The Deadly Christmas Curse
by William Doreski
A spark from my woodstove fire
ignites a revolution
six thousand miles away. Workers
unite, gnashing gears. Cities flash
their lights in warning. Snow storms
attempt but fail to extinguish
the ruling passions. I deploy
bird feeders in the icy dawn.
Chickadees, titmice, goldfinch
cluster for seed. Gunfire halfway
around the world doesn’t frighten
or discourage them. Frontiers shift,
but trees remain rooted and sigh
with that graceful exasperation
I wish I could emulate. Plows
hack up and down the road. The snow
falls at such an oblique angle
it sketches runes in the pine tops,
verse as primal as cave art.
I want to drive to St. Petersburg
and throw myself in the Neva.
I could swim all the way to Finland.
The scent of wood smoke triggers
fantasies shaped like Freud’s cigar.
The moving frontiers roll over me
as I shovel snow from the deck.
Nations stumble over me and curse
the deadly Christmas curse, fouling
my appetite. A car crash
a hundred miles away erases
a friend I hadn’t yet befriended,
an earthquake shudders an ocean,
and the star the Wise Men followed
shines through the cloudy daylight
so boldly I don’t dare speak.
Bio: William Doreski's work has appeared in various e and print journals and in several collections, most recently The Suburbs of Atlantis (AA Press, 2013).
Winter's Bed
by Eira Needham
Snowflakes
spill from
yawning skies.
Delicate lace doilies
drifting
down,
embracing earth's turf mattress
with a flurry
of shimmering sheets.
As temperature
tumbles,
frosted spangles
scatter,
to pillow terra firma and glisten
the quilt for earth's quiescence.
Bio: Eira Needham is a retired teacher and lives in Birmingham UK with her husband and Dalmatian Max. Her poetry is eclectic and has been published in print and online. Some forthcoming publications are Cyclamens and Swords and Shine Journal. Also, she was a Featured Writer in WestWard Quarterly Spring Issue.
Offerings
by Tim Marsh
I.
She offered the crescent
He wanted the moon
She could spare only a brief glimpse
He wanted so much more
and it showed
And she showed him --
the door
II.
Setting moons casting orange
glow in the west
Reflecting the warmth of a rising sun
in the east
III.
She doesn’t call or e-mail anymore
But the songs often visit
Giving him pause
Shuddering and goosebumping
But it’s just not the same.
Bio: Tim Marsh is an aspiring writer living and working in Southern California.
