Editor’s Note: April is National poetry month. In celebration, we’ll be bringing you poetry from some of our favorite local and regional poets.



We are ephemeral.

Like the glass pearls of the rain that melt together and transform their world

and are absorbed again into the rough and buckled breast of the earth

or rise as vapor hanging silent in the air.

Like the brief candle we are out in an instant, and in our place the wild cycle continues with not a

memory of this short reverie.

Impossibly beautiful

impossible to recreate

a divine, fleeting mystery

like a shooting star, an iridescent pulse in the velvet black ocean of the sky

existing only for one brilliant


enigmatic moment.

Blink and you’ll miss the miracle.

What can you do with such a sacred gift?

Except taste the sweetness in every breath

and sing with the crimson honeysuckle as it climbs the fence in the last days of spring?

Forgive yourself for every wrong and let love in like a river

wild and winding and deep and strong.

Let the pot boil over.

Open the windows and listen to the rain.

– Andrew Bellacomo


Andrew Bellacomo  is a writer and video director living in Albany, Georgia. He has been

called to storytelling his whole life and draws inspiration from history and the natural world.

In his work he often finds a yearning for a deeper understanding of what it means to have a

sense of place and how we might live in greater harmony with the earth. He considers the

marshes and the sea islands of the Atlantic coast his spiritual home.


Polar Bear revised 4

12 Step Meltdown

I used to be a polar bear

and then, (snap!) just like that,

I quit, cold turkey. In the straw

poll after, learned that most of us

had loved the life.

But in the end

it became too much.

The never-ending lust for fat and skin,

and—oh, the clean up! Forever fighting

to clean blood and grease and guts

off my snow-white coat.

Having to wait a year or three for sex—

unseemly brawls, those were— followed by

fast-forgotten tussles on the ice.

But it was more the swimming

more and more

that got me in the end.

I still attend the program,

though not as often as I should.

Mostly I am nostalgic for the smell

of wet fur and seal breath, and l long to hear

that click click click of tough toenails

on the polished, faux-marble floor

of the icy, air-conditioned

Eddie Bauer store where we

hold our meetings after hours.

It’s not unlike our padding of old

across fast-melting ice-floes.

If we’re inclined, we can always

pull a 40 below

fake-fur-lined parka off the rack.

We talk. Sigh some. Commiserate.

Invariably one of us will say,

“There’s nothing anymore

like those old

cold days.”

– Doris Wright

In addition to poetry, Doris Wright writes short stories and has

written a novel. Awarded second place in the Short Story America

2018 contest, her non-fiction story was accepted for the 2020 Catfish

Stew anthology and one of her poems will be published in its 2021

anthology. “Surviving the Sequester” was published in Beaufort,

SC’s Lowcountry Weekly. Another story, “Buried Along With Her

Name,” was awarded second place in the Sea Island Spirit Writers

6th Annual Short Story Contest, and she has been a runner-up in the

Wow! Women on Writing flash fiction contests.

Doris, who has a degree in English, has taken graduate courses,

participated in writers’ workshops, including the N.Y. State Summer

Writers Institute, and Colgate University’s novel, short story and poetry

workshops. Now retired, Doris and her husband, Don, enjoy

traveling, writing, reading, and exercise. They have visited China,

and many European and African countries.



Purple flames of muhly grass nod for your hand

delicate to not trip the marsh of the mind.

Did you turn off the stove? Delaying

orbit to the mundane, a pair of redheads—

woodpeckers kiss through pine

while I bend like a bark acrobat,

bury my face in sunflowers, narrow-leaved,

a pose that defies our hesitations.

Seeds underground taste smoke where we stand

so still, the embers could sprout onto our toes.

Tursu, tursu, you laugh and brush away ants that

bite like patience. I want to touch

each bite which should have been, carry the sugar and

sting of you on my tongue.

The bees in your eyes sensing, buzzing

that ripples my blood, shakes a heron loose from his shadow

and sends all our small birds fluttering like paper

on fire with the words You’ll love again.

– Ozan Suer and Emily Davis-Fletcher


Ozan Suer: Poetry embraces us like a perfect pair of loose pants

that offer unrestricted freedom. Like the pants worn when I performed

traditional West African dances against the marble floors of Teatro

Manzoni, in Bologna, Italia. Like the red loose pants that called to me

in an open market in Morocco, ancient as civilization itself, adorned

with goat pheromones, making me one with the history of humanity

and with all goats on my subsequent journeys.

Emily Davis-Fletcher is continually amazed by the magic of

poetry and loose pants. She earned her BFA in creative writing from

Stephens College and her MA in women’s studies from the National

University of Ireland Galway. In 2018, Emily was selected to read at

the Cork International Poetry Festival; and her poem Sow Calling

was a finalist in the Sublingua Prize for Poetry 2019. Emily has

taught several writing and poetry courses in partnership with the Pat

Conroy Literary Center. She facilitates an online, weekly poetry

workshop, Moon and Sun Poets, with many of the poets featured in

this issue. For information about joining our poetry group, please

email her at emilydfj@gmail.com

Mid-Morning with Rena

Rena lives at the end of her rope—a physical location of Levick Street at Coleman

Avenue. A scarf around Rena’s neck identifies her presence to herself. You may know her.

Rena’s blouse is neither tucked nor flee flowing. A mind can’t make itself up for a cup of coffee

or a doughnut. She scuttles lifting her flat feet two inches off the ground for every step.

Rena’s daughter gave her a present five years ago. This cloth is her constant companion—

whether worn ‘round the neck, at her waist, or as a turban. Rena’s walk is granite monotony.

Her scarf repeats mangled fringe. There’s no spirit left in the threads. Rena sees the Dunkin’

Doughnut sign ahead. The swooping plastic tub chairs beckon—smooth as a creek bed’s rocks,

slippery in a fake way. Rena’s eyes aren’t in contact with other windows to the souls today—

messages in a streaked mirror. Sparkles and sugar mingle on the scarf. Today Rena wears it

knotted next to her chin. Tomorrow Rena nods. Midway through this nod Rena feels stonewalled—

her halfway taut story.

– Robin Dare

Robin Dare
lives aboard ‘Liberty Call’ full-time with her husband, Rob, and, her dog,

Stella. Robin earned her MFA in poetry from Rosemont College, Philadelphia, PA. She

published her book of prose poems, Transponder’ with Rank Stranger Press. Her poems

have appeared in Diagram, Sentence, and Mid-American Review