We asked for your original poems reflecting on 2024. Read them here.

Another year is gone, and here at NHPR, we wanted to celebrate with poetry.

We asked for your original poetry reflecting on 2024 — the ups, the downs, the moments of joy and the hardships — and many of you shared your work with us.

State Poet Laureate Jennifer Militello read all of the submissions and joined NHPR’s All Things Considered host Julia Furukawa to reflect on some of them.

Editor's note: We highly recommend listening to the audio above.

Crocus — Cherie Green

Wonders of Store — Lynn Chong

Winter Solstice — Judith Abbe

Her first wheelchair — Reverie Koniecki

Auction Sale — Adele V. Sanborn

The Year Of Loss: 2024 — Erine Leigh

Christology — Douglas MacNeil

Election Day 2024 — Charlotte Matthews

2024; A Replay — Ronald Jackowitz

haikus in memory of Mom — Pam Sinotte

Poem Composed from Notes Taken During an October Walk in the Heald Tract  — Richard Widhu

We The People — Cathy George

Wild Kittens — Jody Wells

Still — Monica Jagentenfl

Eclipsed — Carlene M. Gadapee

bright red blood in the fresh white snow — Michele Tremblay

A stone upon the cairn — Susan Giusto

Sins of the Father — J. L. Long (Julian Long)

Working Man — John Lindberg

2024 — S. Stephanie

The ghosts of winter — Jeff Powell

Home for the Holidays — Harold Rosen

2024, Post Election — Marjorie Moorhead

Two Movie Projectors — Brenna Manuel

The Curse of the White Pickup — Tara Marvel

Wheel of Life — Will Conway

At Home in 2024 — Keiselim A. Montás

Where do I go now? — Sophia Budhathoki

fallow — Ann Roe

A Week after yet another Cyanobacteria Watch on the Lake — Carla Schwartz

Foreshadowing the Skies — Carla Schwartz and Clayton E. Clark

Aftermath — Maria Pacelli

Post Results — Brenda Wilbert

Old Roads in the Fall — Edward Huse

2024 POLITICAL SABBATICAL — Dianalee Velie

River of Time — Betsy Snider

My Woodstove Enigma — Rob Fried

2024, My Year of Healing — Wendy Jensen

November 6, 2024. The election results are in and the candidate noted for his orange complexion has won.  — Ed Pacht

2024: Hearts Filled With Hope — Ellie Epstein-White

Poem for Hvaldimir — Catherine O’Brian

They Dance — Tom Keegan

Thermodynamics — Rob Pinsonneault

Why Poetry? — Joan T. Doran

Ponder the audacity

Of a crocus

Its fragile sails billowing

In the wind chill

Asserting its preposterous

existence through

The dismal dregs of

Snow that you suspect

Won't be the last of the year.

Here is a flower with faith,

A plant that believes in

Impossibilities

Like itself, and because it believes,

It rises yearly at this

Inauspicious time

Like one briefly dead, like the

First fruits of them that sleep. 

— Cherie Green

All kinds of V-8 juice on its shelf, that juice aisle.

Rumford Baking Powder, I need for Christmas-cookies --

so recessed on the high shelf I must ask a tall stranger

coming along to reach me one, please! I'm too short!

Sardines, fresh beets with greens, Bragg's Nutritional Yeast, cocoa.

Soup cans. Peanut butter jars. Wonders! Now a shabby man

ahead of me is down to counting out his pennies. Clerk stands patiently,

with this down-and-outer buying only beer, loose cans of it.

I see the brand name, Daddy-O. Wha? Makes me smile.

I catch his eye and say, What a funny brand name! Enjoying

his choice -- but busy with his backpack, he doesn't get it.

Then he does! Straightens, laughs and says, Tastes good too!

So our clerk smiles, her genuine self coming through,

careful neutrality busted. We three wise up, enjoy our scene.

— Lynn Chong

Oh darkness, thank you for

your rest.

Your invitation to slow down, consider,

allow for emergence of

what rests in the darkness.

In the darkness rests the capacity

  for light.

They create one another, as

  the seed creates the blossom,

and blossom creates seed.

— Judith Abbe

It was hospital blue and constructed of rectangles, from seat, to back, to the delicate geometry encircling her too-large head. my mother explained her condition to me as water on the brain. I see waves of fluid crashing against the cove of her skull. I understand that she was born like this. My mother tells me to pray because only god can help her. And so we pray like dying sinners. I expect to wake one morning and find her sitting up in bed, head no longer strained under the weight of ocean. She smiles, and we play, speaking the language only sisters know. Yet each day brings the same stone god that sentenced my mother to being alone. In the blue wheelchair, we are almost free. I push her, and she laughs without restraint. This is how superheroes are born. Her vehicle—a chariot trailing fire that I navigate around the sharp corners of our apartment. I whisper all of my songs in her ear. She coos and claps as if to say I love you, I love you, I love you.

— Reverie Koniecki

It happened so fast

but months to prepare

The gavel lowered

The price was paid

and the last cow was

lead out of the barn

and on to the truck

now mornings will take a new shape

no longer hurried to start the day

comfort perhaps

until new questions challenge

months to prepare

happening so fast

the gavel lowered

the price paid

and the last cow was

lead from the barn

to the truck

mornings will take a new shape

no hurry to start the day

comfort perhaps

until new questions challenge

— Adele V. Sanborn

No grapes grew upon the lush and creeping vine, No apples flourished, plump-formed upon spreading limbs.

The mountain laurel hardened its own ovoid buds; for the fairest iris, a wait in vain.

It was more than my set-back body while pain and numbness prevailed.

It was more than my flagging stores,

More than my attempts to work as before that failed.

It was a brooding sense throughout the year that evil, like worms that sever roots, poisoned the soil.

Rivals of just ideologies stalked the very air waves, no one knew how to resist or what to say.

The animals sensed it as they stopped in their tracks and stared, Then whirl’d to scatter to a safer place.

Women were gathered like cattle, bribed, menially contained for later use.

Their psyches crushed and packaged, persuaded away from their worth.

While men pretended to dislike an outcome, yet padded their pockets with ill-gotten gain.

Look who has the reins of our nation in their grasping hands, Look what fools we breed when greed is the template for our every action.

Even the poets desire to be on stage, to be more than needed and heard, But also lauded and praised.

Yet without the grapes and apples, without the pollinating bees, what chances without beauty and flowers, herbs for taste and trees for shade, mushrooms for messaging and a deep seated reverent perception for nature’s ways?

We shall see sterility cover our country and in the years to come a defiant inner revolution. Tend to the best in your selves and waste not your strength punching at pillows.

It’s a thing of the moment to stay kind, the moments counting us down to our piths, through our rinds.

Find your peeps, your loves within reach, makers rise!

Find me in the land of dense fog and high tides, a generative nest to chase ideas and crack open the last egg of my life; come seek me there and we will walk beneath eagles, watch for whales’ breech, take note of the preservation of species that interact in harmony, instead of ours which harms-many.

We may eat simply and respond to elemental forces, wind and water, not the voices of a news report, filling us with images of violence.

We will instead focus on participation in moonrise, the lifting, setting, and colorful variations of celestial lights.

The fruits of our labors appreciated, peace held within our minds And within cooperative communities, we’ll adapt to challenging times.

— Erine Leigh

Habitually broken,

And she’ll likely die that way.

I recently walked in on her

And she was crying as she held a flower and I asked her why?

It’s dying, she said.

While the bouquet on the table appeared blossoming in the vase, Red

Like the blood clotting in her veins.

Yellow and orange, like the sun rising at dawn

Lighting the darkness, infiltrating the water.

And the cats still won’t come out from

Underneath the couch, and I

Don’t know how to reach them?

Because the wind wailing over the waters of the lake,

have kept us up all night,

While the snow piled, and piled, and piled against the side of the house.

The star absent the earth too early, deserting me

Four p.m. and I’m in darkness.

And the cannons rumble in the distance of my mind,

A summer storm that never ends,

Flashes lightening, rains poison,

Burning capacity for love, till plumes…black,

Dot the horizon and Coalesce into a Devine Comedy.

And the madness of Christology pushes in,

Pulses vertigo, falling

Neither left nor right, neither

Up nor down, but

A house collapsing in the interior and

I lean into the rose to smell,

And what registers is the fear in the lies of beauty, and

In the truth of the sadness of the

Resurrection,

God is a presence that protects us from Nothing,

Listening to Modest mouse sing

The Good Times are Killing Me,

And I see her as she smiles, and I watch her there as she then cries,

And I know not how to reach her.

— Douglas MacNeil

The day before my mother would have turned 90,

the vacuum stopped working. At first, I thought I’d give up

on the thing until I remembered

my mother had her Electrolux for 40 years.

I write to the customer service department,

and the response I get is so warmhearted,

I am reminded that great integrity still exists.

After they thank me for my missive,

they say they are sorry to hear the issue persists.

They say it may be a battery problem.

They listened. They gave a best guess,

which is all any of us can do.

It makes me want to banish all regret

and realize that sometimes light becomes

more light at the very moment we need it most.

Today, we vote for a new president,

and the whole country is holding its breath.

One friend wrote it’s like we are all stuck

at an airport gate, not knowing our final destination.

Another said it’s like we’re all waiting on biopsy results.

The vacuum customer service ends the email by saying they want

to assure me that they will do all they can to make it right again.

They end the note: Unfortunately, there are situations

where we are unable to accommodate all requests.

How apt is that for this day?

— Charlotte Matthews

Of years past repeated like

The lyrics of those same old songs

Informing of war and famine

Loss of faith and a declining planet

Though over time’s passage

The names may change but man’s DNA

Remains the same, his predilection

For greed, power and violence

Consumes him and the world like

A sponge soaking up the blood

Spilled by his victims, the wailing of

The immigrants ignored by the

Deaf ears of autocrats and dictators

Though the chilling sounds of

Tractors and chain saws welcomed

By captains of industry and those bent

On profiting by deforestation as

Indigenous peoples and animals’ scurry

To find a new home in a shrinking habitat

All of which indelibly stamps 2024

As part of a continuum that began

During man’s infancy culminating in

The previous twelve months raising

Questions of whether we can stop the

Madness before time runs out

As we head toward our own demise

— Ronald Jackowitz

liver-spotted hands

planted, kneaded, smoothed the sheets

now still, forever

buried in your coat

wool and eternity hold you

the thought brings comfort

the rose in water

cold fingers plucked from the spray

a pink remembrance

chick-a-dee-dee-dee

everything and nothing changes

you sing, regardless

— Pam Sinotte

     
Far below nestles a pond, framed by Maples,

glistens with sunsparkle wavelets dancing.

Waterlily leaves, now pale, matte and dull.

Dark Reed hummocks left high and dry.

It’s been weeks since a good rain.

Up here in the sunflooded meadow, wildflowers I know —

Chicory true blue star lasting late,

Goldenrod wrongly blamed for hayfever,

Aster many iterations of glory.

Queen Anne’s Lace royal white umbrella opened

for Social Ant, Native Bee nectaring.

Their names are poetry intended for

those who stop to listen.

In the White Pine cathedral, degrees cooler,

accents of White Birch interspersed.

My feet cushioned by needles — soft, not sharp

fallen from high above, where dwell Owl,

Warbler, Red Squirrel safe from my presence,

my interruption, the unwelcome guest.

I contour a sidehill, darkened with Hemlocks who,

like myself, prefer emerald ravines, the North aspect of things.

Clamber across puzzle of cobbles strewn haphazard.

Pick my way with caution across a silent watercourse which

hopes to be reawakened by next spring’s snowmelt.

Entering a sunlit clearing I’m announced by

Bluejay’s raucous alarm system.

Skreek, ragged cry, of Hawk who takes to silent flight —

gray blur moving across screen of still-green Beech leaves.

Sparrow flock suddenly flits up and out from gleaning seeds.

I try a Barred Owl call — silence answers —

what arrogance of me disturbing Her daytime reverie.

Huffing panting upward, heart thumping in my ears,

I sit on a log fallen across a stone wall snaking uphill.

Wall from centuries-dead settlers who stole, claimed, cleared land

then abandoned their failed farms.

Land now reclaimed by Hemlocks and glades of Ferns

whose sweetness rises in the warm air,

recalling memories of my childhood woods.

Finally atop Fisk Hill I look Eastward gazing over fields,

woodlots, streams to a pale blue ridge stretching North-South

under one white puff of cloud.

I ponder the ridge, granite dominant of all below persisting long after us,

we who wander these trails, we who marvel at these wonders.

How long for White Pine, Hawk, Red Squirrel, Native Bee?

How long for Queen Anne’s Lace?

— Richard Widhu

                                                  
Almost everyone on the train is kind.

Can I help you lift that?

Will you watch my bag while I…

Do you want anything from the café car?

I’ll make this call short, promise.

Rummaging for ear buds

we bond over the annoying volume that person speaks.

Our conductor tangles his words over the loudspeaker -

laughs at himself and we all laugh with him.

We the people

Not knowing who voted for whom

are momentarily getting along - -

Knowing we are divided and cut-throat.

The flag-free train barrels onward

God’s clanging cradle rocks back and forth

lulling us in voter anonymity.

News flash federal appointments

stir fears of autocracy

violence could erupt

among peaceful travelers --

For a moment

up the eastern seaboard

differences that make oneness unimaginable

briefly dissolve - -

we share the same destination

hope to arrive whole.

— Cathy George

This morning, ice in the bird bath as I crush

through the lawn of ice crystals. A North wind hovers at my neck.

The leaves have begun to ripen and escape.

On the woodpile, two kittens crouch

one is a Tabby with a furry little face and hazel green eyes

the smaller black has white paws Or… were there three?

I set out a rusty Have a Hart Trap with a dish of tuna.

Heard that stinky mackerel draws them in. Then, I lay a thick old Indian blanket

over the trap. Where is the feral Mother? It’s November and she is a black ghost.

She weaned them early, the milk in her nipples dried up –

leaving her litter to us, with their hungry eyes wide open, claws sharp.

She has survived the winters – escaped every trap for years.

She owns our Village hunting grounds… every ramshackle barn and shed.

I have seen her in our back field down by the river, creeping and leaping for a vole.

Why did she choose our barn? And where is the Tom? Owls are out hunting now.

— Jody Wells

She whispered, “We’ll be alright.”

Still, she didn’t know.

The winds began to blow

through the plankboard spaces where light sought shelter

imposing the smell of decaying leaves from the cedar trees.

Tufts of Spanish moss like southern tumbleweed chased black birds

in a game of tag.

Perhaps it was the beauty of the morning -

the purple clouds surrounding the sun

the glowing deep hues of greens and black blues

over the lakewater.

“Be still,” she said.

Her eyes blinked quickly like the shutter of a lens,

documenting me,

clutching the pipes on the bathroom floor.

A locked door.

I’d seen the expression on my mother’s face before.

No one but my mother and I in a rush of hush.

Silently waiting still while the winds howled.

— Monica Jagentenfl

We sought the blotting of the sun:

moon drift, darkness descending.

Dwelling in the shade, cheering

loss of light, of clarity, we lived

the metaphor. Mankind chooses

to vanquish the light, even if we

don’t have anything to do with it.

— Carlene M. Gadapee

bright red blood in the fresh white snow.

bright red blood on the snow white feet.

the coppery, red squirrel lies inert.

it was living only moments ago.

our animal is back.

it has killed again.

— Michele Tremblay

There in the trees speak the mists.

Wanting to know how the sun smiles.

Seeking the road. As it turns and twists.

Going on this journey for many miles.

Sailing to a harbor still unknown.

Where rumors flow of great delight. Yet scandal hides an ugly tone.

A charlatan casting darkness upon the light.

Etched a moment in a life portrayed.

Should offer a gift.

To clear the sorrows.

To heal the heart that was betrayed.

Give back the time. Stolen or borrowed.

Bend the light and fold it good.

Weave a new pattern to be cast.

Walk the path to things that could.

Wash the pain and erase the past.

Use the sunrise to inspire the will.

Garner the strength during this time. To relearn.

Follow the shadows as they move to something better still.

Place another stone upon the cairn.

— Susan Giusto

Four dead down in Ohio

Over fifty years ago

And here, today

How many will die

At Columbia, at GW, at–

I marched against

The (second) war in Iraq

Back when I was twenty-one

And that is now

Some twenty years past and gone

The moral arc

Of this universe we've created

Bends toward deja vu–

Forever children dying

For the sins of their fathers.

— J. L. Long (Julian Long)

My father gave me a working man’s spine,

my mother, the heart of a saint.

Yet, here I stand in the voting line,

to learn what I am and I ain’t.

It’s not that I care about only me,

or look down on a man who has less.

Still, I wonder about this land of the free,

and a God who might see me as blessed.

Then I cry out loud for a child who wants,

and a mother with ten mouths to feed;

who’s fled from a home where the gunman haunts,

to a land that might yet meet her needs.

Tell me where is the honor and who are the good,

when cold rancor exceeds all warm praise?

And who may be judged for a stand that is stood,

in the cause of forgiveness, one day?

To sooth the sorrow and sow the hope,

is what we were founded on;

as I make my mark in the ballot box,

and pray for a better dawn.

— John Lindberg

All year we collected our hopes

arranged them carefully

like canned goods

in a bomb-shelter.

All year we worked to take back

what had been taken.

We stacked facts, four crates high

like apples for the coming winter.

All year we waited for the law

to come down like a cookie cutter

on the sheets of the criminals

who took them.

But by November, I knew

we had lost. There were hard frosts.

There would be harder snows

and our best oven was broken.

In December I began having dreams

the size of over-ripe watermelons.

When the melons are cut open

they don’t bleed. They are brimming

with seeds the size of bullets.

— S. Stephanie

The ghosts of winter hover over the melting snow

Twitching and twisting, now hurrying, now standing still

Are they ghosts, or just rising mist? Or both

As so many things are

Grief and joy come and go, twitching and twisting

Now a laugh, now a tear, now that catch in the belly

Where the pain coils, a snake in the bowels

Waiting to strike without notice or warning

Or is a belly laugh hiding in there, or is it both

As so many things are

Days and weeks fly past, or crawl, or disappear

In memory. Now relived, now forgotten

Mixing and churning with what is real and what is not

As so many things are.

— Jeff Powell

Another Cold War’s over-soldiers return,

the Homeland’s not the same they learn.

T’was the night before Christmas

and so frigid with no just cause.

Still the homeless--side by side,

into that night–when God confides.

Politics of now–polarized our state.

“What have they done to deserve such Fate?”

A virus so ruthless of world renown,

has emerged upon their little town.

Colonial men -committed allegiance,

to a Nation of Pride and took a stance.

Let it be known from that day on.

Unity of virtue-must be looked upon,

as a rite to instill-to always be good,

Praise Mother and Father like thou should.

— Harold Rosen

Sitting in transition time. Limbo land. And, frankly, a seat of dread.

If anyone is left out there, say, fifty years from now, my message to you is this:

Not everyone, not even the majority, called upon Darkness.

Some believed in hope. Even joy. Had faith we could crawl our way to better

ways. Believed in inclusion. A wide umbrella. Equality. Justice.

Let me say, it is a miracle that you have survived,

given what we faced at this impactful juncture. And, I ask you,

is there greenery? Are there bee hives, and honey?

Can you sit under a tree, be sheltered and at peace there?

Is the ocean a place you can enter, and be cleansed?,

healed? Are there still pelicans, jellyfish, seals?

Can you express your voice, share stories and song?

It isn’t going to take long for beautiful things to be rent

asunder. I can see the writing on the wall.

How we fall. All the loss.

If you are reading this, what bridges did you have

to cross to survive?

I want to believe in a world that thrives. In a future that holds promise

and hope, with open arms. I’d like to believe you survived devastation.

I hope you have stories that tell of new creation.

— Marjorie Moorhead

 The Fourteenth Dalai Lama

received two movie projectors, a pocket watch

and three automobiles.

The two Austins and the Dodge

could not travel,

being as roads were not built

until the electron was a mere particle.

Later, two slits were made

which turned it into a wave-

a wave without a shore,

a tsunami, calming as pond water.

How, having been there all the while,

above the earth in 2024,

astronauts encountered the surrendered layer,

possessing a magnetic attraction

where I had always imagined,

to balance gravity and the cosmos,

heaven to be.

And where

I will go to look down

on mass and time and eternity

hovering under a microscope,

scientists as angels discerning

more and more secrets

for the goodness of us all.

The Fourteenth Dalai

loved the projectors-still the frame,

go back, fast forward, the dull roar

of the fan was all there

before the simple discovery

it depends on who is looking.

Correct me if I’m wrong,

but I have seen it all in a play

by Shakespeare. Power and betrayal,

murder and reckoning-the electron

moving on, repeating itself three million fireballs

out into extinction.

There are other plays of course-

Romeo and Juliet being the saddest.

The Dalai has read them all,

by his yak butter lamp,

glowing steadily even in daytime.

— Brenna Manuel

One day as the autumn got darker

A white pickup truck pulled up beside

a car that driver thought was going

too slow and shot out the back window

in our little town the news came and went

but i can't forget, this was our Kristallnacht

Something has changed in the cool breeze

When i see a truck speeding up behind me

I pull over and let them steam on past

This never was the land of the free

For women like me

— Tara Marvel

The wheel of life spins fast—

a blur before our eyes

as we try in vain

to slow it down

at least long enough

to be sure of where we are,

why and what we are,

and if we are

more than these brief

sparks of light.

And yet,

its eternal spin continues

down the long road,

barreling past us,

tires squealing as it

takes a tight corner

and roars out of sight,

Leaving us where we started—

as unlikely space travelers

looking at the stars in wonder,

standing next to those we love,

holding our small bag

of unanswered questions.

— Will Conway

My neighbor’s family immigrated to the USA

so long ago, that they don’t even remember.

I, on the other hand, still remember my teenaged self in 1985,

and now have a teenager child

born in the USA.

We are good neighbors, and always

Look out for each other,

Look out after each other:

be it a snowy day,

a package left at the front door,

a stranger coming around,

being gone on a little vacation trip.

We have always kept politics out of it all; and we both know we have differing views.

This past November I found myself installing a security camera

on our front door.

And noticed that, on the other hand, an America Flag had gone up

on their front door.

While they might not remember it, I trust they know that

we are both immigrants here,

in this land we both call home.

— Keiselim A. Montás

I sit down, waiting for inspiration to strike

Hoping for something to hit me

So I spend the night staring at the moon

Watching as the sun wakes up

Hours are spent thinking instead of doing

During that time, I have traveled to many different worlds

But my hands remain frozen on the paper

The words slipping from the lines

I delve back into my brain, looking for answers

It leads me to wonder if those past suffered from the same fate

If those greater than me had the same ailment

All the while, I felt the sun wrap around my aching back

Tell me, did the bard struggle with this?

Even the blind man was able to write

While I find myself a party amongst the Trouts

Lost in the sea of uncertainty

The sun buried itself in the sand

Leaving me covered in darkness

And the moon enters the sky

As I lay down, waiting for something, anything

— Sophia Budhathoki 

parched and cracked, the ground lies exhausted,

depleted after so many green eruptions.

chaff litters her ruts, souvenirs of the struggle to nourish.

her bland surface belies the near-violence of growth.

serene now, and faithfully waiting

her turn to be nourished by rain and sun.

— Ann Roe

It’s been days since I’ve been here, where the weather is cooling, days since

I’ve swum here, a dish left on the counter, encrusted with old breakfast. I step

outside. The sun, bright. The wind bites my skin. It’s a strong wind with harsh gusts,

thrusting leaves, acorns a-scatter, but I suit up for the cool, tap on my music,

and step out onto my paddle board to face what the lake presents: a disorganized

wind, flags pointing where they shouldn’t—into the forecast direction rather

than against. I paddle with and against the swirling wind. I can’t help think about

Francine, the latest named storm, drawing its strength from the warm gulf waters

as I ignore the chill wind and slide off my board, leashed to my ankle, to swim.

I take off against the current, waves wanting to turn my body, to go where I hadn’t

intended, so every so often I check my bearings to unstray. You might think I swim

for punishment, punishment for not working the booths for the vote, for not

dragging people’s asses out to vote, for not acknowledging there’s this hurricane

mounting in the gulf, building toward crescendo tomorrow to crash the Louisiana

shore, and there will be one more and another and another unless we temper

the warm waters, but I continue on my swim, not for punishment, but passion,

to stroke against the waves, to keep myself from swallowing what the climate

has begun to spoil, to keep myself afloat.

— Carla Schwartz

First I missed the full eclipse, then I missed the Northern Lights…With my luck I'll probably miss

the apocalypse. Mark Ostow, Instagram

We could have seen, if we were willing

to open the door, birds of paradise

pointing the way, heard tree frogs singing

from cavities, followed the andromeda scent—

so much hope in night for day, in dreams

that roll beneath the threat of clouds,

ears abuzz with all the hype,

just waiting for it to go quiet

while gray bands block the path between us

and moon, a path we might never see,

though most days we welcome the cumulus—

their beauty, their shade—on this day,

while totality parties in awe applaud the sun,

we feel like we’ve lost the crown,

and even when Aurora, goddess of dawn,

announced a second chance

to join the world of oohs and aahs,

we raced to the river, raced to the deck,

stood open-mouthed, hooked like trout,

sought desperately the touted shimmer

of colors, squinted to make out faint pink

streaks, but learned that a camera sees more

than an eye—

with something lost in space and time,

never having learned how to look,

how to see, while a moment slips,

then flees as the sky undoes.

— Carla Schwartz and Clayton E. Clark

Lines and tiny scars,

nail polish;

If only the neighborhood terrorist,

with his trunkful of weapons,

(all legally obtained),

had left more of her than her hand

when he went on his grisly rampage.

An engraved wedding band,

Or lack thereof,

could have at least been a clue to her identity.

But it was her ringless right.

A woman approaches the makeshift morgue,

hastily constructed at the scene.

A first stop for panicked loved ones,

who leave it to continue their search,

or to begin their tortuous journey into grief.

Her eyes, fraught with dread,

are locked on the hand.

An officer holds it out to her.

He watches.

The force of a lifetime of shared history,

with its mischief and squabbles,

fun and love,

pelts her,

shatters her,

tears her apart.

On its own, the hand is enough.

She utters “This is my sister,”

Turns her head, and retches.

— Maria Pacelli

Piles of crumpled and torn leaves

Line the curbs

Blue lawn signs unearthed

Waiting for pickup

After November’s fall

My body’s chilled

Even with wool layers

The cold of disappointment

Mixed with icy tears

Can’t yet defrost

My steps crunch towards

the century old, furrowed bark

Pummeled by rain and wind

Still reaching for the sky

I lean against it.

— Brenda Wilbert

I love to find

Old roads in the Fall,

In the Springtime

they call me,

Too.

— Edward Huse

I am taking a pause from presidential politics

permeating almost every facet of my life.

For 2024, I will toss all election paraphernalia

in the wastebasket before I even leave the post office

thinking about the money going to waste and

the promises they all contain. This also means I will

have to give up my electronic devices for the duration

of my political sabbatical since they are saturated

with double sided partisan commentary. No car radio

either, just Sirius playing Classic Vinyl. I could get used

to this. Learning to remember to bring my Kindle reader

to waiting rooms where I might be tempted to breeze

through complimentary newspaper headlines. I am quickly

learning I might have to go into forced social isolation

finding out, after one day of practice, that presidential

politics is all that everyone wants to talk about.

And robo calls mean not answering any calls from unknown

phone numbers. But wait! Even my adult children on

opposite sides of the political spectrum want to talk

about my vote. I am starting to believe my desired

pause is only a dream that can take place

on a desolate island where any inhabitants speak

a language that is foreign to me but my imagined

reverie is shattered when I see them all wearing

logo, imprinted, donkey and elephant t-shirts

while being filmed by the major networks.

— Dianalee Velie

In June, the woo of songbirds

and the chitter of squirrels

surround me on the path.

All summer, the music accompanies me

as I wend my way along trails hidden

by leaves. In August, the leaves

begin to tinge and the birds begin to migrate.

By November, the leaves have fallen

to the ground, They scatter as I hike,

poles ready to check for rocks and holes.

The woods are silent. Day breaks late

and night rolls in early.

Yet I persist.

I know that in the deepest winter,

chickadees follow me

as I trudge through rime and snow.

They call in hopes of a companion.

Squirrels root in frozen leaves

for acorns I cannot see.

Life continues. I only need

to put on my boots, grab my poles

and head to the trails.

Hope guides my path.

— Betsy Snider

The woodstove warms my bones and buoys my heart

‘Tis almost worth the ache of hauling wood

From woodshed’s icy pathway, in my cart,

And bending low to stack it where it could

Dry out a little and thus cut the smell

That otherwise will seep out every seam,

The fumes that turn a woody scent to hell

And leave its graying dust on every beam.

So many better ways to heat a house

That don’t require cleaning out the ash

Or burdening my too-much burdened spouse

With sweeping bark detritus to the trash.

But nothing warms the soul at fall of night

Than coming home to woodstove burning bright.

— Rob Fried

I sit curled

Bowed down with the weight

Of my past.

The weight he left behind

Bounces around on my spine

A mad leprechaun

Dancing on each vertebrae

Gibbering nonsense to no-one.

I straighten into the coming New Year

The little man falls away

Like an acorn off the hood

Of an accelerating car

Left at the side of the road.

Uncurled, I can now see

Where I am going

Turn right, turn left

This is where I want to be

I lift my head

Watch the trees

Blink by with their whispering branches.

What lies ahead?

His weight now gone

Leaving a space.

Who waits there for me?

Is it you?

Can we curl together

This time in comfort

And solidarity

This time with smiles

And small giggles?

I take your hand and caress each finger

From knuckle to knuckle

Bouncing down the ridges of bone

Like an acorn.

I smell you

Comforting like a seaside breeze

Cigarette smell a distant memory

I brush away the imaginary smoke

And breathe in musky delicate perfume

Your smell.

I see your eyes

Crinkled around the edges

Gazing into mine

Wanting to know

Are you fine

Are you whole

Are the hurt places healing?

I watch my wounds heal

Skin growing back over hurt places

Turning rawness into smooth

Smooth into strong.

Skin keeps one inside

Keeps the other outside

But touch communicates across

Many barriers.

I lay my head on your chest

Hearing heart working

Moving nourishing blood

To everything.

As I touch your fingers

Your pupils widen

I know you are there with me

You know I am here with you.

We hear each other

From lip to ear

Whispering what we know

Exchanging feelings

Touching our insides together

With words

Nothing permanent

Everything honest

Living now, here.

We taste the salt of our skins

Merging into one sea

From which we both have come

To meet in the middle

In the middle of the bed

In the crinkly soft woods

In the back seat of a car.

We merge and bring

Each other together

Sharing in the now.

Uncurled, we brush away our fears

And collect together

The things we want to keep

And leave behind our losses, the hurts

We no longer need.

They shrink quickly

In the rear-view mirror

Left at the side of the highway, forlorn

We don't need them anymore

Reduced to a speck on the horizon

Until they disappear

Gone from our hearts and our minds

The burden has lifted

We carry on, lighter

It's time for a new year, a new beginning.

— Wendy Jensen

Again?

When a bald-faced liar,

thief and adulterer

who shows himself to be what he is,

is elected once again,

what does that say of the nation?

What have we said of ourselves?

What of our boasts of freedom,

of virtue, of a righteous example

to be established in the world?

Is it all gone?

Can we recover from this choice?

Perhaps we can.

If we refuse to live in hate,

if we strive to live in peace,

if we refuse to do the clearly wrong,

and answer what is wrong with good,

perhaps we can turn back the tide –

perhaps.

Or perhaps we can answer rage with rage,

and make this land a battleground,

and lose all that we ever had.

Let us pray.

— Ed Pacht

This year

I let the the ugly sift,

settling like sand to reveal the gemstone of Beauty.

I mined out stones for my life,

taking the ones I chose to keep:

curiosity, gratitude, courage, kindness, compassion, and love.

Life does not play fair.

In my case, I worked hard for everything, and life allowed me no shortcuts.

I have my eyes wide open, and I am no longer blinded by the glare of shiny bright lights.

I know from experience: "all that glitters is not gold."

I became like Goldilocks, testing everything out in the world to see what fits.

What I learned came like a sudden winter storm of surprise:

Nothing works the way I thought.

As I gain knowledge, the more I learn I don't know.

What I see in my inner world becomes my outer landscape.

Peace comes from within, and ripples out into spaces in the universe.

Everyday miracles are ever-present, only I must bear witness.

What is buried eventually becomes unearthed, surfacing and revealing what lies beneath.

It is an asset to be comfortable with the uncomfortable.

What we may consider our weakness is truly our sword of strength.

What appears impossible is possible.

Everyone has their own skeletons to bear, and must clean out their own closets.

Life does not care how we see the world, even if we feel it does not "make sense."

Life gifts us contradictions: All truths are a facet of reality – evident, real, and true, standing beautifully in their

own horse-power.

Simultaneously, what I think will manifest into reality: I am the Creator of my own reality.

After I smoothed out all the sharp curves, edges, and shapes, I soften into who I am

like metal.

My body speaks as an instrument, and I dance on a wave of joy.

I walk into the light and see all the shadows, glowing with a heart of darkness.

I am on a mission to find my people, and build my tribe.

I am building bridges with words, so they do not fall like raindrops lost in a forest,

where deaf ears only hear what they perceive words to mean.

Words carry the weight of water, and drown me in a sea of confusion.

Yet, Love is not lost, but still alive, well, and found.

The bridge of forgiveness forms, serving us well to heal and wear our scars in honor.

Don't you see, we all need to work together to make our home better?

Dear friend, what is the color of peace?

All the shiny bright lights burned into one candle flame: a beautiful rainbow of Sunlight,

pooling into a stream of light, coming after the passing of a storm.

Let this be my ode to the world:

If you are aligned with everyone's best interest at heart, everything will work out

right.

In the spiral of time, hope became unleashed from the chaos of Pandora's Box, urging us to rise up, stand up,

and live on.

We are the beacons of light inspiring everyone home to the wonderland of their own hearts,

shaking off the beautiful sparkle of wonder and hope into the world.

— Ellie Epstein-White

“The killer whales are called aaxlu, tukxukuak, agliuk, mesungesak, polossatik, skana, keet, feared one, grampus, blackfish, orca, big-fin, fat-chopper. Whale killer. From the realm of the dead. Orcinus orca.” 

Hvaldimir, the white beluga

glowed in the sun. She was a beauty

flying and leaping above the ocean waves. They

made her into a spy whale, a weapon.

She was found dead, floating in

Norwegian waters, near Risavika,

fourteen feet long and 2700 pounds.

They made her a slave, attached a camera

harnessed and mounted around her neck.

She had no fear of humans.

— Catherine O’Brian

They dance with just their arms and eyes

Intertwined evermore with each other.

Smiles and moving lips silently singing

Abiding renditions of favorite songs.

Slow paced movements but with meaning

Meanings conjuring the wild times of life.

Their dance of life rolled into one precious evening

Not worried or uneasy when the dance will end.

They meet at the calm headwaters of emotional happiness

Happiness that feeds the deep flowing waters of love

A love that endures by giving and receiving.

As they stiffly dance, age does not diminish their dreams

Dreams of peace is an unjaded goal blessed with fresh energy.

They joyfully share peace on the dance floor

Making room for all of humanity.

Inviting even those obsessed by greed, ego's, war

A place to find peace.

— Tom Keegan

Mere modest surprise when the snow never started.

The flooding and loss laying bare hopes thwarted -

Of limits and love and fairness abiding;

Rewards piled higher for the selfish hard-hearted.

The limits are only for those in the making;

The spoils and life-living belong to the breaking.

Greed grips the cryptic controls of the oven;

Fools floundering fail to cease the brutal turning

Of thermo-ecstatic fervor against the coven

Meant most to fire friction: citizen on citizen –

Distractions to forestall the sharpened blade,

Instead raising the gruesome spectre of the Jacobin.

Bubbling, boiling, rolling, roiling: the once staid

Are frothing at crises the oligarchs made.

Res ipsa loquitur! the people refrained;

But the powers that be offer nothing in trade.

— Rob Pinsonneault

Poetry, my artichoke, my daily satisfaction

my silken robe, my highest branch, my least common fraction

my weedy reeds, my fishing pole, my unsafe safety net

my bottled message on slow tides, my rainbowed amulet—

It’s my bunched grapes, just ripening, just barely out of reach

my cumquat, my persimmon, pumpkin seed, my fuzzy peach

it’s the high kites I fly into the eyes of storms,

it’s autumn’s scarf of starling sequins swirling in a swarm—

Poetry’s my rocket ship, my red balloon, my meteor,

what waits for me in the closed room behind the secret door

it wears my birthday suit, my gloves, my Easter Sunday best

it is my testament, my love for you, my place of final rest.

Why poetry? Except for trees, compassion through fleet seasons—

for every reason under heaven, it is its only reason.

— Joan T. Doran