Author Archives: Lisa M. Hase-Jackson

About Lisa M. Hase-Jackson

Lisa M. Hase-Jackson, MA, MFA, is a Writing Coach and Teacher. She is the editor of Zingara Poetry Review and 200 New Mexico Poems. She has developed and facilitated poetry writing workshops and circles all over the world and her poetry has appeared in such literary magazines as Inscape, Susquehanna Review, The Midwest Quarterly, Subscribe, Blue Ships, Kansas City Voices, and Sugar Mule.

“American Tradition” by Elizabeth Perdomo

those black
bottom-line day
specials. This is
the real deal reason:
Coffee & conversation
& New York TV parades;
dried bread crumbled &
vegetables well chopped,
sautéed amidst savory seasons,
parsley, sage, rosemary & thyme,
stuffed into a plump, thawed
turkey, set to roast within
an over full capacity oven.
houses smell like home;
Holiday scents & sweet
potato aromas mingle
into a green bean meld;
red cranberry relish,
sweet & tart & cool,
a blend held at ready,
while pecan pieces
& pumpkin orange
become skillfully
transformed into
fragrant memory
crusted pies.

Elizabeth Perdomo has lived and written in the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas these past
sixteen years, moving to this region from the Rio Grande Valley of northern New Mexico. Born
in Kansas and raised both there and in Colorado, she has written poetry works since a young
teen. Perdomo also lived in the Southeastern USA for many years, where she married and her 3
daughters were born. Perdomo has been an active member of the South Texas Border Chapter of Texas Master Naturalist since 2016. Her written pieces reflect her passion to learn about local
places, culture and tradition, as well as gardening, ecology, nature and much more. Perdomo is
the author of a book of poetry about the people and places in East Tennessee entitled, “One Turn of Seasons” and has had a number of poems published in periodicals, chap books and
collections, including a recently published collection entitled, “Kansas Time + Places.”

“December” by Sharon Scholl


The cottonwoods come down
last among the shedders,
come in piles like leather napkins
folded brown and gold.
Wind swirls them into speckled hills,
mattresses for leaping children.
I’ve watched the cutting loose
as each twig cast its fate on air,
the whole like silent snow,
space a-flutter with gentle death.


There are things we can’t hold onto,
joys that slip from our bodies
at the stroke of time.
They float quietly away
beyond the comfort of grief. We pull
them from our minds, bend over them
like firelight, warming old bones
in the radiance of what used to be.

Sharon Scholl is a retired college professor of humanities and international studies. Her recently published chapbooks include Summer’s Child (Finishing Line Press) and EAT SPACE (Poet Press). She convenes A Gathering of Poets, critique group of a dozen local poets celebrating our twelfth anniversary.

“ADVENT” by Lynda Fleet Perry

~ for Mark

From the farm’s back field the wind is rising
as we walk, holding hands, to cut our tree
in the crisp night air. The moon is rising

over the skeletal tips of branches, forking
into the gathering dark. We can see,
from the farm’s back field, the wind rising

by the way the old cedar moans, tossing
its now-black foliage, as if to shake free.
On this solstice night, the moon’s rising

arc holds Venus—glimmering and winking—
at celestial arms’ length. They’re married
above the farm’s back field—wind rising

as if to rush the inevitable coupling
of sickle and orb, a brilliant zenith
of this longest night. The moon is rising

higher. Now we can see the tree, leaning
crookedly, our Yule pine, its shadow spindly
in the moon’s silver light.  Night has risen
over the farm’s back field. The wind still rises.

Lynda Fleet Perry is the author of a chapbook of poems, At Winter Light Farm, published by Finishing Line Press in 2011. Her work has been published in Blackbird, Defunct, qarrtsiluni, New Zoo Poetry Review, and other journals. She received her MFA from Virginia Commonwealth University in 2014. She lives in Richmond, Virginia, with her husband and daughter, and works as a writer and communications manager for a botanical garden. 

“Reading Moby Dick Again” by Roy Beckemeyer

“…a way I have of driving off the spleen”

says Ishmael, and I wonder
if the writing of it is as much the remedy
as the decoction of travel, the pen and page
as much as the Pequod prescription,
if the narrative, as dense as a cud of bolus,
is truly the prima medicina for men at sea,
at least for sailing men of letters
longing to be shut of the shore,
carpet bags stuffed with shirts,
paper, a bottle of India’s finest,
black, corked, ready.


“the whale would by all hands
be considered a noble dish,
were there not so much of him”

…and Moby Dick a noble book,perhaps because there is so much
of it, and all that explanatory
digression between the true and
hearty, grab you by the short-hairs
narration is really needed, because,
by Ahab, by Queequeg, by God,
you cannot appreciate the story
without you understand the job,
the whaler’s lot in life, his tools,
his fare, his devotion to his brothers
on the sea, to the whale, his prey,
the incarnation of his every need,
his very nature.

Watch for Roy Beckemeyer’s new book of ekphrastic poems, Amanuensis Angel, coming soon (March 2018) from Spartan Press, Kansas City, MO.



“Advent” by Carol Barrett

My mother prepares for winter
Two hummingbirds
Dally on the tip-top rung,
Tomato trellis in patio garden

Two hummingbirds
Take in the crisp, falling air
Tomato trellis in patio garden,
A quiet, temporary lair

My mother takes in crisp air
Arranges winter coats
In her quiet, temporary lair
Thinks of my father, waiting

She arranges winter coats,
Wonders will she need them
Thinks of my father, waiting
His voice, his warm embrace

She wonders will she need
The books, the vases, teacups
His voice, his warm embrace —
She has enough to make it through

The books, the vases, teacups
Can go for another spring
She has enough to make it through
Look! Come watch the hummers

What can go for another spring
Can be boxed and sent away
Look! Come watch the hummers
Whirring, first snow on golden leaves

Soon all will be boxed and sent away
My father calling from the garden,
Whirring, first snow on golden leaves
My mother preparing for winter

Carol Barrett holds doctorates in both clinical psychology and creative writing. She coordinates the Creative Writing Certificate Program at Union Institute & University. Her books include Calling in the Bones, which won the Snyder Prize from Ashland Poetry Press, Drawing Lessons from Finishing Line Press, and Pansies, a work of creative nonfiction, from Sonder Press. Her poems have appeared in JAMA, Poetry International, Poetry Northwest, The Women’s Review of Books, and many other venues.


“Copperfield” by Leslie Anne Mcilroy

I was not afraid of my father,
thin/frail/sick. Never saw
him put a hole in the wall
or heard him raise his voice,
but I was young and that time
he slapped me on the head
was only once and I am
sure I deserved it.

I must have. I should have
been afraid of the way
he quoted Rod McKuen
and signed his letters
“never hurt intentionally”
like it’s a fee ride as long
as you didn’t mean it. As long
as we are so sensitive, we cry.

He cried and died, little
rabbit man and his hat.
And to this day, I can’t figure
out why he matters. He mostly
doesn’t. And, imagine dying
that way, knowing even your
kids don’t believe your
sorrow. I am thankful he
was not an a magician,
just imagine that poor girl
sliced in half.

Leslie Anne Mcilroy won the 1997 Slipstream Poetry Chapbook Prize, the 2001 Word Press Poetry Prize and the 1997 Chicago Literary Awards. Her second book was published by Word Press in 2008, and third, by Main Street Rag in 2014. Leslie’s poems appear in Grist, Jubilat, The Mississippi Review, PANK, Pearl, Poetry Magazine, the New Ohio Review, The Chiron Review and more.