life in former days
Jewels to illuminate my own timelineof growth from being a self-centeredperson consumed with successto someone humbled by repentancewith a new understanding of forgiveness and what loving others really means
My seasons of difficulty have sown seeds of enduranceWatered by tears of frustration and grief, they have been mercifully warmed by a divine love to produceblossoms of strength, I pray can point others to hope 
During times of future testingI seek wisdom growthso that I may honor those long gone who are forever in my heart
---

First published in Four Feathers Press edition of Resolutions of Southern California-Wish PoetryDecember 3, 2023

haiga by gaia & vana - Barbara Anna Gaiardoni and Andrea Vanacore

Self-Discovery
by Michael H. Browntein

Because the building’s burning,I am outside near the rusted brown car on bricks.Because the flames are so hot the glass is melting,I took with me my battery operated fan.Because the cries for help are cries of frying skin,I move towards the man with the radio.None of this is me.I’m the one who enters into the painI’m the one who feels fire and does not flinchI am the one who kicks in the doorI am the one who saves the family.Because the roof has crushed the first floor,Because the chimney has sprawled into the pool,Because the nearby tree has implodedI stand still and watchMaybe this is me after all.

Winter Moment 
by Paul Buchheit

The silent flakes of snow, like dainty whiteand flitting whimsies in a frenzied questto join as one, unerringly alightupon my path, as if at my behest.The odor, sweet, of burning maple curlsthrough thickened flurry walls; a wolflike whinebetrays the gale arising as it swirlsand bullies through the tips of stubborn pine.The cabin beckons me; a dullish lightprepares me for a welcome interludeof warmth and sustenance, an age-old rite,an intercourse of fire and solitude.The wintry pomp and bluster need not cease,for in my womblike refuge I'm at peace.
---
First published in The Lyric Magazine, 2022. Also included in author's collection, Sonnets of Love and Joy (Keslay Books, 2023).

Jennifer Dotson, Photog

Spaces by Sarah Etgen-Baker

I notice the spaces between my thoughts. Thoughts come and go. Spaces are always there—between written words, between objects, between thoughts, between sounds, between words, between musical notes, and inside a cup—around and inside it. Spaces are everywhere. They’re all the same spaces, and they’re always there. 

Before the thoughts came and after they left, the space is. Before the music was born and after it died, the space is. Before the words are written and after the words are read, the space is. Before and after death, the space is. All these spaces are the same. 

space is the entrancethe transformative vortexwindow to Spirit

Bend by Elizabeth Diamond

Happiness is searching the abyss, waiting for the next jump,the next chance to make something of yourself even if it scares you.It yearns for comfort, to be in a state of bliss where nothing else matters.It is a struggle of the mind to thrive within the present, Feeding on beginnings, ending, and one’s willingness to                                                                                                                   bend

Charlene S. Engel, Ph.D., Artist

Ann Privateer, Artist

growing wings
by linda m. crate

one day 
i feel i may just
grow a pair of
crows wings,

fly into the forest
and never return
to humanity;

simply allow myself
to grow back into the
feral wilds they could
never tame out of 
my heart and soul.

Event Planner
by Marie Asner

Our brown canoe moves gently into quiet currentthat will carry us down stream.Hear the subtle wind tease green reedsas we pass bending river birchwho seem to breath with usin their coats of white and black.You can feel the distant hillsthink about change and plana pumpkin tint for leaves.Silver mist on the river, a sharp edge this yearand stars like golden neon lightsswitched on before a celestial show.

Andy
by Amelia Cotter

There’s a place inside myself I cannot bear to go That’s where he lives, or dwells, or is 
Absent the rolling hills on a terminal moraine Beyond us, my muse, a small wooden square 
Within a house, a house: A crooked, dilapidated place and a ghost I never see 
An encounter I dread and long for To chase and be chased forever 
My greatest obsession: possession Staring back, my muse, from the abyss into me 

At Sunset 
by Charlotte Digregorio

In autumn, as lives of friends wane,I yearn for childhood and youth again,years without darkness, cares or strain,my school book days of Dick and Jane. In sunset skies of sullen rain,clouds colored rust, violet, and grain,I pass through time fighting my pain,fear of illness my constant bane. Perhaps there is something to gainenvisioning peace, joy that sustain.Surely, fleeting outlooks I feignwith no relatives who remain. My aging, though, isn’t in vain.While my head throbs unwelcome refrainlike gusts thwacking the windowpane, I shun others’ flack and disdain. I resolve to slog the narrow lane.
  ---Previously published in Cantos: A Literary and Arts Journal, 2024

Illuminated Places 
by Martha Ellen Johnson

The night she died I had a dream.I saw her walking in a pleasant landscapeon an uphill footpathtoward an illuminated place.Her back was to me.She turned and saw me watching her leave for the last time.
Thrilled to see me,she smiled andwaved with the familiar excited anticipation I had seen so many times before when I arrivedat her sheltered homeand we would go for coffee.There were days I thoughtthis a chore, a boring taskthat subtractedfrom my important life.But, in that moment, in her joyful smile, clarity.She knew I feared to carry on without her.“You will be OK. I will wait here for you.”
Everyone had believedI was the stronger sister.

---
First published by RAIN Magazine, 2024

 Forest of Poetry by William Marr

Forest of Poetry  
—— For  William Marr’s painting “Forest of Poetry” 

By Bing Hua  
Translation by Liu Mei 

An ordinary person 
Walking in the forest of words 
Has unconsciously become 
A poet 

In the forest of words 
The most beautiful scenery is the clusters of poetry 
Among those who cultivate the clusters 
Are mediocrities 
Craftsmen 
And geniuses 

Craftsmen are invisible to mediocrities 
Who only “spit” with fellow mediocrities 
Geniuses too are invisible to craftsmen  
So craftsmen believe themselves to be geniuses 

Geniuses 
Soaring in the clouds 
Freely strolling among the words 
Casually write beautiful poetic verses 
Their verses become oases 
In which the Muses are dancing gracefully 

Sanctuary
by Gail Denham

Gripping strong coffee, served in perfect shaped cups; world-wearyfriends slide into a corner booth.
Reality melts with the whipped creamon Carol’s cappuccino. Fog blocks out other diners, covers us in grace.
Our conversation begins where it left off months gone, speeds to memories. Laughter explodes, sprays croissant crumbs in my lap.
Tired shoulders ease. Wisdom filtersthrough worry layers. Truest love comforts.Our bonding seals any cracks.
Cell phones off, coffee gone, achingfrom laugh-shakes, we trail meanderingcatch-up stories that criss-cross the table.
We settle deeper in our booth.  No one has the heart to push aside the fog bank.
---
Won 2nd Prize, Indiana Poetry, 2015

The Corner and Back
by J. K. Durick

Just to the corner and backshe says, been sitting too longneed to stretch my legs.Just to the corner and backall of a sudden, seems likea long way, a long way to goto test a hip, to test a knee.She’s left to that, making upexcuses, bits of exercise tomake it seem as if progress isbeing made or is it. The cornerand back become a measurea test, a test of an idea abouthow things are going. Walkingnever seemed this crucial orhas it always been a lead upto this. All those years, all thosesteps, steps way beyond mere corners, but now it seems to bea distance, a distance to testout what years can do to kneesand hips, a distance she doesn’tmention when she gets back. Itwas just to the corner and backafter all.

Réttir
by Amy Barrone

At the end of summer in Iceland, groups of farmers and friends gather to lead sheep home after a summer spent lounging in the mountains. On horseback and foot, they guide the animals from the highlands, where they fed on berries, grass and flowering plants, to sorting pens on farms. The tradition dates back to the Vikings when welcoming sheep back to the city guaranteed winter survival for city folk. Echoing a spiritual and emotional ethos, the practice underscores Icelanders’ sense of community in aiding each other during disasters, upholding a fading activity, and leaving no one behind.

The Glassblowers of Eswatini
by Joseph Kuhn Carey

Bright hot glasspulled from big dullsteel boxeslike little sunsfrom the centerof the earth,long metal polescoming and goingacross the factory floorin smooth rhythm,orange jumpsuitseverywhere,--a furious hubbub of activity--the shapers shape, the polishers polish,the carriers carry,in a sizzling oven of a roomfor turning wheelbarrows of recycled glassinto fine finished productsfor gleaming store shelvesnext door, nearby and far away.

A Promising Morning
by William Marr

I don’t care what the weatherman saysthis is a promising morning here and thereI see piercing birdcallsmaking slitslong and short, wide and narrowon the black skyto let light in

---
Published in Poems and Paintings of William Marr

Hawthorn
by Damaris West

Garnet-red beadsbunched in handfulsamong bronze leavesa-flutter with starlings:fruits of thornssoon to sustainfieldfares and redwingsthrough frost and snow.
Providence of natureforetelling a harsh winter?Or summer's wayof whistling in the wind?

Just Another Brick in the Wall
by Mark Hammerschick

The spinning has slowed downthe masks are goneblurred zoom memoriesdreaming of talking for 30 minutes on muteyet every day is still Groundhog Daywith Bill Murray listening to“I’ve got you, babe”waiting for Punxatawny Philto validate Confucious when he said “Study the past, if you would divine the future”for it’s our future that defines usthat purposeful diligent march to measurable outcomesbalanced on the merciless edge of doubtas we claw and graspour way through this fantasyour world is blurredno center of gravitystill drifting in the metaversetrying to understand our individual Matrixthinking we are The Oneknowing we are just another brick in the walljust trying to get by

Inhabited by a Polar Bear
by Peter A. Witt

A polar bear inhabited my bodyhe crept in on padded paws,swaying to the beat of an arctic drum,my heartbeat synchronized with hisas we danced a slow, soulful waltz.Soon we began to breathe in unisonand I heard myself uttering echoing his pleato stop the human-induced warmingof his ancient home, stop the ice melt,make it easier to catch ringed seals.Too soon the white bear was gone,I felt empty and alone, but my voiceremained a conduit for his pleaas I echoed his warningto any and all who would listen.

Event Horizon
by Bruce McRae

That fated evening,Comedy and Tragedythumb-wrestling for quarters,Zeus changinghis name to Jupiter,mothers ragging their offspring,drunks stumblingblind from the weight of intuition.
Pleasure's stadiums went dark,the mayor folded in prayer,cops letting off rounds,the last radio in the landblaring with rituals and tradition.That terrible hourthe taverns emptied and churchesflung open their doors.When Mother Annunciaremoved the novice's tethersand local gurus declaredto hell with it.
Where were you, they'll ask,when the sun went out?In the deep-dark caverns.In their cryo-sleep.In spacebound astro-shipsthey'll ask where were youwhen gravity stopped its tuggingand the devil gave upand the world wound downand the cosmos fell into disorder?The night the light was disengagedfrom Earth's colossal turning.

Plan "D"
by Adrian McRobb

It builds surreptitiously year by year, each degree one upon the otherunnoticed by uncaring Ministry "we have a plan, much better than theirs"   only the plan, is never implemented, too expensive, too comprehensive, too extensive...   ice melts at the zero point warming the oceans and the air, "maybe next year?"
Until destabilisation is reached and the chain reaction occursIn the old text in ancient libraries lie unopened warnings..."shadows move with shadows, in dark places, unlocking the infernal"<umbrae moventur obumbratio tenebris locus infernales reserare>Water boils, fishes die, famine stalks the land and husbands war!
Fear needs industry, so the killing starts, because of wasteful-manic-boredomthe reptiles died because of gypsum dust which blotted out the Sunso we will end due to thirst, even as we drown in water, we cannot drink...

Rod Raglin, Photographer

Ephemeral
by Ali Hedayati

Okay, this is life;Arriving one day,Departing another day... Leaving garments in the closet,Shoes kept waiting forever,Not reading,Not sleeping,Not hearing,Not answering,But now that you're gone,The body of all poems aches,As if all the “A” letters were torn out from every verse!

Armageddon
by Richard V. Kaufman

Although they flatter,do our achievements truly matter?Does Mother Nature take any heedother than for our capacity to breed?Does building castles high in the skydetermine if our species will live or die?As we aggrandize every inch of space,are we kicking Mother Nature in her face?As we blindly proliferate our population,are people poisoning their habitation?What are the limits to our adaptationbefore we precipitate self-ablation?Can Mankind survive the hunger to thrive?In a thousand years will we still be alive?Is some virus lurking in some secret placeto fungate forth and destroy our race?Have all our achievements and enterprisemade us super-smart, but not very wise?Evolution has no strategy.Will humanity end in tragedy?

Rebirth
by René Parks

His hot heart is split by cross currents across windblown waves pooling in the cavity of my chest
I shut my eyes andtime scatters like milkweed seed  we breathe together whileeven the parts that have died to life,the paved over earthbound parts,rise like an autumn moon and under the moon,my liquid body sheds into his ocean eyesand an earthworm burrows the soiland soft snowflakes quake in the drift,like daffodils burning through the frost.

To Draw the Body Together
by Howard  Nemeroff

Hurkle durkle Into a not so shapely hourglassOf a French pressAnd a favorite mugWhere at times’ endAll that remainsAre a muddy bottom And settled groundsAnd a decision to rise

Monica Cardestam, Artist

Joy
by Deborah Joan Jones

Find the joy in life todayAmid the irritations of the things you can’t avoidBeyond the annoyances, the challenges to sparThe racing and the chasing and your reaches being blockedLearn to laugh instead at the absurdity of allThose little things mean nothing in the vastness of this life For it is short and fleeting, there are those to hold and loveSmiles made in abundance that can overcome the darkest daysDon’t spend one second vexed when it can steal a moment making cheerFind the joy in life todayWhile we are here.

My Heart
by Irma Kurti

I want to open my heart,allow the spring to enter,the parks, the skies and the rivers, the swallows, but I’m afraid that along with them will enter toothe rain and the storms. I want to open my heartto the good and simple people, the ones that are hard to find in life. But I’m so afraid that,together with them,will enter mean andwicked people, thosethat poison your life with rancor, malice,and that you would never like to cross inthe street. Currently,I won’t open my heart.

D Train 
by David Dephy

D train, moves from Brooklyn to Manhattanand back, there is always something to be madeof loneliness, it’s obvious you feel the same,we hear the strange sound of heartbeat— music,you hear the same sound, of the same heartbeat,and maybe someone turns out pain in every soundof train? They kept your smile while the D train
rushed over and over, taking us along, betweenthose golden shadows all around, solitude unites,it breaks free, hear me, please, hear me out fromthis noise, it is heroic to survive as breath buriedin the claustrophobic darkness, take a D train, baby,wherever you go take a deep breath, the way is long,moving to the garden we all go through the desert, first.
---Previously appeared in Poetry Superhighway Magazine as Publication of the Week on December 25, 2022.

Shorebirds
by Mark Hudson

In Limantour Beach, in Port Reyes,shorebirds have flown far away.Because of king tides and mudflats,shorebirds fear a falcon attack.Despite the intense weather,a sander ling bird shows back feathers.He does that to prevent intruders,including human shooters.A marble godwit touches its mandible,showing that it’s an awesome animal.Two curlews fight over a crab,both competing to try and grab.The mole or sand crab is the keystone,the species in the wave-washed zone.In an area that is threatened with drought;these are species we can't do without.I hope the earth will survive what occurs,and life in all form will get to endure.

Poem Written on a Postcard
by C@SM0, la poeta

I watched the Sun go down today. But, so what?  You weren't there.  Then the Moon came up. For what?  You're not here.  Tomorrow they'll do it again.  So what?  I don't care.  The stars can all come crashing but it won't matter till you're near.   

Surrender
by Marjorie Rissman

will the last oak tree surrender its leavesbefore the first snow storm or heavy frost?will the fall clean-up be completed beforelandscapers head  home to warmer places?will the sound of snow blowers replace theleaf blowers capturing  last color until spring?will burning bushes shed  their flame red bodiesuntil spring green blossoms once more?

The Bakery
by Sharon Suzuki-Martinez

You take the ferry to the bakery at the end of the worldacross the road from the beginning. They have a great devil’s food cake made by angels with burnt-sugar eyes. Buttery pies, full of tart apples stolen from the groves of angry Norse gods. There’s also a plump brioche: a wish made flesh. You cradle the warm loaf in your arms. Maybe this delicacy is the future. Our fresh start. 
---

Originally published in The Loneliest Whale Blues (The Word Works, 2022)

Photograph by Jennifer Dotson

New Year
by Barbara Robinette

Beloved November waves goodbye as she drifts beyond the bend. Deep December ponders many meanings as a cedar is dug up, put into a pot filled with earthand brought into the house.  Its branches are decorated with lavender and dark purple ribbons and bows. Then January strides in as a queen arrayed in gold atop her steed.  Bells ring.  Fireworks explode as she descends from her horse and bows to us watching the parade. Her humility astounds us.  We wonder what the New Year will bring.

---
Previously published online by Whispers in the Wind, January 2017

First Birth
by Joseph Small

Multiverse ovulationUniversal eggBig BangDeafening cry of creationBlast of elementsFirst flash of lightRacing outwardPrimordial soupStardust swirlCarving out of nothingnessMystery Unfolding of everythingGift of agesAwe to be witnessedChild to be loved

Spirit Horse
by Dee Allen

Look, in patio light sphere in night’s black,Arachne’s love -- ambiguous, subtle,Toils, spins, winds, gathers and then circles back:Acrobatics in the imperceptible. So we too weave our love to level peaceThrough spindles blue disjoint from faint despair --Ideas’ elbows fixed in carbon seas --Illuminate our love in the rank air. Yet see! Iridian windows framed greenMark still our way with backward streaming rays.Let some illusions threadbare lead! We’ve seenHesperides’, Argo’s, and sweet Thule’s days. Thistle’s church, though deconsecrating Love,Signs still: “Opening Soon: Heavens Above!”

January
by Anthony Ward

What I once found depressingI now find refreshing,Facing down the past as I look to the future.A crisp new start to a brand-new year,That beguiling cycle of perpetuation. I now love the way light transcends through the hibernal months,How the barren declination of nature recedesAnd remains consoled by the mechanisms of nature’s dynamics.While the sun illuminates the darkness that thus transpires grey daysContrasting against the embossed white and engraved night,Where the trees stand barren though resilient against the inquisition. Through those absent nights of winterWhen the moon is framed by its own incandescence,Looking as if it has broken through a frozen fragmented skyThose elongated nights that splinter across the horizon,Feeling as if the whole firmament were about to fall upon youWith shards of light piercing your eyes from the blunt shadows,Causing you to lose sight of everything and be carried by soundsThat enforce the silence of your resistance.

Rod Raglin, Photographer

When Trees Go Bare
by Harlene Henry

By summer's end verdant trees sportemerald-hued Armani Napoli suitsmuscled shoulders   rangy limbs wavelanguorously flaunting their arborealabundance generated by plentifulfresh air   water   nourishment
Come autumn still-green leaves uncouplefrom their limbs to faint   fall   flutterfrolic upon the roughening groundwhile most perform a tantalizing week-by-day burlesque for oglersstunned to stillness by bacchanaliandisplays of Bulgari jewel tonescitrine, topaz, garnet, jade, turquoise, peridot, auburnmottled, speckled, stippledand the exquisite unflawedarchetype of the season'sruby red   sugar maple

Winter rime advancesgales  sleet  blizzardsattack ruthlesslyunencumberedstreamlinedunboundrevealedstrippedthe treestandsbarefreestill

Left Unsaid
by Carl "Papa" Palmer

As I enter his roomhe focuses upon me, silently begging me not to askof his absent roommate. Empty bed freshly made,side table tidy and neat, surrounding area clearedof anything personal in that part of the VA hospitalwhere patients go missing.    

Subtle
by Linette Rabsatt

It started with a smilea quiet blushed grina soft chuckleand this opened the doorbecause he retorted with a winkthe eye glance that touched her heartamazing that such subtle communicationcan radiate such powerful energyA "Hi" with no flick of the tonguea "Hey Love" without mouth movementjust eye glances and mouth curlingthat exchanged the message - the interestthere was no contemplationor no hesitationjust love in actionslove without fractions
---
Published on Linette Rabsatt's blog, Words of Ribbon on March 1, 2011

Photo by Terry Loncaric

Psychic Connection by Terry Loncaric

I am convinced animals have a psychic connection to death.When one of our cats died, the other catpaced and wailed until he lost his voice.He kept looking for his cuddle partner,until he observed the empty carrier,and realized his friend wasnever coming home.Another cat, a bossy alpha male,would taunt our nervous female cat, making her hiss and sputter constantly.Yet he was the first catto bow his head respectfullyand gently lick the top of her head as she took her last breath.

I have heard stories of dogsresting on the graves of theircanine companions as a wayof acknowledging their loss.Before they die, some animalsappear extra affectionate,knowing it is their last chanceto give and receive love.We humans try to convinceourselves we can overcomethe magnetic forces of death.Animals understand thatlove is stronger than death.They know what it isto live in the moment, to savor one last lick of love.We have so much to learnfrom our supposedly less evolved, spirituallytuned-in animal friends.

Cracked Mirrors
by Lynn West

Why hold on to an image ofMarilyn Monroe on a pedestal JFK lurking below, shirking moral dutyAs Jackie rakes her way through the tabloids
Everyman stands at the altarof himself Genuflecting to bits and pieces This and that of dreamsPassionate peddlers of schemes The faces of fame are 
smeared across screens We scream and cry whenthey die…but why?
Our heavy hearts are held by illusion In confusion we count coinsPut them in a bank thatholds no interest We look for securities with higher yields 
Our boxes half empty Our cup never fullAs green monstersplay hide and seekThey reek of greedas needy egos retreat into shadows
We look in mirrors at reflectionsSteamy breath speaksof regretAs we fret over age linesWe define ourselves by 
pictures painted by themines eye

The Day I Met the Painter
by R. M. Yager

Was long after the wordshad already been writtenthat best described the scene.I never tried reachingfor the painter’s handthere was no need towhisper my thoughtsthey were already inscribedinto the power of the imageI merely told the story…..
A wordsmith becamea stagehand offering scriptso powerful it almost burned the canvasthe artist’s fingers begged for my pen to coolyet phrases continuedspilling like chaosacross the four cornersof the portrait’s surface with intense emotionmy lines entwinedwith all we should feelwhat our eyes have seen

Arachnid and Iris
by Wilson F. Engel, III

Look, in patio light sphere in night’s black,Arachne’s love -- ambiguous, subtle,Toils, spins, winds, gathers and then circles back:Acrobatics in the imperceptible. So we too weave our love to level peaceThrough spindles blue disjoint from faint despair --Ideas’ elbows fixed in carbon seas --Illuminate our love in the rank air. Yet see! Iridian windows framed greenMark still our way with backward streaming rays.Let some illusions threadbare lead! We’ve seenHesperides’, Argo’s, and sweet Thule’s days. Thistle’s church, though deconsecrating Love,Signs still: “Opening Soon: Heavens Above!” 

Middle Child 
by Michael P. Wright

I have seen it all Both age paradigms - older and youngerOpinions vary and no excuses madeJudgments are surely stuck in their ways 
Different cultures acquiesced   The older siblings, more refined and opinionated The younger ones were loose and wild in their ways Being the middle child of nine, I mightily observe
Varying experiences from older and younger childrenPerhaps I saw it allI was proper and conformed to survive this way Younger siblings all went off on their own 
Alcohol trepidations were rampant The older brothers and sisters had more established marriagesThe younger were less strident about romance    No spouse and an increase in intelligence for me.  

Four-Leaf Clover
by D.C. Buschmann

Weeds plant themselves wherever they wish, not bound by norms and rules.Many have taken up residencein my designer flower pots on the patio in the moist, fertile soil of the mini fields left fallow where annuals normally grow.Upon closer inspection, I seeweeds are very diverse—many colors, shapes, and sizes. Some, very tall—like stalksof corn; others low to the groundand spread like ground cover; still others grow    in contained bunches of three-leaf clover. I've never found a potted four-leaf clover, though, as a child, I did find one in the yard. With no playmates around to witness it, I showed it to Mama. She was not impressed.I, therefore, congratulated myself, self-advocacy instinctual. I was the last girl my age  in the neighborhood to find one.In my mind, a milestone had been reached.It was important, then, to say to myself, "Well done!" I'm still waiting for the winged fairy
to appear with the promised pot of gold.

Snowflakes From on High 
by Beverly Seiffert

Snowflakes float down from the sky,Oh how beautiful- I sigh,An early winter seems very near,I smile when I think of a cup of Holiday cheer. Is it time already for my plants to sleep,For them to dream for weeks and weeks?I wonder how quickly time passes by,It seems months go by in the twinkling of an eye. I still remember digging in the soft ground,Smiling as I plant my bushes and flowers all around.Thinking of the beauty that in the Spring will be found,And  I thank the Lord for the beauty that abounds. So come Winter- I welcome you,Cover my tender plants with your frozen dew.Let your flakes of snow dance over their heads,As they dream of the warm summer days ahead. Now my garden is put to bed,So to my cup of tea and comfy chair I head,Where I can gaze outside and watch my garden sleep,Knowing that in the Spring to the sun up they will leap.

Artists & Poets included in the 2025 Winter Muses' Gallery

Dee Allen is African-Italian performance poet based in Oakland, California, who is active in creative writing and spoken word since the early 1990s. Allen is the author of nine books; his newest, Discovery (Southern Arizona Press). “In winter, I like to hibernate like bears. Instead of snow, the San Francisco Bay Area of Northern California gets rain each winter. And plenty of it. I enjoy the rain--as long as I'm not out in it. Besides, I'm a homebody by nature. During the colder months, I stay indoors, drink a hot cup of something, work on writing and watch old school film noir. Best time for the latter.”

Monica Kay Allen is a loving mom, professional organizer (https://linktr.ee/realisticreorganization), activist (https://www.panendit.com/), and poet (https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100088243687962), living in Eagan, Minnesota. Monica hopes her poetry helps others to feel less alone in this wild world.  

Marie Asner is an entertainment reviewer, poet and church musician. She gets inspiration for writing poetry from the early morning or early evening hours. Winter is especially good for shadow patterns on the snow. Summer trees provide a sense of motion for words to describe.

Isabelle Audiger is a 60 year old, published or self-published poetry and fiction writer, born in Normandy, France. In a previous life, she taught French and English in Canada, the UK, and France. Since 2011, she has been writing, consistently and stubbornly, poetry, youth or adult novels, and short stories, in French or in English. She lives in Les Sables d’Olonne, in the county of La Vendee, in the region of Les Pays de la Loire, in France. “I've always liked the winter time. Probably because I used to live in the country side as a child and could enjoy walks in the forest with friends, listening to the wind in the branches of the tall trees, or to the sound of our steps cracking the thin ice covering our favourite trails. Oh, and also because when we would come home, hot chocolate, creamy and rich, would be waiting for us, as if by magic, on the kitchen table. And you know what? Today, I'm the one doing the magic...”

Amy Barone’s latest poetry collection, Defying Extinction, was published by Broadstone Books in 2022 and New York Quarterly Books published her book, We Became Summer, in 2018. She savors all four seasons, especially winter with its chill and pure air. X: @AmyBBarone

Sr. Lutgardis Bonitz is a Benedictine nun currently residing in Germany. She has a passion for gardening, bee-keeping and photography.

Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published throughout the small and literary presses. He currently resides in Jefferson City, Missouri.

Paul Buccheit spends much of the winter in his cabin in the woods, reading and writing poetry. His most recent book of poetry is Paradise Lost: A Poetic Journey, published in 2024 by Wipf and Stock Publishers. His previous book of poetry, Sonnets of Love and Joy, which was published in August, 2023 by Kelsay Books, was named Book of the Year by the Illinois State Poetry Society.

D.C. Buschmann is a former teacher, the retired assistant editor of two NW Indiana magazines, and editor of several books. Her first collection of poems, Nature: Human and Otherwise, was published in February 2021. How does she survive the winter? With plenty of warm blankets and a thesaurus. 

Monica Cardestam became interested and dabbled in poetry in college as an English major where she was inspired by poets such as Langston Hughes and his poem “Hope” and Robert Frost and his poem “Stopping by the Woods on A Snowy Evening".  After years of setting aside her creative passions working long hours in the business world, she is now creating art, dabbling in photography, and writing poetry.  She loves the beautiful serenity of freshly fallen snow in winter and the hope for new life nestled under the snow to come in the spring.

Joseph Kuhn Carey, who loves the soft crunch of snow under his boots and occasionally zings snowballs at a big old Elm in his front yard to see if his throwing arm still has a bit of zip, has published two full-length travel poetry collections, “Postcards From Poland,” and “Black Forest Dreams.”  Joe is also the recipient of an ASCAP Deems Taylor Award for music-related journalism and he’s published a non-fiction book about jazz. In addition, he’s released two CD’s of original children’s songs and voted in the Grammy Awards from 2007-2020.  For more information about Joe, please go to www.blackforestdreams.com .

Srinjay Chakravarti is a writer, editor and translator based in Salt Lake City, Calcutta, India. A former journalist with The Financial Times Group, his creative writing has appeared in more than 150 publications in over 40 countries. His poetry has received the Salt Literary Award (1995) and a $7500 Dorothy Prize (2007). Website: www.srinjaychakravarti.com. Winter, for him, is a time of surreal foggy dawns, warm cozy quilts on cold nights, oranges, cakes and pastries, and picnics in and around his home city!

Jackie Chou is a writer from Southern California who has published two collections of poems, Finding My Heart in Love and Loss and The Sorceress. She likes winter because of the Christmas holidays and listening to all the carols that she grew up with playing on the radio.

Jan Chronister is a retired educator who heads to her garden for inspiration. She has published three full-length poetry collections and nine chapbooks. The battle with winters close to the shores of Lake Superior was lost, and Jan and her husband of 50-plus years now spend those months in Georgia. 

How C@$m0 received their name: "It was as if Mr. Free-Verse-Flowing met Miss Spoken-Word, went on a date, fell in love, and had a gender-neutral binary child-poet named, C@$m0 La Poeta." With those dark and mysterious eyes, some kind of artist, perhaps? No,  poet like those whose came before them to the great big city.

Amelia Cotter is an author, storyteller, and award-winning poet. Her books include the poetry collection apparitions, from Highland Park Poetry Press, and her haiku have appeared in journals like Frogpond, Modern Haiku, The Heron's Nest, tinywords, and many others. Amelia spends the long Chicago winters writing, dancing, baking, and enjoying cozy nights at home with her husband and their dog.

Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has twelve published chapbooks the latest being: Searching Stained Glass Windows For An Answer (Alien Buddha Publishing, December 2022).

It is fun to live where seasons are well-defined. Gail Denham often writes of their family ventures into deep snow--pulling kids behind the car, skiing, and hunting Christmas trees. Also she writes of imagined winter adventures. Winter can be a cozy time with friends or at home with a wood fire.

David Dephy is a Georgian - American award-winning poet and novelist. Poet-in-Residence for Brownstone Poets 2024-2025. His poem, “A Sense of Purpose,” is being sent to the Moon by The Lunar Codex, NASA, and Brick Street Poetry in 2024. He lives and works in New York. David notes, “There is some sort of blessing in disguise in winter; the breath of mystery dwells in it; every leaf in springtime is driven by that breath of resurrection. 

Elizabeth Diamond is originally from the suburbs but has called the green mountains home for many years. She has written poetry most of her life and hopes to share more of her thoughts and images with others, as other’s thoughts and images have helped and inspired her. Her favorite aspects of winter are when the world is quiet after the first big snowfall and curling up with hot tea and warm blankets at the end of the day. 

Charlotte Digregorio has authored seven books including Haiku and Senryu: A Simple Guide for All and Ripples of Air: Poems of Healing. The Governor of Illinois honored her in 2018 for her decades of literary achievements, and she blogs at www.charlottedigregorio.wordpress.com, where she posts The Daily Haiku, among other poetic forms. As for winter, she likes to watch icicles dazzle from the eave.

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). “While I don’t indulge often, I do love hot chocolate with whipped cream as a way to combat winter’s chill and darkness. My other winter survival tools are radiant floor heat and a fire in the fireplace.” 

J. K. Durick is a retired teacher, mostly literature and writing. “I’ve been wintering through winter for all these years – would miss the cold and snow of it.”

Wilson F. Engel, III is a Distinguished Poet in the UK and has been a prize-winning "Best Poet" for ten consecutive years in the USA.  His contributions to poetic form include a Horatian variation of the Shakespearean sonnet and the "silver print" form of six interlaced haiku.  The poet likes the range of winter experiences like Canadian migratory birds feasting on crabapples from the wet, black boughs around his hilltop home in Ohio.

Charlene S. Engel, Ph.D.

Michael Escoubas serves as contributing poet, senior editor and book reviewer for Quill and Parchment, a 23-year-old literary and cultural arts online poetry journal. In his role as book reviewer, he has written approximately 200 reviews. He is the author of six poetry collections. Michael survives winter by looking for and finding beauty in winter's shades and shadows and sculptures made of snow.

Sara Etgen-Baker is a teacher turned writer who has written a novel, (Secrets at Dillehay Crossing), a collection of memoirs (Shoebox Stories), and is currently compiling a chapbook of her poetry (Esemplastic).  Winter is her favorite season, for the cold temperatures, slower pace, and stillness provide her with the perfect opportunity for reflection, growth, and creative expression. 

Dana Fine is an acupuncturist in Glenview. She lives in Highland Park with her husband, two children and two dogs. She survives the winter by still visiting Rosewood beach and Heller Nature Center.

Biagio Fortini was born in Ripalta Cremasca, in the province of Cremona, Italy. His passion for photography has led him to travel to many countries around the world. His works are included in various anthologies and websites from Canada, the USA, Spain, Italy, Albania, and India, and they have been finalists in various literary and photographic competitions in Italy.

Barbara Anna Gaiardoni & Andrea Vanacore, known as gaia & vana, are life partners and creative collaboraters living in Verona, Italy. Barbara Anna Gaiardoni’ Japanese – style poetry has been published in 220 international journals and translated into 12 languages. Andrea Vanacore, a visionary photographer and videomaker, on haiga and shahai poetry.  

Dominique Galiano is originally from Chicago, currently in Des Plaines and works in Highland Park/Deerfield for District 113. Animal lover, tree hugger, and photographer, Dominique also facilitates a monthly drum circle in Arlington Heights. She explains: “The best part about winter for me, is staying in.”

Beejay Grob is an artist, writer, and veteran film crew in Wilmington, North Carolina. She is not a fan of old man winter!

Mark Hammerschick writes poetry and fiction. He holds a BA in English from the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana and a BS and MBA. He began writing in grade school and has contributed a number of poems to literary journals over the years and has been published sporadically. One of his favorite winter memories is building igloos in the backyard after the 1967 Chicago blizzard and remembering how perfectly quiet it was inside them.

Cynthia T. Hahn has published two books of poetry, Outside-In-Sideout (Finishing Line Press, 2010) and Coïncidences (with artist Monique Loubet, French-English self-translated, alfAbarre Press, 2014). She is a member of the Highland Park Poets and Bluff Coast Writers, and enjoys ekphrastic collaboration. She is an avid literary translator and musician, and has been teaching creative writing among other subjects in French at Lake Forest College since 1990.

Colleen McManus Hein writes poems in a cabin in the woods of northern Illinois. She survives winter by preheating her bed half an hour before climbing in.

Retired from a position in global communications writing trade journal articles, speeches, advertising and marketing materials, Harlene Henry has focused solely on composing poetry for the past twelve years. She is inspired by nature in all its moods, especially in winter with an infinite white to black light gradient through forests, and on frozen lakes and rivers.

Ali Heydayati, a Fulbright alumnus and former Persian FLTA at NYU, is dedicated to fostering cultural and linguistic connections. He believes that winter, with its quiet beauty, enriches life’s joys and makes the arrival of spring all the more brilliant. Through his work, Ali inspires others to appreciate both the seasons and the diverse cultures of the world.

Bing Hua, born Lu Lihua, is a Chinese-American poet.  She has been called “the queen of love poetry.”  Her poetry collections include February’s Rose (2022, in English translation by Xu Yingcai ), Selected Poems of Bing Hua (2019, in English and Chinese translation by Xu Yingcai), This Is Love (2013), and Roses by the Stream(Chinese version first published in 2008; republished in both Chinese and English in 2019 in translation by Wang Dajian).  As co-editor her volumes include Best Modern and Contemporary Chinese Poetry and Best Overseas Chinese Poetry. Bing says, “The holiness of winter makes me love my home Earth even more.” 

Mark Hudson is a local poet in Evanston. The thing he likes most about winter is Christmas, the birth of Jesus and seeing his wonderful sister, husband, niece and nephew. Mark adds, “It can snow on Christmas, but other than that, I hope it's not too cold.”

Year round, Julie Isaacson enjoys writing poetry in the realm of family and life observations, serious and humorous. She participates in many literary opportunities offered on the North Shore. She also encourages creative adventures in writing with her students of all ages. Julie perceives winter as a time of cyclical beauty and a welcome marker of time to celebrate holidays with family and friends. (Full disclosure: Part of her winter will be spent in L.A. with warm grandson hugs).

Martha Ellen Johnson lives alone in an old Victorian house on a hill on the Oregon coast where the winters are mild and where she celebrates a rare thin layer of snow as a pitiful reminder of the gorgeous glistening snowy hills appearing overnight as if by magic in her beloved Chicago home. She holds an MFA and is a retired social worker whose poems and prose have been published in many journals and online forums. She writes to process her wild life. 

Growing up in a large family with parents who were hardworking, family oriented and big on fun, Deborah Joan Jones relished the cozy winters she shared with loved ones at her home throughout her childhood. Today, being with family remains her first love and the highlight of the festive period for her. The warmth felt being surrounded by all her favorite people gets her through the cold months of winter.

Richard V. Kaufman is an ancient, incurable, and unrepentent word addict. In summer he may be spotted on local park benches. He likes to go to St. Pete Beach in the winter. Wherever you find him, approach at your own risk; he might talk you to death.

Irma Kurti is an Albanian poet, writer, lyricist, journalist, and translator and has been writing since she was a child. She is a naturalized Italian and lives in Bergamo, Italy. All her books are dedicated to the memory of her beloved parents, Hasan Kurti and Sherife Mezini, who have supported and encouraged every step of her literary path.

Terry Loncaric of Hampshire, Illinois, has written 4 books of poetry. She loves winter sweaters and warm winter drinks, especially Bailey's and coffee.

Former ISPS President William Marr is a Chinese-English bilingual poet who has authored over 30 poetry collections and translations. His poems have been included in school textbooks in Taiwan, mainland China, the United Kingdom, Germany, and other places. His two recent bilingual books are A Dreamless Night and Every Day a Blue Sky—Humorous and Satirical Poetry. 

Karian Markos is a Greek American poet, fiction writer, and nonprofit attorney. Her first book of poetry, Esemplastic: Many and One, awarded the 2024 Prairie State Poetry Prize, was published August 1, 2024 by Highland Park Poetry Press. Karian’s work has appeared in Carmina Magazine, Hemingway Shorts Literary Journal, Living Crue Magazine, Prairie Light Review, Highland Park Poetry, Bombfire, and elsewhere. Karian says, “Three essentials to survive a long Chicago winter: good books, a warm fireplace, and a Scrabble partner with an extensive vocabulary.”

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, and At Work are available on Amazon.com. A new title Light & Shadows has recently been released.  

Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with poems published in hundreds of magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. The winner of the 2020 Libretto prize and author of four poetry collections and seven chapbooks, his poems have also been broadcast and performed globally.  

A writer for thirty-five years, Adrian McRobb has written three books and 2,436 poems, most of which have been published. Recently unlucky enough to contract cancer, this has had the effect of making him write more, just in case... Adrian adds that he just paid an enormous sum to replace the window by the easy chair he sits in so he won’t freeze. While he admits to being frugal, “I will spend anything to keep warm.”

Jen Meyer is a creative type who lives in snow lovely Highland Park, IL, where she enjoys trudging through the white stuff on winter mornings with her pet, Kipper the Dog.  She lives by the old adage, 'no bad weather, just bad gear'.  She's found that to be true most of the time.  Sometimes, though, it's good to hang out at home with a cup of tea.

Howard Moon is a Central Florida  writer and poet who has appeared in multiple books, collections, and anthologies. He is of Native heritage. He is a brain injury survivor, diagnosed with hemiplegia, and suffers from mental illness. And speaks out as an advocate for those with mental illness and disabilities. https://howmoon.com/

Maybe it's his December birthday that has Howard Nemeroff embracing winter; or, it could be gifted clothes that have always been weather friendly?  Despite visible breath, he marvels at winter in his comfy clothes with strong black coffee.

Carl “Papa” Palmer of Old Mill Road in Ridgeway, Virginia, lives in University Place, Washington. He is retired from the military and Federal Aviation Administration (FAA), enjoying life as “Papa” to his grand descendants and being a Franciscan Hospice volunteer. Papa enjoys his mild winters of the Pacific Northwest with rain rather than snow.

Rene Parks is a LaSalle County poet, educator, and visual artist focused on themes central to ecofeminism, healing with nature, and folk stories. She received a BA and MA in English from Governors State University and an MFA in poetry from Lindenwood University.

Ann Privateer is an artist, photographer, and poet. She grew up in the Midwest and now resides in California, where this poem took place while riding horses with a friend.

Donna Pucciani taught English, music and humanities in secondary schools and colleges before retiring to write, travel, study, and explore her Italian genealogy.. She is the author of several chapbooks and six books of poetry, most recently EDGES. She loves living in a place with four seasons, and in winter enjoys the crisp cold, the tracery of branches against a grey sky, and the wonder of falling snow.

Linette Rabsatt is a Virgin Islands poet with roots in the BVI and USVI who began writing in 1996. You can find her work in her Kindle book, "Be Inspired: Poems by Linette Rabsatt," on her blog, Words of Ribbon and in various online publications. She spent one winter in Ithaca, New York and enjoyed those days when the sun came out brightly because it changed everyone's mood to happiness.

Rod Raglin is a journalist, photographer, editor of an online community newspaper and author of thirteen self-published novels, a collection of short stories and two plays. Rod explains, “I survive winter like I now survive all the rest of the seasons – with reflection on what I once was able to do and how age has diminished that ability. From my living room window can see the North Shore Mountains and every winter I’d wait for the first snow to dust their peaks (this year it was November 1st). That meant it was time to prepare my gear; wax the backcountry skies, sharpen the ice axe and crampons, slather the snowshoe bindings and Italian leather climbing boots with mink oil and freshen all those mitts, neck gaiters and wool sweaters for the adventures on their slopes and peaks that lay ahead.”

Marjorie Rissman is very active in local poetry organizations and serves as an administrator of Highland Park Poetry, treasurer of East on Central Association, and treasurer of Illinois State Poetry Society. She survives winter by wearing lots of polar fleece, staying home to write poems, doing jigsaw puzzles, and cooking pots of soup. By March she flees to California or Florida for a week of warmer weather.

Barbara Robinette has read and written poems since President Kennedy’s assassination when someone read “Oh Captain, My Captain” during the horse-drawn funeral procession.  She thinks poetry is for everyday, working people and keeps that audience in mind when writing her poems. Many dark winter afternoons are spent happily looking out the window in thankfulness for her warm home and for the poems within her many books, including John Greenleaf Whittier’s “Snow Bound.”

Sandy Rochelle is a widely published poet, actress and narrator. She is a voting member of the Recording Academy in the Spoken Word Category. Publications include One Art, Dissident Voice, Verse Virtual, Connecticut River Review, and others. 

David J. Rogers is the author of nine non-fiction books. He has been a university instructor, a contributing editor to five national magazines, and a popular public speaker. He publishes a popular blog - davidjrogersftw.com - whose purpose is to provide useful knoweldge to writers and artists. He spends much of his most enjoyable time studying and writing poetry.

Miriam Sagan & Isabel Winson-Sagan are the creative team known as the Maternal Mitochondria, mother and daughter living in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Isabel’s photographs and their writing are from the project, “Scarf Installation,” composed of three images and five poems.

Carl Scharwath has appeared globally with 175+ journals selecting his writing or art. Carl has published four poetry books and his latest book is The World Went Dark, published by Alien Buddha Press. Carl has four photography books, published with Praxis and CreatiVingenuitiy. His photography was exhibited in the Mount Dora and Leesburg Centers for the Arts. Carl is currently an art editor at Glitterati and former editor for Minute Magazine. He was nominated for four Best of the Net Awards (2021-25). 

L.B. Sedlacek's latest poetry books are Organic Soup and Unresponsive Sky. She survives winter weather by reading a stack of books and swimming (indoors) at her local pool!

Bev Seiffert wrote her first poem in 2016. She was newly retired and was so surprised to discover this new creative chapter in her life. Since then she has written over 250 poems.

Joseph Small studied poetry writing under the tutelage of Paul Hoover and Paul Carroll.  He continued to write poetry throughout a long career in the travel industry.  He has also published a book a poetry titled, Bare Witness.

Sharon Suzuki-Martinez won the Washington Prize for her latest book, The Loneliest Whale Blues (The Word Works), and the MVP Prize for her first book, The Way of All Flux (New Rivers Press). Her micro-chapbook is A Glimpse of Birds over O’odham Land (Rinky Dink Press). She lives in Tempe, Arizona on the traditional homeland of the Akimel O’otham. SharonSuzukiMartinez.com

A wife, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, Lori Wall-Holloway’s poetry has appeared in several publications that include Agape Review, Highland Park Poetry and Four Feathers Press. Having weathered unexpected storms in her life that forced her to grow, she hopes to impart learned wisdom through her poetry in order to bring hope to others whenever they face tempests in their lives. 

Anthony Ward tends to fidget with his thoughts in the hope of laying them to rest. He has managed to lay them in a number of establishments, including Shot Glass Journal, Jerry Jazz Musician, and CommuterLit. “I find as much beauty in winter as any season. I love the grey pink hues of a winter's sunrise and the lens flare of the sun as it follows close to the horizon. The skeletal trees and decaying floral architecture, giving rise to the freshness of new starts like an untrodden field of snow.”

Lynn Weitz grew up on the North shore. She wrote her first poem at camp for a Fourth of July contest. Writing has always  been a way to express what she is thinking and feeling.  Lynn explains, "I love winter paintings. At an antique mall I bought a snow picture. While cleaning it, out fell an original Edward Curtis  1903 photo of Native Americans. I brought it to the Antique Road Show."

Damaris West’s poetry has appeared in many publications, such as The Lake, Blue Unicorn, Ink, Sweat & Tears and The Friday Poem and has been placed in several competitions. She was originally from England, spent thirteen years in mountainous rural Umbria, central Italy, and now lives in South-West Scotland, close to the sea. There is (sadly) little snow in this relatively sheltered part of Scotland, but often a heavy frost, sparkling on grass and fallen leaves - for her the most beautiful phenomenon of winter. https://damariswest.site123.me

Lynn West is a poet, photographer and a singer. You can see her caroling on a brisk winter night at local holiday festivals. Also, keep an eye out for poetry programs she hosts at The Art Center of Highland Park.

Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue is a retired high school English and ESL teacher living in beautiful Fort Worth, Texas. He has had poems published in Concho River Review, The Texas Observer, Borderlands, California Quarterly, Book of Matches Literary Review, and two anthologies of Texas poetry. “Living in North Texas, I love everything about winter -- the occasional snow and how excited, even silly, we all get about it. Most importantly, winter means we're no longer suffering through a Texas summer with 100-plus degrees for umpteenth days in a row. What's not to like!”

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her poetry 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. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Lynn says, “I’m a sunshine person – warm or cold are both good so long as the skies are blue!”

Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet, twice nominated for Best of the Net. Poetry has helped him rediscover imagery and creative expression erased by a 43-year career of academic writing. His work has been published in a variety of online and print outlets.

Michael P. Wright says, “I am being published and a great thrill it is. I have been writing for Highland Park Poetry since 2008 and I love it. Thanks for the opportunity. I am always looking for that masterpiece.”

R.M. Yager writes about marginalized and at risk populations, she loves to push the envelope with difficult uncomfortable topics, but still loves whimsy and nature  and  revers the innocence of childhood. She spent over half her life in the field of healthcare as a nurse, special ed teacher and clinical research coordinator in compassionate drug trials for children. Her prose poems have been published within the United States as well as internationally. Her work “The Day I Met the Painter” was inspired by the painter Titus Kaphar, who depicts the tragic loss of the disappearance of the children of Black Mothers.

2025 Winter Muses' Gallery - Poets' & Artists'Choice

Winter Vespers by Michael Escoubas

Winter's Crystals by Monica Kay Allen

Motivation by Isabelle Audiger

Storm of '78 by Colleen McManus Hein

Winter Solstice by Rod Raglin

Wild Weather by Lynn White

Curriculum Vitae by Donna Pucciani

Winter Watch

by Joan McNerney

1950's Sitcom Mom by Jan Chronister

Lessons of Motherhood by Dana Fine

Free Birds* by Jen Meyer

Square Peg Speaks

by Julie Isaacson

untitled by Miriam Sagan

You As Your Own Magnum Opus by L. B. Sedlacek

Dream Periscope By Srinjay Chakravarti

Dreamscape By Jackie Chou

Sophistries by Beejay Grob

Arrived

by Dominique Galiano

Peace is Flowing by Ann Privateer

Earth Speaks Cinquain by Howard Moon

Hymn By Carl Scharwath

Meditation by Sandy Rochelle

My Brother by Lynn Weitz

Graveyard Shift (Sherman, 1981) by Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue

The Object in the Streetlight: A Writer's Birth by David J. Rogers

Reflection by Lori Wall-Holloway

Self-Discovery by Michael H. Browntein

Winter Moment by Paul Buchheit

Spaces by Sarah Etgen-Baker

Bend by Elizabeth Diamond

growing wings by linda m. crate

Event Planner by Marie Asner

Andy by Amelia Cotter

At Sunset by Charlotte Digregorio

Illuminated Places by Martha Ellen Johnson

Forest of Poetry —— For William Marr’s painting “Forest of Poetry” By Bing Hua Translation by Liu Mei

Sanctuary by Gail Denham

The Corner and Back by J. K. Durick

Réttir by Amy Barrone

The Glassblowers of Eswatini by Joseph Kuhn Carey

A Promising Morning by William Marr

Hawthorn by Damaris West

Just Another Brick in the Wall by Mark Hammerschick

Inhabited by a Polar Bear by Peter A. Witt

Event Horizon by Bruce McRae

Plan "D" by Adrian McRobb

Ephemeral by Ali Hedayati

Armageddon by Richard V. Kaufman

Rebirth by René Parks

To Draw the Body Together by Howard Nemeroff

Joy by Deborah Joan Jones

My Heart by Irma Kurti

On the Beaten Path by Karian Markos

D Train by David Dephy

Shorebirds by Mark Hudson

Transitory by Cynthia T. Hahn

Reunion by Cynthia T. Hahn

Poem Written on a Postcard by C@SM0, la poeta

Surrender by Marjorie Rissman

The Bakery by Sharon Suzuki-Martinez

New Year by Barbara Robinette

First Birth by Joseph Small

Spirit Horse by Dee Allen

January by Anthony Ward

Two Peas by Monica Cardestam

When Trees Go Bare by Harlene Henry

Left Unsaid by Carl "Papa" Palmer

Subtle by Linette Rabsatt

Psychic Connection by Terry Loncaric

Cracked Mirrors by Lynn West

The Day I Met the Painter by R. M. Yager

Arachnid and Iris by Wilson F. Engel, III

Middle Child by Michael P. Wright

Four-Leaf Clover by D.C. Buschmann

Snowflakes From on High by Beverly Seiffert

Doomsday Clock, an Espinela by Jennifer Dotson