• Skip to main content
  • Skip to footer

Willawaw Journal

Online Poetry & Art

  • Home
  • Journal
    • Willawaw Journal Spring 2025 Issue 20
    • Willawaw Journal Fall 2024 Issue 19
    • Willawaw Journal – All Issues
  • Submissions
  • Pushcart
  • About
    • About the Journal
    • About the Editor
    • Behind-the-Scenes Creatives and Advisors
  • Contact

Willawaw Journal

David Hargreaves

What’s Wrong With Me

Is what’s wrong with a hummingbird caught in the open,
‌            beaten to the ground
by March hail-storming the coast,

‌            amphetamine heart arrested in the sand.
She buries it, drawing a circle lined
‌            with gull feathers, kelp, pebbles, shells.

I say a few words stupidly
‌            asking which species–Anna’s or Rufus?—
before we return to the potpourri-mildew

‌            nuanced room, and queen bed
with its gaudy autumnal duvet,
‌            plus balcony and ocean view.

Afterwards, when I say I don’t see you
‌            as the earth goddess type,
she shoots me

‌            a look, tosses off the sheets,
‌slides into her jeans, “haven’t you ever wept
‌            for a pet you had to put down,

‌or a thrush who crashes the window,
‌            beak crushed, lying on the ground
‌crying out—more likely, simply crying—

‌            while the ginger tomcat slinks
‌through the wood-sorrel?”
‌            Two seal cows sleeping

on rocks at low tide, look up from their nap,
‌            care nothing for my answer,
nor feel the need to clap.

When You Meet Your Maker, Try Writing a Sonnet

The ambulance siren dopplers its way
out of darkness into lyric. Flurries drift
under a streetlight dome. I’m splayed
on a gurney, pain-level 8, not getting the gist
of night geese calling above. I used to mock

the hackneyed seasonal clichés, the L.L. Bean
catalog plaids, the wooden decoys on the mantle,
and yet I’ve always looked for meaning
in the sound of his whittling blade, in the smell
of sugar pine shavings, a freshly carved neck.

Alas, he’s a jealous, angry, whirlwind of old man stench,
with a drinker’s nose and shredded-wheat beard
sheathing a whetted tongue—and just as I feared:
sculpting knives and a jar of glass eyes on his workbench.

Born in Detroit, by now a long-time Oregon resident, David Hargreaves is a poet, translator and linguist. Most recently, his translation of Chittadhar Hrḍaya’s River, from Nepal Bhasa, the endangered, ancestral language of the Kathmandu Valley, appeared in the anthology River Poems (Everyman’s Library Pocket Poet Series, 2022). His own work, Running Out of Words for Afterwards, (Broadstone Books) earned a starred review from Kirkus Review, appearing in its top 100 indie press books of 2022. Other poems appear in a wide variety of journals, including American Journal of Poetry, Passages North, and Catamaran. For more info go to his website here.

Suzy Harris

August Ghazal

‌     Corn is universal,
‌ ‌    so like a Roman senator.
‌              —
Ruth Stone

County fairs: 4-H barns of piglets and paper boats of roasted butter-slathered corn.
At dinner, my mother offers a choice: large kernels or small on our cob of corn.

Abundance: fields and fields of young girls dancing—
country roads between acres of waving tasseled corn.

What makes me feel old? Not ten for a dollar,
but more than a dollar for a single ear of corn.

My daughter rolls her eyes when her aunt and I show up
with our haul from the market—watermelon and a dozen ears of corn.

Corn Mother, Demeter, Grandmother Selu—beloved matriarchs
who brought us this golden goodness we call corn.

Michael Pollan was the first to teach me this lesson:
we are not the cultivators—we are cultivated by corn

Solstice

–after Carlos De Andrade’s “Corona” (tr. by Elizabeth Bishop)

Early summer eats all the green, leaving
scattered windfall, leaving strawberries

picked clean, leaving wild fires too close.
Time is different now, more baked in and

mutable at the same time. Energy,
too, starts strong, fades by mid-afternoon.

During the day, we love each other by
chopping vegetables and heating water.

We sleep restlessly then burrow like small
mammals when morning light breaks. I wake,

unbroken, to a day so cool autumn lurks,
blooming summer days already too short.

We stand as if on a train, watching
green flash through the open window.

Suzy Harris lives in Portland, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in Calyx, Clackamas Literary Review, Switchgrass Review and Williwaw Journal among other journals and anthologies. Her poetry chapbook Listening in the Dark, about living with hearing loss and learning to hear again with cochlear implants, was published by The Poetry Box in 2023. Born and raised in Indiana, she was an Oregon special education attorney for many years and is happy to call the Pacific Northwest home. She enjoys making soup, walking among big trees, and watercolor journaling.

Alison Hicks

Bushwack

No trail. A compass reading.
We can’t walk a straight line. Blowdowns
force us into detours, we climb
over massive trunks, the stream meanders.
Not clear how the topo aligns
with rises and valleys. We could be
anywhere, do not have the vision
of the raptor banking above.

The land shifts and groans over time,
turning in sleep. It doesn’t tell
its dreams, a language we can’t decipher,
intimate as we are, crawling through underbrush,
scaling boulders in the dry creekbed.

We might remember when we arrive,
wherever that is: raw feet, scraped knees, thirst.
What traces have we left?
Should we blaze the trail, melt into trees?
Feel them, even now, watching us.

Alison Hicks was awarded the 2021 Birdy Prize from Meadowlark Press for Knowing Is a Branching Trail. A new collection, Homing, is forthcoming from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions in November, 2024. Her work has appeared in Eclipse, Gargoyle, Permafrost, and Poet Lore. She was finalist for the 2021 Beullah Rose prize from Smartish Pace, an Editor’s Choice selection for the 2024 Philadelphia Stories National Poetry Prize, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Green Hills Literary Lantern, Quartet Journal, and Nude Bruce Review. She is founder of Greater Philadelphia Wordshop Studio, which offers community-based writing workshops.

Sarah Barton

Bees for Marie. Double Zhen Xian Bao with decorative papers, recycled posters. 12”x 26″

Jean Janicke

Can You Hear the Whistle?

It’s the sound you hear when the kettle starts to sing
or the deep desire when Midnight Star would sing.

A haunting ancient sound over the city of Beijing
from a reed fastened to the end of pigeon wings;

14th and Penn, cars block the box
send orange-jacket arms waving.

Wind strikes the edge of branches
and the air starts oscillating.

A politician speaks in code
of banks and forced busing.

Construction workers call a cat,
and I hope my Jeans don’t cling.

Jean Janicke writes, dances, and works in Washington, DC. Her work has appeared in Passionfruit, Paper Dragon, and The Last Stanza.

Tricia Knoll

Good Enough

The proud mother, behind the child’s painting, urged blood
red for the seesaw. The little girl stopped– good enough

She kept ten boxes for all her stuff
littering the garage full of dust– good enough

The old man drew a matrix for staining their deck
in quadrants, his wife rebelled in stripes good enough

Half the ingredients for chicken piccata were missing
from the shelf when she sizzled up the garlic good enough

He tried to make the spider’s web into a glove
and the spider ran away, disposed of good enough

The lady scrubbed and scrubbed her tub
but silverfish slid in and holed up good enough

The editor ditched simplistic fluff
about 10 ways to lose 10 pounds good enough

The camper’s beef jerky, miles from camp, was tough
and salty, hard on teeth good enough

The psychiatrist drinks spiced up rum,
leaves out the butter and the hot good enough

The towels drying on the laundry line are rough
but smell of wind, sun and summer good enough

This girl makes lists of how she fails at simple acts of love
hugging, kissing, and backing in good enough.

Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet. She has nine published books in print. Wild Apples (Fernwood Press, 2024) highlights downsizing, moving 3,000 miles from Oregon to Vermont. The Unknown Daughter contains 27 persona poems — people reacting to the Tomb of the Unknown Daughter. Website: triciaknoll.com

  • « Go to Previous Page
  • Page 1
  • Interim pages omitted …
  • Page 10
  • Page 11
  • Page 12
  • Page 13
  • Page 14
  • Interim pages omitted …
  • Page 94
  • Go to Next Page »

Footer

Stay In Touch

Subscribe to our mailing list for news about special events and the launch of the latest issue of Willawaw Journal.
* indicates required
We respect your privacy and will never sell or rent your personal information to third parties.

Support

Please make a donation here to support the running of Willawaw Journal. Thank you!

Support Willawaw Journal

  • Email
  • Facebook
  • Instagram

Submit to Willawaw Journal

Submit through Duosuma

Click to submit through Duosuma (opens in a new window/tab)

Copyright © 2025 Willawaw Journal, LLC · WordPress · site design by Yeda, LLC

 

Loading Comments...