Ashley Knowlton Sprouting Specks Freckles sprinkle the top of my son’s nose– distinct like the rings of a tree, telling how many summers he’s spent under the sun and in the dirt with digging hands and dusty toes. Sapling…
Browsing: Poetry
Marin Smith Just One Last Question Before We Say Goodnight By the way, Mom, she says, where did life come from? Well, I say, unsure where to start, There are many cultures with many answers to that question. Some…
Jennifer Hernandez Chrysalis Stretched in his twin bed, my youngest son, eleven, lies wrapped in pale green. The rest of us awake for hours. But it’s summer, nowhere urgent to be. I let him sleep. This journey is not…
Bethany Jarmul A Moment, A Memory I’m sitting on a porch chair on our back deck, which is covered with autumn leaves. Near my feet, my daughter crawls amongst them—shuffle, crinkle, shuffle, crinkle. The wind whips my hair, swirls…
Kimberly Ramos Reflection, But Shuffled When night slips into my bed and once again / the world is a place with no edges / I remember you are my first homeland / You, Missouri girl of cattle and birthing…
Abby E. Murray Heirloom I’m driving while talking to my eight-year-old about how even good people can be jerks sometimes and there’s a pause then she asks from her booster seat in the back but how come you’ve never…
Poetry Prompts by Anne Graue Anne Graue’s April Poem-a-Day Challenge Yes, it’s National Poetry Month again, and poets everywhere are thinking about writing a poem a day to celebrate while others are compiling lists of prompts to share with those…
Sherine Gilmour Tired Parent Wanting Poem I want to be in a hot tub filled with macaroni and cheese. I want to be sleeping alone in a large bed. I want to be surfing the Internet for new shoes,…
You thought you heard a whale, a wail, a wailing. Assumed a woman’s voice, a stance to view the mess. —Alise Alouisi, “I Am Not Your Mother” The poems in the MOTHERS RESPOND folio refuse to look away from landscapes…
Angelique Zobitz A woman walks into the woods—seeking strength and she finds a metaphor in the woods a brown twig snaps, motes dance dead things give way to new now never—not—husk or shell she’ll stretch so far that she…