Poetry

By Nicholas Metzger

The water moves ever on in the Glen
flanked on both sides by walls of green
cutting through the forest it calls home
wearing through the dirt, shaving stone smooth
 
still stained brown from its tree origins
flowing through its narrow-hewn channels
catching the glimmering light, filtering through the canopy
turning the bubbling water into shining, sparkling gems
 
faster now, gaining speed, as the hill steepens itself
the volume rising, bubbling, chatting, screaming, roaring
the water leaps and rolls off its stone ledge,
pushing the air out of the way, giving motion to normally still air.
 
The cool air breathing out of the white, frothing water
settled now, farther down the stream’s path
its lazy pace now restored, waiting for the next big fall,
the water moves ever onward in the Glen.

Nicholas Metzger is from York, in south-central Pennsylvania. He is currently majoring in accounting and management, and his main interests are camping, nature, and reading. He has mostly done writing for school projects since his dyslexia often gets in the way. Lately, he has been writing poems and short stories more regularly. Armor Behind the Glass, Howling Wind

By Bonnie McMillen

Gramma in the morning, and
all of us around the table.
Summer days stretched ahead
in skies of blue and white.
 
Security of Mom and Dad right there.
The old black Plymouth, the trunk
full of fishing poles and worms.
Cousins to chase around the yard.
 
My brothers working on their cars and
all my firsts still ahead of me, love, sex, marriage, births.
My old hometown, the school, the church,
the rest.
 
The dirt roads and hobos eating sandwiches, talking politely
to Mom and Gramma on the porch. They
would insist on doing a chore.
 
One sharpened scissors and lawn mowers. He
came back every year, even made friends with Dad.
His name was Harold Fleek, one year he didn’t come.
We never saw him again.

Bonnie McMillen is a native of Bradford and spent her younger years playing around the Harry Emery airport on Dorothy Lane. While working as Director of Student Health at Pitt-Bradford, she became interested in writing poetry and short stories. This interest has continued into a busy retirement. Abecedarian, Dear Harry Emery Airport, Tales from the Female Crypt

By Taryn Pecile

I wasn’t bleeding by the end of March.
Not a single drop through that long April,
and so I went to the doctor in May.
I gave you your name on the fifth of June
and finished the nursery in mid-July.
But you died in the dry heat of August. 
 
The months that I carried you, to August
and your death, looking back at our slow march,
days pop like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
The first time I thought of you, tenth of April.
The first thing I bought for you, seventh of June.
The first time I felt you move, late May. 
 
My child, you were never just a maybe—
you lived in dreams and screens until August.
I saw you in an ultrasound in June
and I see you still in my dreams, marching
away from me. My sweet girl, my April,
you pop in my mind like the Fourth of July. 
 
Your baby shower, the eighth of July.
Everything pink, white, baby blue. Maybe
thirty people. Our family, April.
Nobody looking towards death in August,
just the life growing inside me since March.
My full belly showing you since mid-June. 
 
That was the best month—sunny, happy June.
Before the sweat and pain of late July,
and past the anxious tiptoe that was March.
June was sweet, and you were alive. August
was the furthest thing from my mind. Aunt May
set up a college fund for you, April. 
 
My child, my love, my daughter, my sweet April.
If we could have lived forever in June,
still one flesh and unaware of August—
looking only toward July,
and never knowing that all of this may
just be window dressings on a death march. 
 
Child, the tears of April, heat of July and June’s sunny joy—
come whatever may—
all grow cold on this grim March to August. 

Taryn Pecile is from a little town called Drums, Pennsylvania. She graduated in 2020 with a major in psychology and a minor in writing. In her free time, she enjoys singing and hanging out with her friends. She has been writing poetry since she was eleven years old.  Therapy, Trees/Capillaries

By Taryn Pecile

Trees branch out like capillaries;
they run tangled, yet looted,
proof of life rich sap carries.
 
Villains see mines to be left rooted
with dying leaves, some dynamics leave.
Trees branch out like capillaries.
 
The louder often give presence to muted,
true with colors, voices, and what they thieve,
proof of rich life sap carries.
 
History doesn’t always dictate paths suited
for what past left: something to grieve.
Trees branch out like capillaries.
 
Breaking pine needles renders more polluted;
thoughts of constancy are primary and naïve,
proof of rich life sap carries.
 
Arteries leading veins create roads routed,
part of what’s leading pain is how to believe.
Trees branch out like capillaries,
proof of life rich sap carries.

Taryn Pecile is from a little town called Drums, Pennsylvania. She graduated in 2020 with a major in psychology and a minor in writing. In her free time, she enjoys singing and hanging out with her friends. She has been writing poetry since she was eleven years old. The Lost Months, Therapy

by Rebecca Titchner

I.
And so, we did the laundry.
We folded the clothes that you would never wear 
and neatly stacked them in a white plastic laundry basket.
You’d written your name on it in black and blue
magic marker so no one would take it.
Your life was like that.
Most everything you owned was in that basket 
when you showed up at the door on a Sunday night in February.
It seemed so absurd to move the heap of jeans 
and shirts from washer to dryer.
What really was the purpose?
You wouldn’t be at work.
You wouldn’t stand in the kitchen each morning 
with a cup of coffee that was mostly sugar,
or apologize again for dropping the lid 
of the sugar bowl and breaking it in half.
You had no idea you would never wake up.
You had no idea you would miss a gloriously warm and sunny Sunday,
a day like you mentioned the night before.
You said you couldn’t wait for summer.
You asked me if I needed help cleaning.
You heard something outside and turned to me 
and asked if I had heard it too.
Porcupine, maybe, I said.
I think now it was a banshee
coming for you 
and leaving us here with your unfinished laundry.

II.
The bear wandered into the yard 
two days after you died 
tipping over the trash can and 
scattering garbage on the hillside behind the house:
tags from a new shirt you would never wear
empty take-out containers 
bits and pieces of a life
that amounted to no more than the 
wooden box that holds your ashes.

III.
She asked for his sweatshirt 
something with his scent
something to remind her of his being
his presence 
proof of something more than words unsaid
promises unkept
moments unlived.
She held it to her chest each night
and stained it with her tears
until all that remained was the scent of loss

Rebecca Titchner has been the Elk County Recycling Coordinator for over twenty years. Prior to that she was a reporter and editor for two county daily newspapers. She and her husband are musicians and some of their original music has been featured on public radio and internet streaming stations. She resides in Ridgway.