BLOW WINDS BLOW

by Joy Kreves

 

New Jersey had two Jersey Shore towns report wind gusts of 60 mph on Monday night. More windy weather is expected Tuesday. Canva for NJ.com, December 30, 2025

Kick this era out into the cold

tail between its legs, thrash  

it with your breath ‘till it whimpers

 

Blow   blow    blow

clear out all the hangers-on

clinging to the corners

 

Blast like the pig-hunting wolf

but with strong enough huffs

to tumble brick walls

 

Slide your exhale across cold hearts, 

melt them like the wicked witch,

Ice down, down, drown 

 

Blow, bluster, dust off 

old peace signs, bring back butterflies

reignite a summer of love 

 

Roll sushi, tie tamales, shape samosas,

ribbon takeout containers in rainbow twine

Delight in the fruits of people’s labors

 

Then let us awaken to a calm, 

a steady sun that seeps its warmth

into our naked limbs

Sun Geode Rock, sculpture by Joy Kreves

Joy Kreves is a visual artist and poet living in New Jersey. She detests wind and lives with a big, white fluffy dog who everyone assumes loves snow, but he does not. However, he doesn't mind wind, even in large gusts. Kreves wrote this poem on the recent cold, gusty day.

A FABLE

by Kevin Carey

Shutterstock A-I generated image

A long, long time ago a very bad wolf,

probably the worst wolf ever,

did some very bad things to some lambs,

some of the worst things ever done to

lambs anywhere. As a matter of fact, this

very bad wolf had wanted to eliminate all the lambs.

The lambs who were saved from elimination

made a pact with some very big bears

(who helped save them from the wolf)

 and together they decided to push  

some rabbits from their nests so the lambs could have a land

to call their own. It’s worth noting that these rabbits

had nothing to do with the very bad deeds of the very bad wolf.

.

So the lambs took a mile,

but then they wanted two, then three and so on and so on.

The rabbits who were being pushed from their nests fought

back and were called very bad rabbits.

The lambs who wanted even more land

made even more big bear friends

and this gave them even more power,

which they used to keep pushing more rabbits from their nests.

The rabbits had no bear friends

so they fought back again,

and they were called very very bad rabbits.

And so the story goes. But this story

has no end. The lambs are still pushing the rabbits

from their nests and soon they will

have eliminated all the rabbits

and when that happens

the lambs will have done  

what the very bad wolf had wanted to do to them.

The moral of the story: a rabbit with no big bear friends is easy to push from a nest.

Kevin Carey is Coordinator of Creative Writing at Salem State University. Books include: The Beach People, The One Fifteen to Penn Station, Jesus Was a Homeboy, Set in Stone, Murder in the Marsh, and a new novel Junior Miles and the Junkman (September 2023 from Regal House / Fitzroy Books) and a new co-written poetry collection Olympus Heights (October 2023 – Lily Poetry Review). He is the co-founder of Molecule: a tiny lit mag.

DROUGHT’S HIGH DESERT HOWL OF THE WOLF

by Dick Altman

“Megadrought in the American south-west: a climate disaster unseen in 1,200 years.” -The Guardian,  September 12, 2022

D-r-o-u-g-h-t
Whenever I see the word—
I want to dismantle it                                
D—the letter—is easy—
delete and destroy
the most unforgiving letter—to me—
letter O—like a wolf’s maw—
whose mandible blades the heart—
as I watch high desert’s drought
wolf whatever’s in reach
of its insatiable jaws… 
                       
            Golden seas of shimmering
cow-pen daisies
Billowing swarms of insects
that sustain night hawk and bat
Purple Russian Sage beloved
of bees
Acequias—historic hand-dug
streams—feeding pasture
and crop
Rio Grande turned
into a waterless highway
of sand
Weakened pine—long needle
and short—decimated
by bark beetle
Every dead tree a depleted
trove of oxygen
                         
If drought were a song—I’d hear  
a one-note elegy of unyielding spareness—
a flameless fire unfurling in three-quarter
time—a waterless flood whose silent
music swallows all it touches—insistent
waltz whose slow cadences fool hope—
clouds swollen with broken melodies—
cisterns hollow with minor-key emptiness—
Aspen’s metallic yellow of fall chorusing
a month too soon
 
Call me a fool to plant a small forest
of trees—when I build here at seven-
thousand feet in Indian Country—half
of these children—if I may call them that—
fail to survive—no defense against a force
ghostly—merciless in its fury to gorge
on blood from leaf/petal/earth—flame
never seen—flood never felt—rapacious
lupine shadow hidden in the dark of light

Dick Altman writes in the high, thin, magical air of Santa Fe, NM, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in Santa Fe Literary Review, American Journal of Poetry, riverSedge, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Blue Line, THE Magazine, Humana obscura, The Offbeat, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The RavensPerch, Beyond Words, The New Verse News, Sky Island Journal, and others here and abroad. A poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has in progress two collections of some 100 published poems. His work has been selected for the forthcoming first volume of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry to be published by the New Mexico Museum Press.

NEW SHEPARD

by Monica Mills

the billionaire space race

is one without a finish line.

space tourists auction star

costs, haggle down heaven,

as latitude chokes the poor.

on supersonic joyrides white

collars pray greed into hemisphere.

on Earth oceans thrash aflame.

souls without homes look for sky.

find smog. find dollar signs

disguised as constellations.

the shepherd is a wolf. steals the herd.

no scapegoats are leashed

in fields of crumbling infrastructure.

rampant thistles, dandelions,

leeches of the grain root deep

into soil and call themselves farmers. 

Monica Mills is a Jamaican-American writer and poet. She is from Maplewood, New Jersey and has a bachelor’s degree in political science and English from Rutgers University. Monica’s work appears in journals such as The West Trade Review, The Anthologist, The Normal Review, and The Quiver Review among others. She enjoys rainy days and ginger tea. 

LIVING FOSSIL

by Mark Danowsky

“Normally, we wouldn't call something a living fossil. But the name seems tailor-made for the frilled shark, whose roots are traced to 80 million years ago.” --Bill Chappell, NPR, January 21, 2015. Phot source: Reddit.

Your cat and dog
communicate well-
enough to earn
a place inside
and remind us
domestication is
a two-way street

We speak
to our pets
and they respond
in their own way
which often means:

not speaking

turning to stare
at anything but you

walking away

I sometimes say
"you're a fake wolf"
to my dog
and I mean it
because it's true;
though I'm a wolf fan
when I wake
to find him standing over me
it's creepy enough

I would never say
you look primitive
to the dog
since who am I
to judge—
any creature
here today
has earned the right
to live among us

Mark Danowsky’s poetry has appeared in Apiary, Alba: A Journal of Short Poetry, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Red River Review, Right Hand Pointing, Snow Monkey and The New Verse News.  His poem "5am Summer Storm"won Imitation Fruit’s “Animals and Their Human’s” Contest, in 2013. Originally from the Philadelphia area, Mark currently lives in a van down by the Susquehanna River. He works for a private detective agency and is assistant copy editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal. 

AD ASTRA

by Bradley McIlwain

“A new meteor shower sparked some celestial fireworks late Friday and early Saturday (May 23-24), amazing stargazers across North America even though it did not reach the spectacular "meteor storm" levels that some had hoped for.” Photo: A small Camelopardalid meteor streaks through the northern lights as the Milky Way shines overhead in this stunning photo by stargazer Gail Lamm from Balmoral, Manitoba in Canada on May 24, 2014. Credit: Gail Lamm   --Space.com, May 24, 2014

A wolf sings
out my back gate
where does he go
at four a.m.?

The undergrowth
is cool, calming.
Tonight, we are
both prey

to the sky gods,
hungry meteors
dripping from the
womb

a golden apple
waiting for the
sleeping hero
to awaken


Bradley McIlwain's poems have appeared in The 5-2 Crime Poetry Weekly, The Open Mouse, Platform Magazine (Victoria University in Melbourne, Australia) and in anthologies such as Love Notes: A Collection of Romantic Poetry from Vagabondage Press (2012) and The 5-2 Crime Poetry Weekly Vol. 2 (2013). His poems have previously appeared in The New Verse News.

UNDER THE FULL WOLF MOON (OREGON 16)

by Tricia Knoll

In the third week of January a hunter in the Boise National Forest (Idaho) shot Oregon 16, a collared Oregon wolf.  Oregon Fish and Wildlife reported Oregon 16's death on January 24, but the shooting occurred the week before. Image source: Defenders of Wildlife

This January lamp of ice and silver

is stage light for wolf packs howling 

hungry at the treeline

below clouds scuttled in thawing winds,

under this full wolf moon

collared yearling Oregon 16, a gray,

left the Blue Mountains, crossed the wrong

north border, swam the Snake,

ran his wild miles

to Boise National Forest

where a hunter shot him --

second Oregon wolf

to die in Idaho

(media darling Oregon 7

made it to California -- 

without a shot fired)

with all the sadness trapped

in my breastbone for refugee

mothers inside fences of mud

holding babies dying

from typhus, for children

gunned down in elementary school 

and the hurts

of people shooting their brains out

in this gun-market world,

how is there room to mourn

Oregon 16

or how can 

there not be room

under his namesake moon

Tricia Knoll is a Portland, Oregon poet who has howled with wolves and been bitten in the neck by a captive coyote. She is working on a poetry chapbook about humans and wildlife in the urban environment.