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Poetry 1 Winter 2014




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

spill from
yawning skies.
Delicate lace doilies
embracing earth's turf mattress
with a flurry
of shimmering sheets.

As temperature
frosted spangles
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.









  by Tim Marsh



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


Setting moons casting orange

glow in the west

Reflecting the warmth of a rising sun

in the east


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.