I S S U E
O N E
wonders of winter p o e t i c a l l y
m a g a z i n e
D E C E M B E R
2 0 2 0
the coldest night
penguins and empty streets
jason de koff
diamonds (a haiku) kelly marie mcdonough
snowflakes and plastic shovels
the snow factory
december twilight; a monoku sequence
i have presents to give sean chapman
kaja van den berg
winter of cryptonyms
maine fishing village, 5am
out of the woods
chim sher ting
blow out the candles
unfreezing the moon outside my daughter's bedroom window on a winter morning
the veil in frost
the winter prayer lisa mary armstrong
breaking baubles in christmas town theodore dallas
editor's note dear friends, writers and readers alikeâ€” i am absolutely delighted to finally publish the first official issue of poetically magazine. themed "wonders of winter" for the december release, the issue comprises of poetry and prose by twenty four wonderful writers who perfectly encapsulated the essence of finding the little wonders in wintertime and illustrating warm sentiments of the heart, especially in the coldest season of the year. filled with festive features, snowy spectacles and inbetweenthe-lines intimacy; the words of our writers for this issue touches on their perspective and expresses their personal relationship with the yuletide season. hand over our hearts that are overflowing with gratitude, the poetically team and i wholeheartedly enjoyed putting together such a literary winter wonderland and we sincerely hope that you enjoy reading this issue as much as we enjoyed creating it.
wintry dream BY CHRISTINA CIUFO full moon illuminates its pale complexion and wintry wonder in the night sky. icy wind howls. the stream ceases and becomes arctic. snow owls hoot and screech. pine trees dressed in white attires and shawls. brown bear curls and slumbers in the cave. foxes are sly and pound in the snow. white rabbits frolic. lynxsâ€™ eyes peer through the bushes. green-blue northern lights illume and stream through the tundraâ€™s sky. caribou prance on the mountaintops. snowflakes perform their silvery dance in the night. pack of wolves, white, black, and charcoal fur with blue and golden eyes clamor their wintry lullaby for the forest, moon, and into my ears, while i conjure my wintry dream in my head.
the coldest night BY JASON DE KOFF the crackling fire, makes a different sound, on the coldest night, in winter. issuing forth, from the dusty hearth, it plays with the ears, as it tickles the memory. memory unknowable, yet knowingly felt, from ancient ancestors, gazing the same. coldest night, where the shadows, attempt mind control, in dark corners and thoughts. and the wind, palpable x-rays, seeking the soul, but finding bones. the maelstrom brings word, that there is no tomorrow, and hope is lost, in sheets of ice. the embers wink out, as does each wishing star, but the ash that remains, greets the new rising fire.
penguins and empty streets BY KAJA VAN DEN BERG fingers dipped in clay, we talk about the cold ice crystals forming in the window as sculptures emerge from our hands art lesson is our favourite time of day the teacher tells us about penguins they recognise each other through song imagine the only way to find your parents is by singing instead of crying for them not being lost as long as you have a voice must be a powerful feeling, we think we tear the clay apart in silence huddling in one corner of the world they can sing in two frequencies at once which song would be our song to recognise where we belong we watch the wind outside and know we would sing of icy mornings, empty streets and frozen tongues who would need a nest if you had your familyâ€™s bodies to come home to â€” you would never be cold again
salt BY H.E. CASSON your lips taste of salt in the summer when i kiss you so i touch salt to lips in the winter when i miss you
diamonds: a haiku BY KELLY MARIE MCDONOUGH old mother tree droops, wears winter on her shoulders. an icy burden. 0 7
snowflakes and plastic shovels BY DEA GURI it is early november the last of the leaves are still fighting valiantly clinging to their places on the trees dancing gently in the breeze the grass is barely green its vibrant hue just barely showing through its now frozen blanket not enough to do anything with but still, nonetheless, it is snow the first snow of the season everything stills, the way they do when the snow falls as they softly softly go to sleep i run outside; the air sharp on my face and fling myself onto the grass the snow melts through my shirt cold against my back, but i donâ€™t care i open my mouth and let snowflakes parachute down onto my tongue soon our driveways will be full and weâ€™ll bring out our neon orange plastic shovels their pigment offensively loud the sound of the plastic even more so as we scrape the snow off the pavement now, laying in the grass, the snowflakes lap on my face like an over-excited dog bathing my skin in their wet sloppy kisses my mind awakes from its fog i feel i feel i feel
maine fishing village, 5am BY JOHN GREY early morning, fishermen walk down to the dock in murk that cuts them off completely from those a step or two ahead. if they communicate at all, it’s through the rough morse code of coughing. so much fog, and salt in the wind, that even the greenery smells stale. the bar is dark but still smells of briny beer. a light shines from a room above meg’s hardware. some writer, so it’s said, who’s working on a 21st century “moby dick.” first boats set out with skin still numb and ghosts at large and engines resisting even the slightest “putter putter.” it’s fall though it could be spring. it’s dawn but it may as well be nightfall. they’re together but it feels like they’re alone. but the nets are nets. and fish are fish. and a writer looks out his window, through the mist, at chapter one.
winter song BY JOYCE LIU the snow is shy this year. it’s here in the morning and melted by afternoon, a winter that’s wet patches of pavement and choking, yellowed grass instead of great mountains of ice and flimsy toboggans on backyard hills. we only talk in the winter and this one doesn’t want to stay, so we place messages on doorsteps in the morning and leave them unopened for days. i say, have you changed your shoes yet. are you still wearing your beat-up orange sneakers because i’m not sure when to retire mine for boots. which jacket are you wearing. is it the one you had last year, the black one with the fur hood, so thick between my fingers it felt like a pillow, or did you get a new one. i say, it’s hard to i’m still trying to has grown fangs it. i say, i already
know when to change. it’s been seventeen years and figure it out, if it’s better to wait until your indecision and is breathing down your neck the way i always let know what you’re going to tell me.
i write i still won’t listen in lemon juice and wonder if you’ll smile. two weeks and a dribble of snow later, there’s meltwater running off the eaves into my waiting mouth and another purple envelope waiting on your welcome mat. this time it’s do you remember that blizzard last march. the one i braved to walk up your freshly shovelled driveway with my soaking boots and bits of ice melting in my hair. remember how your eyes crinkled and you told me to brush it out. did you want to kiss me? when i was sitting on your couch in your clothes, watching mulan on DVD, burning popcorn in your microwave, looking at you in the glass — did you want it? did you want anything i had? i wish i had stayed instead of walking back home in the snow. i wish you had followed me instead of staring at my footprints. i’m making so many wishes i’m going to run out of eyelashes. maybe i'll use snowflakes as dandelion seeds, close my eyes and blow them away before they can melt in my hand. you drop a letter on my windowsill but i don’t read it and the blackbirds mistake it for food. i want to tell them that they can’t live off your words, that i’ve tried and come out hollow and hungry and hurting, but how can an animal made of empty bones see hollowness as pain? the blackbirds wing across the sky and the days pass and i wait for the snow to come back so i can write you letters i know you won’t read. i’m thinking, you told me last year you’d teach me how to climb rooftops and i’m still waiting for you to come but i know you never will. i’m thinking our hands black ice my winter tires with the snowflakes on them . i’m thinking about the slide beneath the snow and how you fell on your tailbone, the sweep of your eyelashes against your cheeks as you laughed. i don’t say it. this time i say, do you remember at recess we weren’t allowed to throw snowballs because they might have ice in them. i say, snow and ice are just the same thing in different states, the same particles vibrating at different speeds. they’re dangerous because they’re not dancing together the way snowflakes do under streetlights. i say, i wish we were snowflakes under a streetlight. i say, i miss you. i miss throwing snowballs. i say, i’d let you hit me in the head with one, ice and all, any day of the week. this letter i leave under the snow covering your porch railing. maybe in the spring when it all melts you’ll find the soggy mess of it and wonder what i said.
unfreezing the moon outside my daughterâ€™s bedroom window on a winter morning BY DAVID WASSERMAN daddy! the moon is still! the moon is still up! the moon is still up in the sky! daughter, rub the warmth of your breath in slow-tender circle motions over the cold glass surface of the moon massaging those painful craters (waxing and waning reminders that life is hard) then stare at your warming moon until it stays with you when you close your eyes inverted and burning on your retinas like the memory of your mother who would have told you to place a red crayon on the windowsill and frozen spoons under your pillow until donâ€™t cry, look! our sunshine is back again
wood stove BY KELLI LAGE i sailed down cement stairs guided by the cracked maple rail. him. by the wood stove, watching the flames waltz. i rest in the performance as winter chills the outer bones. scent of logs marked by age, who ached to touch fire, burned in my memory. i can taste our nights in the back of my throat, if i swallow enough faded sunlight. folk music bouncing off of the cast iron, calling our ears home. our own nook of summer in a bitter winter. our dog letting out a satisfied groan, as the breath of heat pat her fur. gathering as if a pack of hungry wolves, fed by fire. our pack, quite soft. saved by the whistle of the chimney. by the rising of the buttery moon, we found the pantryâ€™s glory. mason jars full of homegrown kernels. the breath of springâ€™s garden lingering. popcorn cooked atop the fire stove and a piece of myself stayed in the basement of our first home. a longstanding craving filled by more than popcorn.
ice king BY CYRINE SINTI your feet won’t touch the floor but you’re still the smartest child i’ve ever known little voices left out in the parks as their mummy’s puff on cigarettes making videos of their precious ones sliding, swinging, playing. but not you. you ask me; “did they pick up bambi’s mum when they shot her?” “i think so, otherwise why would they waste a bullet?” i say. red faces peeking out of woollen cages scarves and hats and gloves and socks knowing they’ll go home to huge trees choked with tinsel and baubles. you haven’t asked where our tree is you haven’t asked where our decorations are. times are hard. can’t this be enough. just this grey wintery warmth. where we can have the same hot chocolate we had in november, without a reindeer on the mug. can’t i just have you with me watching christmassy T.V loving the magic inside that little box of wonder but not wanting it to leak outside into the bareness of the meagre home i’ve given you. am i angry at christmas? have i reached that low? who am i angry at? i know who. myself. you you you you
deserve deserve deserve deserve
to be wearing festive hats a huge tree heaving with angels random bits of glitter all over the house more than me.
“i don’t know if santa will get you that bike” i tell you “i don’t want that anymore.” you say. “what do you want?” i say wondering how to say ‘no’ again. “a new pencil case.” you run off and join the others. i sit with the cold and grey skies. “i can do that.” i say to nobody.
winter of cryptonyms BY CLAUDIA LUNDAHL i can remember when your breath formed icicles on my eyelashes in the dead of night. i try to release myself from the sutures around my ribcage that tighten and tear through my flesh when i think of the way the river was reflected in the darkness of your eyes. that was the winter i had pearls for eyes that were so beautiful to look through but i really could not see a thing. it was the winter of cryptonyms. the trees were covered with a thick shell of ice that preserved the essence of their cores. in a few months it would thaw and skeletal limbs would breathe deeply and stretch in all directions. all that we could see were their bent frames creaking arthritically in the cold night breeze.
i have presents to give BY SEAN CHAPMAN swollen fingers long past numbness and onto an aching pain, find a use for meâ€”the warm blooded man-shaped hot water bottle, in the openness of the coldâ€” the vast swathe that the frozen dawn covers in one strideâ€” entering thin windows and biting at temporary duvets. When she wants to rise and move out into this frosty world i try to hold the air at bay. i keep a little fire kindling always in these arms, out looking in the snow for twigs and twine to wrap you with a heartfelt heat, perhaps a pair of mittens and cozy bobble hat i have presents to give.
landlocked BY FRANKIE MARTINEZ on a slow morning in november, white, perfectly solid flakes drift lazily through the gray sky outside our window. my husband calls to me while he is working at the desk in the sun room, and we watch our first snowfall from the tall windows of our new home in southern virginia. snow is still a phenomenon for us. he grew up in concrete los angeles, and i grew up in a house just five hundred feet away from the pacific. i sip my earl grey tea and remember that in california, water is highly liquid. it’s the light shimmer on the surface of a chlorinated pool before i jump in, the feel of rubber sandals underneath toes shriveled to raisins when i get out. it is cold, salty froth lapping at the edge of rolled up blue jeans, the brush of something slimy and smooth and fearsome on my vulnerable ankle. when i ran in the rain in california, water drops pricked my heated, oxygen-deprived skin, the wet black slick of asphalt steaming out the smell of charcoal into the heated air. it was exhilarating and motivating. our new town in virginia is landlocked. the slopes of blue mountains curve up and down and pointed evergreen trees form a barricade around our neighborhood. i know there are rivers and lakes and channels surrounding us, but i haven’t made it a point to visit yet. the weather is unpredictable too. it rains sometimes, reminding me of those lazy days back home, and once, it hailed big fat drops of ice causing me to worry of shattered windshields. then, there is the snow. when i snap back to the present, the snow’s already stopped. it’s barely been five minutes, and my husband muses that it all probably melted on impact. i look down from our third-story window at the ground to see that he’s right. a thin sheen of white dots barely covers the green grass on the earthy ground floor. i sigh and go back to whatever it was i was doing before. i want it to snow again soon.
white butterflies BY ELIZABETH BATES grandma’s soul took flight for heaven at christmastime. the icy december snow stuck around as long as it could. chilling and taunting the mourning with its bleakness. the pearly white gates must have gladly greeted her: a woman with a crystallized soul of glistening, sweet, white granulated sugar. there we stood in grandma’s kitchen while the white of winter snow and frost spoke nothing but death and desolation outside. grandma’s kitchen, where so many christmases before she would gleefully help my sister and i decorate sugar cookies to look like reindeer, coat them in royal icing and overwhelm them in sprinkles, or maybe ice a snowflake. snowflakes meant something different suddenly: sadness, longing, death. but it wasn’t a snowflake that flew into the kitchen. there, in the middle of december, three white butterflies flitted over the oven, above the cookie jar, and in front of the rolling pins. three white butterflies fluttered signs of life back into grandma’s kitchen—into our hearts.
the snow factory BY ANN DOE all day long it had seemed like it was going to snow. that particular smell had clung to the air so tightly, there had been no doubt. in fact, leslie had awoken to the crisp and white smell of it when her mother had opened her bedroom window. it was not on schedule. normally, they would be drowning in white this time of year. instead, all they got was the smell. a glimmer of hope, but nothing more than hope. there was no snow. every year, she would wake up on the day of her birthday to find the air decorated with frosty confetti. her birthday present had always been the very first snow that stuck to the ground rather than create grey slush. the conditions for snow where perfect today: an icy blue sky, cold air, and frozen doorknobs. normally, she would pull her sled up to the snow factory to watch the fresh crystals come out of the chimney. they were the prettiest fresh out of their cold oven, ice cold and glistening in the sun, sharp edges but elegant in design. but that steep hill was a muddy brown today, not a crystal white. her sledge tipped over several times as she pulled it up there. she hadnâ€™t left it at home. it was silly, but her muscles had repulsed at the thought of leaving it behind. it had always accompanied her up there. even now that it was useless. she would not be able to ride it downhill later. there would be no wind tousling her hair, no ice in her throat and no snow dripping down the inside of her boots. why was there no snow? her clothes out to be drenched in it by now. she could smell it, she could taste it at the back of her tongue. the chimney was empty. leslie looked up to the sky. nothing was coming out of there but white noise.
the main entrance was sealed shut. big planks of wood were nailed to the pale blue door. only a smaller door next to the chimney allowed entrance to the factory. through a smidge in the small door she could spy an old man working the machines all by himself. he was in there all alone, nobody but him and the machines. his back was turned to her, but she could see that he was not wearing the uniform all the other men working there had worn. the old man was swaying to music only he was able to hear. all leslie heard was the growl of the engines and the huffing of a chimney that spit out smoke not snow. she watched him pull levers, rotate the tiniest wheels with precision, and fill tanks with various liquids. perhaps he knew what had happened. something had to have happened. who had abandoned such a magnificent place? who had stopped creating snow and ice crystals? “might as well help me, if you’re done lurking.” was he speaking to her? she whipped her head around to see if anyone was standing nearby. “help a grandfather out, will you?” leslie pulled her fire truck red sled behind her and pushed the heavy door out the way. her white hat had fallen into her face and she had been too sad to push it out the way. was this truly her grandfather? she hadn’t seen him in ages. one day he had been there, eating biscuits by the fireplace, the next he had been gone. her footsteps echoed thought he grand halls of the place she had once considered more glamorous than any castle in the world. “pull that lever,” he said and pointed at a big green one next to him. he did not spare her one small glance. all he did, was push some buttons that made the engine huff and puff. she took off her deep read gloves and stuck them down the pockets of her winter coat.
it took every bit of strength she had in her body to force the lever down, but she managed just fine. a small smile of pride spread across her chapped lips. “do you remember the first snow crystal you ever made”, she said. she was not good at making conversation, let alone starting one, but this one was important. this was her grandfather. she had missed him so much. “of course, i do. here,” he said and pointed to a black surface covered in dust. “i'll show you what it looked like.” he drew a star and added swirls everywhere, he added another star and more lines until a jet-black snow crystal twinkled amongst grey dust. “it was beautiful”, she said. it made her sad. no snow this year, or the next. no more snow crystals. she would have cried but the air was so very cold, the tears at the rims of her ice threatened to turn into ice. “yes, it was.” he turned to face her. his eyes were sad. he looked older now, not just physically. his aging had not only left more wrinkles on his skin, but also within his eyes. he looked sad, and old, and tired. “i remember coming up here at the end of your shifts”, she said. “aye, i remember that.” “they always played music inside. i would hear it when i was waiting for you.” leslie could recall those sweet melodies that had sounded like the ice crystals themselves had sung them, and the snow had softened them to create that warm feeling only a cold snowfall could create. silver bells had rung whenever the factory had released crystals into the air. small silver sounds just for her. “they did.” “what happened?” “i don’t know, nothing good i suppose”, he said and there was a bitter taste to his words. the big engine with the green lever screamed in approval. it rattled and shook violently. leslie was no mechanic, but she knew that something was amiss. it had never sounded like that before.
her grandfather kicked the pipes, he shook those little knobs, but that only made it worse, until the nose died along with the machines. they had tried, and they had failed. “i'm sorry”, he said. “i wanted to make sure that it snowed today.” “no, i am sorry.” she was. he had loved this factory as much as she had loved her snow. leslie slumped against her little sled. she would miss riding it. she would miss all of it, the snow, the joy and the icy crystals that painted dreamscapes and wonders on her window. they sat there for a while. leslie was sulking in her sadness just as much as her grandfather was. she thought of all those times she had built castles out of cold white bricks. her castle had glistened in the snow. she would never build such a beautiful castle again. “do you think it was missing something”, she said into the quiet halls. the screaming engines had calmed down and quit altogether. the thought had just crossed her mind. she had one made brownies but had forgotten to add the sugar. they had tasted like black coals. “an ingredient?” “yes”, she said. “maybe we missed something or forgot to push a button.” “impossible. i did everything just the way i did when i worked here.” “look out the window dear”, she started to sing. it was an old song of snow and love. two things so opposite but yet so similar. “what are you doing?” “there used to be music here. there was no music just now.” he did not seem convinced, but he pushed the buttons, he filled the tanks and he started the engines. her voice was almost drowned out by all the noise the factory was making, but she persisted. she let her voice be carried through the empty halls of the snow factory.
her melodies were not as clear and magical as the ones that had echoed through the halls all the years before, but she hoped that her song would be enough. “look out the window dear snow is finally here frost paints pictures of ice filled with white are the skies look out the window dear snow is finally here i'm so glad I have you and all the things we’ve been through look out the window dear snow is finally-“
“look”, she said and pointed out the window. perhaps it was her imagination tricking her, but the sky was no longer blue. it was white and glowing. “it’s here!” snowfall. finally. her feet carried her outside before her own mind could even realise what was happening. there, from the old chimney, it came down from the sky to kiss her face. she had missed those cold kisses on her hands and face whenever she left the warm comfort of her home. snow was here. it was starting to gather at the top of the factory roof. soon, the hill would be covered in a thin layer of white powdered sugar. from here on, it would descend the stairs down to the town and ring at every doorbell. there would be snowmen and ice crystals. snow would sparkle against the streetlights at night. It would glitter and shine, making the town and her little world seem more beautiful than it already was. the trees would look like snow cones with ice on top and colour at the bottom. snow was here. “happy birthday.” her grandfather’s words echoed down the hill and away from her palace of wintery wonders and merry magic. 2 3
missing him BY MAKAILA AARIN i. six leafless limbs sag from dormant maple trees, ice hugs and numbs each branch. ii. steel welded and bent a permanent companion beside brotherâ€™s grave. iii. fifteen years confined to eleven inscribed lines, pristine stone erodes. iv. buttercups boulder against weeds shrouded in white, each bloom for him. v. imperfections hide beneath the blanket until snow boots forge a path. vi. flakes compacted, spheres stacked shorter than brotherâ€™s headstone face blank, limbs immobile. vii. frosted truck windows, shotgun seat empty, mixtape failed consolation.
december twilight: a monoku sequence BY SILK planes rummaging through december twilight winter stripping the colors from this sun-bleached sky home for the holiday sounds of car tires packing snow licking warm froth from his beard early snowfall even a leafless oak tree flaunts its beauty
out of the woods BY CHIM SHER TING the milk of winter drips through the spaces between my fingers, running from the shaft of sunlight; my breath like raspberry rises above snow-capped trees, lifting into dewdrop sky, curling in a wisp of mist the owl perches on tangled branches, sleepless and glassy-eyed, if only to watch from above, as dawn lifts its whistling brush and i tread softly on a carpet of gilded leaves, their faint rustle sibilating the euphony of a come home come home come home the pine shifting in the wind, the earth puddling beneath my feet, in the lull of an early morning, my mind fogs and i make my way home from the navel of the woods
yule finch BY LAURA FONES silver light on untouched snow a finch in query — “yes? or no?” — to step upon the virgin expanse to be the first footfalls to last the morning. her sun-lit beak in the winter dawn crystal-cut air, december yawns before the finch whose tiny feet have yet to go and may retreat from the silver drift’s vast possibilities.
blow out the candles BY SHERRY TOH twenty-two years is not a long time to learn how to live if i have lived at all a december child, but i have never seen snowfall never traveled to where the streets gleam white in winter like the carols and books would promise my body has battled against itself since birth ‘she won’t make it past three,’ the doctors said so i kept to the sidelines all this time my dreams were stowed in the shadows for safety i thought 2020 would be worse of the same breathe in / breathe out i’m still here fear has held me for so long twenty-two years, nineteen past the prediction i make a wish for more dust off and unwrap my dreams, looking at the people, the world around me like a gift i want to learn i promise myself i’ll make my way to see snowfall gleam white on the streets
the veil in the frost BY MEG SMITH spring turns, not yet formed; trees begin with thin fingers, and breath plays out new ghosts. i have walked to your door, to give you only my eyes. we are all so long in sleep. when your door opens, we will awaken, in only our eyes — a summer, uncovered.
the winter prayer BY LISA MARY ARMSTRONG what’s left to hold when the cold breath of winter blows through the veiny undergrowth lifting her up like a thanksgiving prayer while her spirit moves with you still she holds your heart gently presses it against her own, and whispers it’s time to let go my darling it’s time to go.
breaking baubles in christmas town BY THEODORE DALLAS december 2015
she hates coming for christmas // but she always comes home to me // i want to tell her that i love her // but the words are always prickly // so i swallow them every time // tinsel stuck in my throat // bauble blocked // ornamented oesophagus // i picked her for secret santa and she guessed it was me straight away // santa baby // she sang // hurry down the chimney tonight // her love is expressed in decorating gingerbread houses and gifting the ugliest christmas jumpers // december 2016
christmas markets are her favourite // she likes the crowd and getting lost in them // people watching, window (stall) shopping // she gets tipsy on mulled wine // insists on tasting every stand // stacks of half a dozen tiny cups // it's only faaair // her words are drowned in the fanfare of music, the chattering of voices // the same circulation of christmas songs play the whole day // but i never tire of it // she's always humming along // so how can i tire of it? // december 2017
she loves the snow // but hates the cold // dolly coat blueprint snow angels // porcelain figure shivering // she’s fragile like glass // and i’m scared to touch her in the moment // just in case she shatters // so i leave her until she’s ready to come in // the wood is already burning // flames dancing in the fireplace // we watch christmas movies for the rest of the night // i make her a hot chocolate and she burns her tongue // tradition is tradition //
itâ€™s been four christmases already // i tell her i still can't skate // because her hands are always cold // and the only time i get to hold them is iceskating // she laughs at my fingerless glove 'covered' hands // holds them tightly in her mitten paws // bobbled hat bouncing as she throws her head back in laughter // this is pointless! // her breath are clouds of white puffing out like smoke as she giggles // it reminds me of steam powered trains // she guides me like a railway track // even when we exchange our skate shoes for bulky boots // i stay attached to her like a carriage // december 2019
winter is not kind to her // she confesses this one cold, cold morning // voice thick with sadness // she's spending christmas by herself again this year // too exhausted for the holidays // it's our first christmas uncelebrated and i want to give her my time // but she's an entire ocean away // with severe snowstorms // and heavy hails // all the flights are cancelled or delayed // i tell her i wish i could freeze the ocean so i can skate to her // she cries to me and promises // i'll meet you halfway // december 2020
we never gave each other presents // our mutual understanding being // each other's presence as the ultimate gift // but she wrote me a card every year // to theodore // to my friend, theo // my christmas companion // dear theodore // my favourite person in the world // dearest theo // i never saw it coming // reassured by the promise of winter wonderland this year // but shellshocked by the heartbreaking reality of the pandemic // happy holidays // merry christmas // thank you for everything // seasonâ€™s greetings // i love you // please donâ€™t be sad this christmas, love //
our contributors kaja van den berg david wasserman john grey jason de koff h.e. casson silk dea guri meg smith kelly marie mcdonough claudia lundahl elizabeth bates makaila aarin frankie martinez cyrine sinti joyce liu chim sher ting kelli lage sean chapman laura fones ann doe christina ciufo theodore dallas sherry toh lisa mary armstrong
FOR WORDSMITHS, STORYTELLERS AND THE POETICALLY INCLINED.
ISSUE ONE: WONDERS OF WINTER
Â© 2020 POETICALLY MAGAZINE
the first official issue of literary and visual arts publication, poetically magazine. themed 'wonders of winter', the december release comp...
Published on Dec 8, 2020
the first official issue of literary and visual arts publication, poetically magazine. themed 'wonders of winter', the december release comp...