ScribesMICRO
* Managing Editor: Edward Ahern *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Special Features Editor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Poetry Editor: Mary Keating *
Submission Editors:
* Sarah Anderson * P.C. Keeler * P.M. Ray *
* Felicia Strangeways * Amita Basu * Leslie Burton-Lopez *
* Vincent Convertito * Benjamin Barouch *
Editors Emeritus:
* Ira Rosofsky * Micah C. Brown * Scott Bogart * Julie Cadman *
* Associate Editor: Alison McBain *
* Special Features Editor: Matthew P.S. Salinas *
* Poetry Editor: Mary Keating *
Submission Editors:
* Sarah Anderson * P.C. Keeler * P.M. Ray *
* Felicia Strangeways * Amita Basu * Leslie Burton-Lopez *
* Vincent Convertito * Benjamin Barouch *
Editors Emeritus:
* Ira Rosofsky * Micah C. Brown * Scott Bogart * Julie Cadman *
Issue # 61
August 31, 2026
Featuring the short scribblings of:
* Karen Baumgart * Philip Carron * Chris Clemens *
* Marc A. Criley * Katie Dozier * Jacqueline Goyette *
* Mark Hendrickson * Jo Kerr * Stephen Kingston *
* David Lowis * Claire Maley * Leah Mueller *
* Elsa Nichols * J.S. O'Keefe * David Sydney *
* Van Wallach * Kaaren Whitney * Wai Mei Wong *
* Karen Baumgart * Philip Carron * Chris Clemens *
* Marc A. Criley * Katie Dozier * Jacqueline Goyette *
* Mark Hendrickson * Jo Kerr * Stephen Kingston *
* David Lowis * Claire Maley * Leah Mueller *
* Elsa Nichols * J.S. O'Keefe * David Sydney *
* Van Wallach * Kaaren Whitney * Wai Mei Wong *
Interview & Book Review
Residency Review
by Katie Dozier
Reviewed by Mary Keating
Welcome to our 61st issue of ScribesMICRO. I’m the Poetry Editor, Mary Keating, and our interview today is with Katie Dozier as we explore her recent collection of poetry, Residency Review.
Katie Dozier’s love of poetry began in elementary school, when she memorized Frost in between climbing magnolia trees and kicking around a soccer ball. Born in Miami, Florida, her childhood led her to Kentucky, Michigan, Georgia, and Cocoa Beach—where she graduated high school and tried to become an opera singer.
Katie Dozier’s love of poetry began in elementary school, when she memorized Frost in between climbing magnolia trees and kicking around a soccer ball. Born in Miami, Florida, her childhood led her to Kentucky, Michigan, Georgia, and Cocoa Beach—where she graduated high school and tried to become an opera singer.
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While studying poetry at Florida State University, KHD became a professional poker player, and later attended culinary school. In addition to books about poker and a YA series, Katie is the author of Residency Review: A Memoir in Verse, All That Glitter (winner of The Poetry Box’s 2025 Editor’s Choice Award), and Watering Can (Alexandria Labs). She’s the co-author of Hot Pink Moon: A Crown of Haibun, and Did You See the Moon Honey (longlisted for the Haiku Foundation’s Distinguished Books Touchstone Award) with her husband, Timothy Green.
KHD is the creator of the top-rated podcast The Poetry Space_, the haiku editor for ONE ART: A Journal of Poetry, and creative editor at Rattle. She lives with her husband in The Woodlands, Texas, with their four children, a new magnolia tree, and too many books. Katie loves long conversations about short poems even more than macarons.
A lover of poetry to her core and recipient of not one, but two scholarships, Katie Dozier enrolled in a low-residency MFA program “with enough hope to water/the whole garden—to populate Pacific/with the blooms of poems.” But her hopes began to wither when she was sexually assaulted, not once, but three times by another student. “With/each passing day/[she has] just/a bit less to say.” To complicate matters, the person who assaulted her wasn’t the stereotypical sexual predator. She is a disabled, nonverbal classmate of Dozier’s named “Star” who attended the university with the help of her mother, “Gravity.” In Residency Review, Dozier masterfully inter-weaves poems about her relationship with her own nonverbal daughter as she documents her MFA experience. She knows firsthand what it’s like to have a disabled daughter—to fight for a child no one understands. She writes about how strangers make assumptions about her own daughter, Charlotte, and label her “a brat/ not a perfect/little girl/lost/in her own/bamboo forest.” But Star is not Charlotte. This distinction becomes the ethical and emotional center of Dozier’s Residency Review. Her carefully crafted poems immerse us in Dozier’s conflicting emotions as she grapples with the university’s failure to protect her and the other students affected. Her poems explore motherhood, disability, vulnerability, humanity, and the reality that nothing is clear-cut. We feel the abiding love she has for her daughter, Charlotte, and her desire to protect others, including Star. As system failures lead to the utter devastation of her dreams, she reminds us that “villains rarely wedge in, with spines out, on a shelf—/they buy milk and bread. Most of all, they buy themselves.” Aware of Dozier’s natural instinct to protect Star, we recognize how hard it must have been for her to speak up, not only to the authorities but to herself. Like Star’s mother, she knows “a little of those/clouds, and the desperation/not to see them.” With courage, she gives truth a voice when others cannot, not even Gravity. Star’s behavior cannot be excused; it is harmful to herself and others. This lyrical memoir will burrow into your heart as it reveals what so many are afraid to bring to light. Bravo, Katie Dozier, for your bravery and refusal to be silenced. I read this poetic memoir twice within twenty-four hours and am sure I will come back to it often. As a poet, disability advocate, and disabled person myself, I highly recommend Residency Review to administrators, advocates, and parents of disabled children—and for everyone dealing with the complexities of being human. |
Residency Review shows us the power of voice and silence throughout, from your daughter’s disability, to the disability of “Star,” the student who assaulted you, to the university’s lack of support, to you finding the strength to speak about something that was extremely painful and complicated. How did poetry help you in sorting through these different aspects of voice and silence? I define poetry as the language of the sublime, and believe that its ability to focus on connotation over denotation is part of what sets it apart. When friends and family heard that I had left the school, I wanted to be able to tell them why. In replying to messages after the fact, I realized it was impossible to tell the whole story without poetry. The result is my book, which braids together poems, emails, quotes, and a Title IX document erasure. Unimaginable events change the trajectory of your poetry journey. Had everything gone as expected, you would have your MFA. Instead you have given us a powerful memoir in verse that would not have been written had you not lived through the trauma. Do you think poets need to experience adversity to write their best work? I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Adversity is not necessary to write excellent poetry—but I do think it helps fuel personal identity. I’m a big believer that writers should try to find the story that’s theirs to tell. Given that my youngest daughter was diagnosed as nonverbal and “Star” (the classmate who is at the center of these events) presented as nonverbal to me, I felt that I was the right person to speak about these events. When writing about overcoming adversity, I think writers have the added motivation of justice-seeking. By that, I mean the belief—even if locked away in the subconscious—that we can make what we have been through “worth it.” I don’t know if that’s possible in the case of a lot of the difficulties many of us have faced—but the pursuit of making life better for others through sharing our story can at least impart the calm that comes from doing the right thing. How has writing Residency Review changed you and your view of the world? Poetry is my oldest friend, and writing this memoir in verse strengthened our relationship even more! I have implicit trust when I sit down to write, that the words will come to me (I worry about that critical editor side of my brain later on). Poetry has always been there for me, and the more I give to poetry, the more it gives back to me. The book’s reception has been more emotional than expected. Among the book’s growing number of readers, many have reached out to me in solidarity or to share their own similar experiences. Often, I have been moved to tears from their abundant warmth. In contrast, some people are, frankly, mad that I chose to speak up about what happened. For example, I was particularly hurt by a lengthy review on Goodreads, where someone that overlapped with me in the MFA program lied about that bias in their review. Of course, had the residency environment fostered listening and looking out for everyone at school, I doubt that the events that unfolded could have even taken place. The flip-side of all of this is the kindness so many people have shown me. It has also made me very quick to leave positive reviews, even just on Google, and to leave five stars for places where I have a positive experience. We need more compliments in the world, and the good news is that they are easier than ever to give! In an early draft of Residency Review, I included a quote from Margaret Atwood which sums up why I love writing so much. “A word after a word after a word is power.” What an incredible gift poetry—and getting to write poetry ourselves—is. Now I have more appreciation for that than ever. |
Photo by Michael Leonard
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Poetry
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Acclimation by Katie Dozier We all have heard the story:
the frog doesn’t realize the pot is boiling until he’s cooked. I saw Star straddle someone last residency, from across the dim room of the banquet dinner. In Seaside, she gave me a couple of hugs that hurt. I wanted her to live in a world that worked with her, worked for her, so I let her work me. Once I tried to make a home up in the mountains, where oxygen’s so sparse that humans learn to need less air. But it turns out, my body couldn’t do this. in the darkness seeing all the stars * * * From Residency Review: A Memoir in Verse
Katie Dozier, a former professional poker player, is the author of All That Glitter (winner of the 2025 The Poetry Box Chapbook Prize), and Watering Can (Alexandria Labs). She’s the co-author of Hot Pink Moon: A Crown of Haibun, and Did You See The Moon Honey with her husband, Timothy Green. She loves long conversations about short poems. Katie is the creator of the top-rated podcast The Poetry Space_, the Haiku Editor for ONE ART, and the creative editor at Rattle. She lives with her husband in The Woodlands, Texas, their four children, and too many books. |
Photo by Tanner West
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From Winter's White by Kaaren Whitney As the Crone’s white winter bones
crack and crumble to fuel the earth and snowmelt slowly seeps to streams waiting seeds swell and sing burst from their protective shells of the past. Dark as winter was cold, light now shares time in equal measure; sun warms both earth and seed the future awake and alive to dreams long held, incubated in stillness. From our deep sleep we wake, welcome Persephone’s colour and the greening of the land as Demeter calls back life dresses the earth with her delight our pleasure. * * * Kaaren Whitney is a poet and Homeopath living in Suffolk, England since 1971 although she grew up in Fairfield, CT where she ran an active Children’s Library. She is especially interested in the seasons and people’s quirks. She belongs to five local writing groups and a zoom or two.
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Where She Fits by Elsa Nichols She fits in the space
between our bodies. We lay skin-to-skin but there’s still more room, and she wriggles her way in until we’re all laying face-to-face, admitting the sin we’re committing. Touching her is blasphemous, you warn, but her bitten lips draw me closer. I want to taste her trauma and let it have play dates with mine while our tongues are busy exploring new places. I want to know how much she means it when she calls me beautiful, when she says she wants to fuck me, when she whispers under her breath wondering how much fun I must be. * * * Born and raised in Eastern NC, Elsa Nichols is often found curiously exploring whichever creative outlet catches her eye (and her inspiration). She has enjoyed modeling, photography, graphic design, drawing, and painting. Her work has been featured in White Noise Zine, The Candid Review, t'ART Magazine, and is forthcoming in Quillkeepers Press.
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Fiction
Photo by Mostafa Meraji
In My Day by Mark Hendrickson I keep dyeing my beard and head stubble even now that my hair is gone. I refuse to give up coffee despite the indigestion. I bought my husband a new pill box for his birthday. My trips to the gym have become maintaining rather than any reasonable expectation of improving. We discuss moving to a warmer climate for our joints and give serious consideration to single-floor living. Noise bothers us. People annoy us.
How did all this overtake us so quickly? I still remember being younger not that long ago. Just look at young people these days! In my day… * * * Mark Hendrickson is a gay poet and former psychiatric nurse living in the Des Moines area. A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, his work appears in McNeese Review, Vestal Review, Variant Lit, The Ekphrastic Review, and others. Follow him @MarkHPoetry or visit www.markhendricksonpoetry.com.
You'll Want Something Bitter by Van Wallach My junior high track coach, Mr. Conway, walked the team back to the lockers after practice on a sweltering Texas afternoon. We talked about how to cool down. The ideas came fast.
“Dr Pepper!” “A milkshake!” “Stick our heads in a bucket of ice water.” “Run through a water sprinkler!” “Take showers in cold water!” “What about you, Coach?” I asked. “I want some cold beer,” he replied. “I don’t like the taste of beer. It’s bitter,” I said. Mr. Conway shrugged. “When you get older, you’ll want to drink something bitter.” I later learned he was getting divorced. * * * Van Wallach is a writer in Reading, Mass. He's a native of Mission, Texas and a graduate of Princeton University. Besides writing short fiction, blog posts and journalism, he's also a veteran open-mic performer at venues like the Hudson Valley Writers Center. He recently performed at a Moth StorySLAM in Boston.
Uncle Fred's Last Words by David Sydney It was nearly the end for Uncle Fred. He was eighty-seven, in bed, surrounded by a few relatives who’d made it on short notice. His great-niece Felice had called them.
Ed and Edna were there from Philadelphia. Ralph sat in his Hawaiian Gonzo shirt. Claudette showed up in a bright orange jumpsuit. Then Otto arrived. “Am I too late? … Is he, well, gone?” Uncle Fred opened one eye. Then both. “Otto?” “Sorry about that… You look great, Uncle Fred.” He didn't know what else to say. “Well, at least I don't look like Ralph or Claudette there… Or you, Otto.” * * * David Sydney is a physician who writes fiction in and out of the EHR (Electronic Health Record).
Flicker by Philip Carron I am dying. I feel the light leaving my eyes, feel the very life within me stuttering.
You know. And you do nothing. SAVE ME, I gasp in desperate flashes. When you look at me it is with utter disdain. As if it’s my fault. As if it would cost you anything to give me my life back. Your hand reaches for me not in mercy, but in condemnation. Having silenced me, you simply lie in the darkness. Your gaze returns, as it always does, to the ungodly illumination in your hand. “I’ll change it later,” you mutter. “Stupid lamp.” * * * Philip Carron is a teacher and serial procrastinator who lives and writes in Salt Lake City. After starting and stalling on three novels, he has discovered and fallen in love with flash and micro fiction.
Bee Dress by Leah Mueller The yard sale was in full swing when I arrived. Lovely Portland afternoon. Shoes in neat rows, tattered paperbacks, band tee shirts, vintage LPs. And the Sundress. Oh, how I wanted it. Floral pattern, shin length, tiny buttons down the front. As I caressed the fabric, I heard a low, relentless buzzing. A bee flew from the folds, shimmied down my neck and made its way towards exposed cleavage. I pulled off my shirt and darted into the house. “Sorry,” the owner said. “We’ve been meaning to get rid of those bees.” She paused. “You want to buy the dress?”
* * * Leah Mueller’s work appears in Rattle, Best Small Fictions, Certain Age, Writers Resist, The Shallot, Brilliant Flash Fiction, New Flash Fiction Review, Does It Have Pockets, Outlook Springs, Your Impossible Voice, etc.
Photo by Sascha Kircher
The Oppression of Time by Jo Kerr Victor is a pale but beautiful island in the candlelit ballroom.
Untouched by the laughter. Detached from the entwined dancers. Unmoved by the music. He drains his glass, a droplet of ruby-red liquid marring his pristine shirt as he shoves his chair back and strides to the east door. Outside, the pre-dawn gloom welcomes him. Hands in pockets, shoulders finally dropping, he surveys the garden, resplendent in roses and honeysuckle. The dawn chorus swells with the first rays of the sun. A sigh. Skin blisters. Burns. His absence is marked with a swirl of ashes. Caressed by the breeze, they find solace under the crimson roses. * * * Jo Kerr lives in a small village in the UK with her husband. Their tuxedo cat, Alfie, allows them to share his home, though he wishes they would feed him more tuna and stop going on holiday. Jo only recently started writing, hampered by Alfie sitting on her laptop.
Just Keep Walking by Marc A. Criley The sun blazes like the eye of God watching a sinner burn.
“Don’t we need to find some water?” “What? No, there’s no water out here.” Through the gritty, boulder-strewn heat the two plod in silence. “Are we there yet? How much farther?” “I don’t know. Stop asking questions.” “All I want to know is are we gonna die out here? Tell me and I’ll shut up.” “Jesus, dude, you’ve already been dead for three days.” “Shit, I keep forgetting. But where are we going?” “We’re goin’ where we’re goin’, man. We’ll know when we get there. Just keep walking.” * * * Marc A. Criley avidly read fantasy and science fiction for over forty years before deciding to try his hand at writing it. He has since been published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Galaxy’s Edge, Worlds of Possibility, and elsewhere; so rest assured it is never too late to start writing.
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Elusive by J.S. O'Keefe Since childhood, I’ve wanted to visit Krannatolia. Each season something intervened, work, wedding, etc., always enough to delay the trip.
Last year I booked it finally, business class, aisle seat. Weather forecast clear, hotel, rental car, okay. Then, without real reason given, the airline canceled the flight. They offered alternatives but none of them worked. Now an old high-school friend, government geographer, says Krannatolia doesn’t exist, and there’s never been a country by that name. I miss Krannatolia. My next-door neighbors do too. When it comes up, their faces turn glum. Even the UPS delivery man looked worn this morning. I gave him a hug. * * * J.S. O’Keefe is a trilingual translator and writer. He has published over 500 short stories, creative essays and poems in print and online literary journals.
My third graders ask about paper-book libraries from the before-times, so I tell them by Karen Baumgart about air like velvet curtains, dust motes drifting in languid pirouettes. The scent of old paper cobwebbed across the curled edges of remembrance. Time unspooling, slow as a cat awakening from sunlit slumber. Story-time crafting, messy with glitter and pasty glue for paper chains, each link kissing the next in the damp, sticky way of a toddler.
I tell them how the paper-book libraries made cosy nooks for homeless people. Resisted, when books were banned. Forgave overdue fines in exchange for dog photos. Hung rainbow bunting during Pride Month. Held their arms open like the sky, which is for everyone. * * * Karen Baumgart lives in Australia and adores beautiful quotes, pink things, cats and chai lattes. She loves it when people geek out on a random thing that makes their heart sing. Karen used to be an English teacher and is quite certain that writing is the best therapy.
Sign of the Times by David Lowis He took his daughter to The Museum of National History to see a new exhibit. They joined the back of a queue and edged forward, hustling to catch a glimpse of the artefact.
Finally, the pair reached the front and their eyes settled on an old Covid-19 warning sign. Although rust had eroded certain words, the main messages were still clear. He read them out loud: “Stay two metres apart. Wear a mask at all times.” Looking down at his daughter, he said, “Gives me the shivers. Imagine, darling, if we had to live like that now.” Nearby, a man coughed. * * * David Lowis is a writer from Surrey, England. His work has featured in various online journals and he's recently published a microfiction collection, Imprints. More details are available via his website: https://dlowis.wordpress.com.
Another Bit by Claire Maley I’d forgotten about Nana’s garden until my dreams began. I’d climb onto the kitchen stool to see out: past the pond and pot heron to a rectangle of silver glinting against the fence. “The Secret,” I called it. While the biguns played families in the Wendy house and perfected cartwheels on the lawn, I crouched before my reflection. “There’s another bit,” I’d whisper to the birds, stretching my fingertips towards the glass, expecting them to pass through. They never did. I’d kick the gravel and promise myself I’d get through next time. I don’t remember when I stopped reaching for the other place. Now, in my dreams, I’m trying again.
* * * Claire Maley is a teacher, mentor and writer whose flash fiction has appeared in Mslexia, The Postbox and Velvet Tarantula. She has lived and taught in the UK, Thailand and Laos, and is drawn to small moments, connection and the things people leave unsaid.
Whispers in the Dark by Stephen Kingston Grandpa’s shed’s dark with creosote, air pungent, chemicals seasoned with pine. A bolt bars the door, padlocked, the key in the lock. It’s not to keep people out.
From inside comes a scratch, scratch, scraping. Fingers on a blackboard. I reach for the padlock. There’s a repulsion, an invisible field. Easier to let it push me away. Within, a susurration, a murmur. I shiver. Behind the door lies unfaced fear; the thief of courage, decision stealer; whispers in the dark. Courage isn’t the lack of fear. Courage is acting anyway. I fumble the padlock, shoot the bolt. The door opens. * * * Stephen Kingston lives in Wales with his wife, daughters and a collection of rocks. He works with computers but claims this doesn’t make him boring; his children disagree. Writing since childhood, usually when he should be fixing things, he earned his MA in Creative Writing from the University of Hull.
Spores on the Wind by Chris Clemens When the mushroom sickness takes over, you’re conscious for a while. Awake. Paralysed. There’s a frantic back-and-forth while it seizes control of your muscles, puppeting limbs like an unfamiliar vehicle. Convulsions on the kitchen floor. If you’re lucky, loved ones will find and kill you.
If not, you might watch yourself vomiting fungal mould into your toddler’s Cheerios, stirring in the mess before anyone wakes up. Bones snapping, you’ll contort impossibly through neighbours’ crawlspaces and vents, retching out cinereous spores. You’ll shudder at the cunning of this alien intelligence dominating your body. At least the mushrooms can’t stop your tears. * * * Chris Clemens teaches and writes in Toronto, where he has defeated 8.5 raccoons (with help from his wonderful family). Nominated for Best Small Fictions and Best of the Net, his stories and poems appear in Best Microfiction 2026, The Literary Review of Canada, Baffling Magazine, Year’s Best Canadian Fantasy and Science Fiction, and elsewhere. Find more at linktr.ee/clemenstation.
Moth by Wai Mei Wong Shortly after Grandpa died, Granny came to babysit. It was rainy; a moth hit the window, wanting in.
“Your grandpa hated rain too,” Granny said, letting it in. “It must be his soul, coming to say goodbye.” I was ten. I knew moths gravitated to light and sheltered from rain. But Granny was ancient, and seemed wise. The moth eventually settled on the wall. We watched TV, but I kept checking the moth, worried it would fly away. When I found it dead the next morning, I cried convulsively. Granny hugged me. “Grandpa’s gone to heaven.” Years later, I mentioned the moth. Granny laughed, “It was probably just a moth.” * * * Wai Mei Wong is an author who lives in Toronto. She likes to write stories that weave elements of paranormal, urban legend, and mysteries of human nature. She would love you to find out more about her on Instagram @wmwongcreator.
Photo by Ian Lindsay
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Creative Nonfiction
Stardust
by Jacqueline Goyette
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Michael’s talking about soap operas during lunch break, and we Google the longest running one. Guiding Light. Do you remember? Were you born yet? We look at the dates and laugh—1937. We were stardust back then—he says it like it’s my name. Later in the hailstorm on the drive home, the windshield is pelted with the cosmic force of what I once was. If I am stardust then my mother is the soft smudge of pink petal on the hydrangea plant. My grandmother, the raindrops. My cousin’s son the fog that rolled out to sea not so long ago.
* * * Jacqueline Goyette is a writer from Indianapolis, Indiana. Her writing appears in both print and online journals, including JMWW, Tahoma Literary Review, and Phoebe Journal. Her work is also featured in the 2025 Best Small Fictions anthology. She currently lives in Macerata, Italy with her husband Antonello and cat Cardamom.
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Editor's Corner
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Where are all the dead? Hundreds of generations, buried or burned, should be taking up more room.
My close friend had gone radio silent. Suddenly, I got news he was terminally ill. Stuck travelling for work, I longed to visit him, though he was on a ventilator, unconscious. He was younger than me. News came of his death. I rushed out for a walk. A tsunami of feelings threatened to burst their dam. I walked on. The flood of grief abated. My own hopes and worries reclaimed my mind. I felt remorse for recovering so quickly. The dead are in our soil and water, air and bones. And maybe that’s enough. As an architect of us,
I had big stones carried with your help. I’ve lived double so long I don’t know how to be one-- who says that a beginning is something benign? No one at the bottom of the hill, looking up. Boulders don’t avalanche themselves-- there are forgotten fault lines bisecting this shared slope. If I’ve learned secrets from this journey, it is this: erosion will outdo effort. Cascades of pebbles lurch and loosen when I turn and fall. But my broken back forges the blade of my shovel, my shovel becomes a kingdom, and the spikes of my crown are battlements ready for your next attack. |
Lindsey’s eyes burned. Her shadow sat beneath her feet on the melting asphalt. It had never occurred to her before that her eyes might become sunburned. Summer was in full swing, and she instinctively had begun counting the days until school started.
“Why does it have to end?” she pondered aloud. The sun began to fissure, as if it were listening. The sky turned varying shades of an apocalyptic yellow. “That can’t be good,” Lindsey said, continuing to stare. It was turning into the summer to end all summers… not so much in poise and excitement, but rather quite literally.
Leaves mellow into red
orange and yellow masking rot hidden by colors of life promising a return as the air becomes crisp as an October apple coloring my cheeks in crimson hues after trees limbs become spindly skeletons—slumber through icy cold blankets of snow’s pristine canvas. Exploding Springs push young greens through tips of old bones. Death nourishes life. Sun light stretches days. Marigolds, roses, cosmos echo the Fall, burst cycles of color reclaimed from time’s habitual strokes. Comfort rests in each season creating an ouroboros banking eternal rebirth from a well devoured life. |
The Poets' Salon
If you're looking for more poetry, including a place to read your work, receive critiques, and explore poetic forms, check out The Poets' Salon. Two editors of ScribesMICRO, Edward Ahern and Alison McBain, run this free poetry workshop, and our poetry editor Mary Keating often drops in too.
Meetings take place on the second Saturday of every month from 10 a.m. to noon EST via Zoom. More info, including how to sign up for the poetry workshop, can be found on The Poets' Salon website or via Meetup.
Meetings take place on the second Saturday of every month from 10 a.m. to noon EST via Zoom. More info, including how to sign up for the poetry workshop, can be found on The Poets' Salon website or via Meetup.