Read a Recently Published Poem by Lois Marie Harrod

My granddaughter says, Lulu, she calls me Lulu, what she could say at seven months, Lulu she says at eighteen, first year at NYU, first name, only name, Lulu,  she says winding her long black hair around her finger, hair that grows  brown and has flowed pink, blue, green and blonde in its various  iterations during her teens, Lulu she says as she assesses, Lulu, shaking that great black coiling mop of hers, those long strands I find in the drain of the shower we share when I visit for
Thanksgiving, strands that repulse forefinger and thumb when I whirl them up and toss them in the toilet, Lulu, she says, your hair is thick for a person your age.

 Hair. Eastern Iowa Review. Issue 21, 2026.

http://www.portyonderpress.com/issue-21.html

for Lee, 1942-2022

—October, 6, Louise Glück

They say you are still here—

you know the they I mean,

the they who want to raise you

from the dead so, I guess, you can 

raise your eyebrows

and roll your blue eyes

at their belief.

They say you reached down

and saved our grandson,

you know the they I mean,

the they you always gave that sweet

enigmatic smile—

that’s as far as that cold Thou

could take you to scoop them

from the cold unknown.

His fall—two days after you died.

And here I am,

your darling, your disbeliever,

talking as if you are here,

chattering in my blizzard of stars.

There was no resurrection, 

no one rises from the dead,

but it is strange,

that alone, mountain-climbing

the weekend you died,

our grandson lost his way

in a sudden snow squall,

slipped off the mountain path,

fell 78 feet without losing

his tarp or his phone,

lay there all night, he told me afterwards,

thinking of those he loved—

as I keep thinking of you

my not-here thou,

my cold cold star.

from Lois Marie Harrod's The Bed the Size of a Small Country. Kelsey, October 2026

What was she

if not pretense?

Nice when she felt dour

Dour when she could not mend.

Her sex, the sour

lemon on her tongue

No, he did not want to hear

her woes or tend

her pleasure, she was

just the tight end

to the long game, the tag end

in the downtrend.

Keep your secrets to yourself,

Grandfather said,

You’re luckier than most

of your widow friends.

Tipton Poetry Journal, 67:26, p. 21 https://issuu.com/tiptonpoetryjournal/docs/tpj67

Running a holiday sale or weekly special? Definitely promote it here to get customers excited about getting a sweet deal.

Customers have questions, you have answers. Display the most frequently asked questions, so everybody benefits.

If customers can’t find it, it doesn’t exist. Clearly list and describe the services you offer. Also, be sure to showcase a premium service.