THEO

by Tom Bonville

I was caring for my grandson yesterday.

He's my first grandchild.

He turned one, five months ago.

I think he is already smarter than me.

He's certainly more handsome

and he's more well-behaved than me.

I wouldn't want him any other way,

He didn't cry all morning,

not so much as a whimper.

It was as if crying hadn't been invented yet.

I'm not one to love easily,

not in today's world, though

love is probably the very thing that is more needed.

But I cherish Theo, like no one else.

He has the ability to lift me up,

feel optimistic, and want to love again.

And, gosh, does he eat!

He eats baby food

like it's gourmet.  

We shared a jar of pears and beets yesterday.

He wanted more after we had finished it.

Me, too! And I hate beets! Not crazy about pears, either.

What I really want more of is grandchildren.

My daughter is obliging me.

She's due, any day now.

Maybe a girl this time, eh?

Just bubbling over with love,

every which way.

I wouldn't want her any other way.

~

Tom Bonville has been writing poetry for about ten years. He has had poems published in Chronogram and in Up the River. He participates in open mics throughout the area, and is a member of Posey Cafe, a once-a-month poetry group that reviews poets and their poems. In 2025, he released a chapbook titled In Blue County.

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Better

by Maria Sohn

I’m drawn to sunbeams 

between dark spaces 

And wallow in moments 

of illumination 

I hold on to hints of reassurance

And sparks of inspiration 

I’m moved by moon light 

lacing water

And dance as the prima 

in dreams I remember

I ride on waves of wonder

And a belief this world will get better

~

Maria Sohn writes from her home in Albany, NY. She recently started reading her poetry at the Albany Social Justice Center’s Third Thursday open mic. She works as a graphic designer and studies ballet and guitar. Connect with her on Instagram (@mariasohn).

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nothing will be worshiped blindly

by Hana Sheedy-Corrado

My father’s mind is a cathedral of pages.

From Poe to Melville, Beckett to Faulkner, Jung to Huxley,

he’s read it all once if not twice.

He believes in the art of sitting,

Buddhist concepts of life and death.

He comes from devotion,

yet carved himself a different path,

turning from the altar

without losing the sense of awe.

My mother’s mind is a lantern held in the dark.

Though she’s read all of the greats,

she has a lust for knowledge of what comes next.

She’s curious

and walks in the realm of the beyond.

She grew up among prayers,

yet wouldn’t claim belief in “God,”

only an awareness of something more,

watching, unnamed,

just beyond reach.

I am a mix of my mother and father.

I will spend my days reading Camus and Didion,

Dostoevsky and Kafka,

and my nights reading Aurelius and Dispenza.

I want to read every book my father has read

and walk down every dark alley

lit by a candle from my mother.

I grew up in Catholic school,

but the last thing I will ever do

is subscribe to Roman Catholicism,

or the idea of that cruel “God”

that was painted before me.

I light sage every Sunday.

I speak to the moon.

I have both my mother's and father’s hunger for knowledge.

I will not be stopped.

I refuse to accept the idea that anything is casual,

but rather dance with the idea

that everything has meaning

and can become poetry

if you grieve it.

I walk alongside

the ghosts of my mother's and father’s childhood selves,

doing everything they couldn’t do.

My mind is a wild altar,

an unfinished scripture.

Written in the blood of those who came before me,

books, Gods, and ghosts are all welcome,

but nothing will be worshiped blindly.

~

Hana Sheedy-Corrado is a yoga instructor and a student at New York School of Interior Design.

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The Aging Guitarist

by Tom Harmon

A dusty chipboard case 

stands in a corner

untuned Martin, yellowed setlist inside. 

Once they made love, bodies entwined

fingers coaxing songs that soared

and he sang

while voyeurs at the café’s tables 

witnessed. A soul emerged.

Now he rests in a nearby chair

and nods off  to dreams of applause.

~

For more than 50 years, Tom has worked as an advocate for individuals with disabilities. He lives in Wynantskill with his wife, Sara. 

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Merry-Go-Round

by Edie Abrams

dry air quenched missteps

we went our separate ways

roads circled round us, exits

popped; we chose discretely

from each other, together

in our singularities

freeze reigned for three days

no-one paid emotional debts

an anteater nudged blankets

to check for tussles, unpressed

through dry air between

drizzling diamonds

~

Edie Abrams retired from the NYS Assembly 100 years ago, and has been writing poetry since she developed the typical mother-daughter relationship during her teenage years, a million years ago.

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Who’s Calling Me?

by Felicia Hart

There are echoes that call from a place unknown,

Where shadow and silence have overgrown.

Their voices drift like a salted breeze,

A prayer that moves with the pull of seas.

They speak in tones the soul can hear,

Not in volume, but in fear.

Each word, a ripple in memory's wake,

A riddle the stars refuse to break.

I cannot see, yet still they plead,

A haunting hum the night will feed.

A hymn not sung but felt in skin.

A longing born from deep within.

Searching for ears that find their whispers,

Soft as ghosts, or holy sisters.

They do not knock, they simply be.

But oh, the ache . . . who’s calling me?

Familiar voices that need the light,

The beacon of hope shining bright.

Their pain still clings to air and stone,

They seek the path to guide them home.

The wind grows still when they arrive,

A hush that tells me I’m alive.

Not alone—but not quite free,

Tethered to what I cannot see.

I reply in the wind to “follow me”

Through hollow night and memory.

I’ll be the flame, the steady sound,

That leads them back to shallow ground.

~

I live in an old house in East Berne on a lake with my kids and two dogs. We enjoy the simple life where we tend our garden and raise our chickens.

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