VAGRANT

by Pepper Trail

This photo of a Ross’s gull, a rare bird generally found only in Siberia, Greenland, Canada, and northern Alaska, was taken Saturday [February 1] in southwest Kansas by Carol Morgan, president of the Topeka Audubon Society. Provided by Carol Morgan to The Topeka Capital-Journal, February 6, 2025. The body of the bird was recovered Wednesday evening, said Laura Rose Clawson, chief of public affairs for the Kansas Department of Wildlife and Parks.

The explorer Ross (James) ventured to the Arctic
            planted a flag on the North Magnetic Pole
and shot a gull, new to science (1824)—
small, delicate, remarkable for the soft pink blush
on its blood-stained breast—
Ross’s Gull
 
A High Arctic bird, mythical or nearly so still
            in this warming century and so its appearance among us
            —Kansas, January 2025—
was a sensation, and the bird-listers ventured from everywhere
aiming to see this last unknown, or nearly
 
Days later, it was dead, this Ross’s Gull
its body in the strange Kansas snow
end of an errant voyage, faulty spin of the magnetic compass
the disorientation of an unfreezing North, perhaps
 
Natural causes, is the thought
starvation (a goose carcass pecked in hunger and bewilderment)
avian flu (across the world, bewilderment a symptom and then death)
or exposure (the Kansas snow perhaps too strange)
and the birders turned back
the expedition a failure, nothing still to be found
only the known, and the dead

Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

DIE-OFF

by Pepper Trail

Ocean Heat Wiped Out Half These Seabirds Around Alaska: About four million common murres were killed by a domino effect of ecosystem changes, and the population is showing no signs of recovery, according to new research... [The researchers] believe it is the largest documented die-off of a single species of wild birds or mammals.  —The New York Times, December 12, 2024. U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service photos above: A murre colony in the Alaska Maritime National Wildlife Refuge, seen before and after the 2015-16 marine heat wave.

Credit...

The Arctic sea-cliffs are not silent

The birds, the murres, still throng the ledges

Black and white, sharp-eyed, clamorous

Even as half their millions are starved and dead

 

The birds, the murres, still throng the ledges

As we would still fill the New York streets

Even if half our millions were dead, crushed

Beneath weight of heat, a fatality never imagined

 

We would still fill the New York streets

Though senseless with grief, with loneliness

After a heat, a fatality never before imagined

A disaster beyond our comprehension

 

Though senseless with loneliness

The birds still fly, feed, tend their young

Despite a disaster beyond comprehension

Their world changed beyond recognition

 

Here, we would still work, tend our children

There would be no choice, never any choice

But in a world changed beyond recognition

A warning that could no longer be ignored

 

We would have no choice, at last no choice

If the dying took millions from a great city

The warning could then no longer be ignored

But this happened far away, a distant warming sea

 

This dying took millions of only birds

Somewhere far away, a distant warming sea

Just another warning to be ignored

The Arctic cliffs, after all, have not yet fallen silent

Pepper Trail is a poet and naturalist based in Ashland, Oregon. His poetry has appeared in Rattle, Atlanta Review, Spillway, Kyoto Journal, Cascadia Review, and other publications, and has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net awards. His collection Cascade-Siskiyou was a finalist for the 2016 Oregon Book Award in Poetry.

NAVALNY, RAFAH

by dana yost

burning cars.

gas in the air.

navalny dead.

someone lights

a cigarette.

marley’s words.

bottle of teeth

on the vanity.

navalny dead.

arctic nights.

while we stand

aside and look.

forgive them?

not yet.

pick at the meat

with your 

squirmy fingers.

roasted logs

by the missouri.

fog in daylight,

doorways

and dust.

in rafah

women

and children

are the real

poets.

Dana Yost was a journalist for 29 years and, still, sometimes, when news happens he can’t help but comment on events as they happen. He wrote the poem in lower case to try, in some way, a mode of protest or a bit of anarchy in response to too many strongmen and would-be strongmen. We have to speak against them.

A REQUIEM FOR ZOMBIE FIRES DEVOURING THE ARCTIC CIRCLE

by Daniel Brennan

While most wildfires burn out in the open, another form of Arctic fire is more difficult to detect. So-called zombie fires can smoulder in peat beneath the Arctic’s icy surface, throughout the winter months. When spring comes, the fires reignite surface vegetation, emitting carbon dioxide from both the vegetation and the peat, which is a natural carbon dioxide store. A report by climate scientists concluded that the increase in the number of these overwintering wildfires is directly linked to climate change. —World Economic Forum, January 11, 2023. Photo: The Bogus Creek Fire in the Yukon Delta National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska, a state where the vast majority of carbon emissions from fires come from burning soil.Credit: Matt Snyder/Alaska Division of Forestry, via Associated Press via The New York Times.

We should have guessed by the gray, curled perfume

reaching up from a temporary grave that all good things

stay hungry. A terrible beauty; keeping one eye open

in the coldest sleep, keeping an eye on God himself. 

Blessed be the land that cracks like old skin under 

our sun, the land that shivers off its frost to be eaten

alive by a boiling stomach. Blessed be the earth that

houses the black-nailed hand reaching toward heaven

as the soil softens, as it splits open its breast to reveal

every fiery jewel we thought lost to winter. 

The disbelievers, they will tell you it cannot be this way. 

They will tell you that these new gods, burning just

below the lips, the foils and folds of the mind, should

extinguish in the night as they have for a millennia. 

But the most famished deities find the sky. These,

my sinner’s hands, hands which have held dirt in the shape

of lonely men and men crawling deep back down into

their graveyard dirt, hands which have found every other aspiring 

angel in the dark corridors of night between body high

and exaltation, these hands must clasp in a bent prayer

for someone, for something. Find meaning in the revelations,

the peeling snowfall that has blanketed a red mask of death. 

Find God in the furious inferno creeping up through nutrient-

rich soil, screaming to the heavens, making us believe

in an eternal life, for these flames do not die, only slumber. 

Blessed be this new generation of disciples, apostles, apotheosis 

in freeze-frame. They must learn to worship the earth that

cannot keep its fiery dreams beneath a dark shawl

of rock and root and snow and seed. We inherit the 

land that devours itself, the endless eulogy below our funeral pyre. 

Daniel Brennan (he/him) is a resident of New York City, but grew up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Pennsylvania (ultimately serving as a focused source of ecology-based inspiration). As a member of the LGBTQ+ community, Brennan’s work aims to capture both the vastness we feel in the face of our ever-changing planet, while confronting our own bodies and the daunting elements of intimacy we feel every day. His work has appeared in CP Quarterly, Grand Little Things, Feral Poetry, with upcoming work in the Garfield Lake Review. He currently lives in Manhattan, and works full-time in advertising.

NOT ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

by Marilyn Peretti


Click here for more information on how to save the Earth.
          Click here to purchase or stream this video.


How do I not love thee earth?
Let me count the ways:
Monarchs leaving
Bees leaving
Polar bears leaving
Fires in the Arctic
Fires in Amazon forests
Microfiber in ocean fish
Microfiber in Arctic snow
Fossil fuels spitting from cars
Fossil fuels pouring from planes
   that depart every minute from
      somewhere
Lead in the water
Polluted water in Flint
Polluted water in Newark
Asbestos hiding everywhere
No water in Cape Town
Low water in Cairo
Low water in Bangalore
Glaciers melting - drip  drip
Funeral for glacier in Iceland
So, sea level rising along South Carolina
Sea level rising in Miami
Sea level rising in Brazosport
Sea level rising in Little Ferry

Shall I love thee better after death?

Marilyn Peretti from near Chicago, is Pushcart nominated, her poems published in Kyoto Journal, Journal of Modern Poetry, TheNewVerse.News, Rockford Review, Fox Cry Review, Talking River, Li Poetry (Chinese), Grey Sparrow, and others. Her books Let Wings Take You, Lichen-Poems of Nature, Angel's Wings, and To Remember-To Hope, are sold at the Blurb Bookstore.

SANTA OUT OF THE CLOSET

by Tricia Knoll 

I come out today after all these years
enduring an insane itch on my chin, that white
beard. I come out because I’ve sustained
the many children who pee in my lap,
the babies who scream because they know
in the deep part of their animal brain
that smells me that I am a woman,
not a man. The North Pole is melting
so fast that even my water-logged
elves can never make enough toys, those friends
who abhor plastic and tell me it will soon clog
even Arctic waters. I’ve hated the sky-high
tinsel ceiling under which I was called,
that I must present as a man, wear boots
without heels or glitter, must conceal every elf
I carry to term like each is merely a bowl full of jelly
wrapped in red velvet and shredded cotton.
I am Mother of North, old North, the one
that called out sled dogs’ yips, held up green
lights of the auroras, the magnetic pole and true north.
I love my neighbors. We chew fat together
and tells stories over candle bowls. We welcome
the traveler. I started as Nicholas’s lover
under the firs and although he hesitated
to call me woman, he knew. I cannot deliver
for your children any more. The ice caves in
under my runners. The oil rigs are closing in.
You will disappear. I hide for 364 days a year.
Now I hide for the other one to find true
peace on earth, good will toward men
and women. Take care of your children.
I have resigned. That is the word for this year:
resign.

Tricia Knoll is a feminist poet who lives in Vermont where the Christmas promises to be white. Where a mink left pawprints in the snow yesterday. She wrote this poem for an old friend who is transitioning to becoming a woman. 

THE MONSTER

by Rick Mullin


on the 200th anniversary of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein*

for Roald Hoffmann

My fame is your reflection. I am known
as Frankenstein. Well known. Prometheus Bound
shall not have half the legs that creak and groan
beneath this body I have lately found.
This bleeding mouth, these rheumy eyes impearled
in mists of the eternal night . . . how odd.
The murderer you’d hoped for is at large,
your manufactured destiny. My God,
look squarely on the bloodlust of your charge.
Do you not own the spirochete that curled
in my electrocuted heart? Am I
not yours, my friend? Or did your aim draw higher?
I’ll not apologize. I, too, aim high.
In your good name I haul this fatal fire
to the northernmost extremity of the world.


*Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus debuted on January 1, 1818, published in London by Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor & Jones.




Rick Mullin's newest poetry collection is Transom.

THE SNOWY OWLS

by Joan Colby

Researchers believe there are far fewer snowy owls than previously thought, and they worry the birds' long-term survival could be affected by global warming. —U.S.News, December 21, 2017

They have arrived from the north
Exiting the tundra and the lemmings
To hunt along the lake shore
Overlooked by high rises where
They perch noble as statues.

Yellow eyes fasten on a bridge
Where the ghost of Clarence Darrow
Is said to return each anniversary
Of his death. A wreath is placed in the
Lagoon where the arctic birds
Survey prospects like the Vikings
In the long ships headed for the Mediterranean.

What is it about the south that lures them—
These voyagers—the hunger for expansion
Or to be lauded as myth?

Each summer a woman in a Boundary Waters cabin
Awaits the visitation of the snowy owl
She rescued as a fledgling.
He comes wingspread as a westerly wind
To the familiar perch on her veranda.

Here, the photographers, out in force,
Capture the invasion. On barn roofs,
Streetlights, electric poles, they land
With a taste for rats and gulls.

The Greek priests extracted
The entrails of owls to seize upon the future.
Now, the warming world foresees
White feathers floating past the towers
Of condominiums and offices
As the owls descend to warn us.


Joan Colby has published widely in journals such as Poetry, Atlanta Review, South Dakota Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, New York Quarterly, the new renaissance, Grand Street, Epoch, and Prairie Schooner. Awards include two Illinois Arts Council Literary Awards, Rhino Poetry Award, the new renaissance Award for Poetry, and an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship in Literature. She is the editor of Illinois Racing News, and lives on a small horse farm in Northern Illinois. She has published 11 books including The Lonely Hearts Killers and How the Sky Begins to Fall (Spoon River Press), The Atrocity Book (Lynx House Press), Dead Horses and Selected Poems (FutureCycle Press), and Properties of Matter (Aldrich Press). Colby is also an associate editor of Kentucky Review and FutureCycle Press.

THE NEXT DAY

by James Grabill



So it’s the next day and we’re still alive on the planet where we’ve thrived beyond overflow capacity and immersed ourselves in collective interdependence propped up by long-evolved mineral sense and other species.

With all the fasting and ascension, retooling of Arctic winds for the hog-blinking duration, through certain rains we’ve inherited, amounts of arrogance from before science occur in the underbelly of thought.

And yet this is the chance we were given, to live while the clock hands wheel and numbers vanish along with the sky eventually darkening, where heads of the sunflowers eventually bend heavily toward the ground, as if sizing up where their seeds will fall.

Unfinished presence extends, where mushrooms stake out reclamations.

Stitches Grandma made to dresses on her seamstress bodices I’m sure still exist where they were drawn with attention taut, right for the baby in arms of her mother, in the room behind the door that stays closed.

James Grabill’s recent work is online at the Caliban, Green Mountains Review, Kentucky Review, Elohi Gadugi, Buddhist Poetry Review, Harvard Review, Terrain, Mobius, Calliope, The Oxonian Review, The Toronto Quarterly, Mad Hatter’s Review, Plumwood Mountain, and others. His books include Poem Rising Out of the Earth (1994) and An Indigo Scent after the Rain (2003), both from Lynx House Press. Wordcraft of Oregon has published his new project of environmental prose poems, Sea-Level Nerve: Book One and Book Two. A long-time Oregon resident, he teaches 'systems thinking' and global issues relative to sustainability.

MY GRANDMOTHER, A SHAMAN, HAS WORDS FOR THOSE WHO VOTED FOR TRUMP

by Ron Riekki

She recites a prayer, or perhaps it’s a curse,
that the souls of the unjust will also have years
to howl, that their revelation will shake their heart

until their cobweb racism awakens the spiders
of their hate and they’re forced to eat the insides
of their insides. She holds in her hand an iron pipe,

invisible, but visible, iron and air, and she sucks
deep on its end, telling me that she is taking away
their stupidity, gullibility, hegemonic ability,

and leaving them on vacation, meaning, etymologically
empty, vacated, so that something other than dumb
sexism can rest in their hollow bones. Her eyes

are fuses. Her skin reels. Her tears are middle
passages, saying we could have made history
but instead we made a bed to fuck the poor.

Behind her, there is no snow. We have assimilated
out of the Arctic, lost our language, bathed
in a drumless Michigan that has turned blood red

from apathy, tricked, pathetic, pricked to death
and not even realizing the rigor mortis. I watch
my mother open her mouth so wide that her lungs

are visible, iron and air, and I wonder if those
so easily swayed, so cinematographically fooled,
would even witness the protests of her body.

Ron Riekki's books include U.P.: a novel (Sewanee Writers Series and Great Michigan Read nominated), The Way North: Collected Upper Peninsula New Works (2014 Michigan Notable Book awarded by the Library of Michigan and finalist for the Eric Hoffer Book Award/shortlisted for the Grand Prize, Midwest Book Award, Foreword Book of the Year, and Next Generation Indie Book Award), and Here: Women Writing on Michigan's Upper Peninsula (2016 IPPY/Independent Publisher Book Award Gold Medal Great Lakes—Best Regional Fiction and Next Generation Indie Book Award—Short Story finalist).