By Jacob Friesenhahn

the snowy banks of the river shifted
causing the abandoned cemetery
beyond the woods to erode
coffins unearthed
bobbing to the surface
appearing oddly light
tombstones pulled away
like baby teeth
drawn into the current
the puzzle of gravestones
separated from the tombs
they once pretended to mark
skeletons floating in sleek boats
down a river not supposed to be here
stones etched with letters and numbers
like the veins of fallen leaves
slipping under the icy water
the living were unnerved
the dead could only laugh

By Twyla M. Hansen

Before daybreak, you may find me bundled
against wind, following the tracks of paws
on a crust of snow past the seesaw, trunks,
past the stalks of tall sumac, past the swings,
and the playhouse to the pile where I fling

bread crusts, egg shells, left–over triangles
of pizza, feed the hunger of creatures
when night falls — fox, raccoon, opossum — or
in sun, stray deer and things with feathers, spring
dreams below the horizon.

You may find
me gazing skyward in navy air at
clusters of stars, the planets, and, with luck,
the crisp lemon–slice moon, breathing damp air,
winter heaving from under fallen leaves.

And at daybreak you may find me looking
out to children who no longer play here,
who dwell elsewhere.

I smile now at the flame
of those shadows, watch instead for red–tails
on bare limbs, running Vs of geese over
the meadow, praise the goddess of beauty
who taught me to love this place where I live.

By Twyla M. Hansen

Through mist we scan along fences and trees
for hawks, tallying them, game on the road
to pass the time — that, and the rock music
that blasts out loud, pushes us closer to spring.

They eye us from posts, signs, limbs of scrub trees:
the red–tailed hawks returning in near–spring.
They lift and loop in the sky’s blue. The road
curves along. We sing out loud to music.

Years before, the game was slug–bug on road
trips with our young son and his loud music,
the miles flying, his face fresh, hawks and trees
blurred. The season always seemed to be spring.

Now in autumn, I travel the lone roads
through trees. My grown son is still all music.

By Vanessa Vie

Welcome the new year with a hard
beat, after tears — and guitar held
between my legs — were tears
of joy. I’ve never felt
this grateful before;
Reasons are myriad
Myriad my prides:–
Blessed the daughter
& blesséd the ghost
of my truest love
Blesséd the voices
& blesséd my friends
(on the telephone)
Blesséd the saviour
of my skin — she knew
— In awe of pray
Charity holds
the Key
Myriad in my key–
ring — I play the act:
One door only
to the abandonment
of Faith. To the yellow
fence I went before
the end. The end
of year with the next
stone, step by step.
Pine–twig crown
— a Christ’s
hanging from it
Merit of us — artists
keeping the Faith

We surely know
with all wrongs
to heavens fled

What turbulent doubts
What trust
in each other’s held

1st, draft January 19, 2024
A good year for the arts, and in general.