Robert Witmer

December

At the edge of sight,
through a small window,
I see a few faint lights
in a town I know
I will never visit,
so I keep watching
as darkness closes over
one light and then another,
until the town is fast asleep
and the train whistle sounds
and the carriage heaves
back into the night.


Robert Witmer, a longtime resident of Japan, is an emeritus professor and poet, who combines a love of family and verse with a passion for petanque and the great outdoors.


 

 

Scott Hughes

My Father Names the Plants

As we stroll the edges of his property,
my father points along the tree line
and names the different plants—
bald cypress, red maple, pink lantern—
but in that moment, he’s not
recalling them from memory:
He’s bestowing the names upon them,
creating them for me.


Scott Hughes has three books available at www.writescott.com.


 

 

Stateira

Le Fin

Often
I dream of death,
final breaths whispering
through groaning trees,
light surrendering to darkness
under a halo of smiling stars-
le fin.


Stateira is an aspiring poet who enjoys French Symbolism, learning languages, star-gazing, opera, dancing freestyle and, naturally, writing poetry. gardening and hopes to someday publish an entire anthology of poetry.


 

 

Nancy Kay Peterson

Thinking Too Much

If I let go of
my mind
I don’t know
if it will float
or hesitate and hover
like a butterfly
or collapse under
its own weight.


Nancy Kay Peterson is grateful there are readers who appreciate one-sentence poems.


 

 

Steve Klepetar

Swallow Island

I heard the horses nicker,
saw them gallop across the field
just as rain began pelting down,
and I thought of you then,

your long hair and your eyes,
how you would have loved
the sight of those wet beasts
kicking up mud as they raced for home.


Steve Klepetar drives a sixteen year old Toyota Avalon, which he hopes to pass on to his granddaughter in about two years.


 

 

Ian Willey

The Experts

I’m trying to get a picture
of that bush warbler and after
nearly an hour on the ground
my knees screaming murder
the bird appears on a sunlit
branch and my finger is on
the shutter when three men in
suits burst from the branches
pointing at the bird and saying
“there it is!” just as the bird
vanishes into the green and
the men give themselves high
fives for being right again.


Ian Willey gave up on rhyming long ago.


 

 

Aaron Sandberg

A Lock of Walt Whitman’s Hair Displayed at the New York Public Library

I looked for you
beneath the glass

and saw
a white swirl

like a fish
being found,

diving elsewhere

to find me.


Aaron Sandberg thinks chilaquiles is an excuse to eat nachos for breakfast and he’s on board. Find him on Instagram @aarondsandberg.