Sour Lake circa 1865

Jesse Doiron

November 2, 2025

They blamed each other up and down

for what God had done—

Their girl near womanhood with her tongue

lolled out all the time, 

drivelin’ an’ snortin’ like a big round sow.

Poor thing.  Nothin’ wronger more than that

people’d say, “Too bad.” 

And this were awful true—“Too bad she lived.”

When she was young’un,

‘twas easy; no woman stuff to wonder.

Now— time come, but she was way behind.

Not knowin’ nothin’.

Not able to be learnt or even tolt.

Worse than knowin’,

some would say, is what the problem was.

Well, problems come and go, no matter who.

You have to face’em.

And she was far too far along to hide.

Take’r to the lake!

Doctor Mud kin make’r right enough. 

Ol’ Bazile, he’d been a slave, cured ol’ Sam

all his war-scar pain.

Looky here now,  ain’t no better doc 

from here to Galv’ston.

Got those moccasins he milks all day.

He says, “It takes poison to kill poison.”

He’ll give her thimble,

then wipe her down with his magic mud,

wash’r in the springs,

soak’r in the sulfur, shallow lake.

He said that’ll make’r expectorate,

and no one will know.

No worse than wringin’ a chicken neck.

This was awful true.

They’d blame it all on God what they would do.

Jesse Doiron has worked in Europe, the Middle East, and Asia as an educator and consultant. His teaching experience ranges from English for international business at the UC – Berkeley Extension in San Francisco to creative writing at the Mark Stiles Maximum Security Prison for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.

On Medina Lake

Robert Allen

September 7, 2025

from seventeen years ago

when the lake was full

In February

fog envelops us

we boat around in circles

miss both fish and shore

In March

Quickly we pass the A-frames, mostly empty

inviting us in through their magnificent windows

the docks with their high-powered boats

covered and hoisted from the water

the cedars, mesquites, and mountain laurels

half in bloom, receding from view

the shoreline forming a circle around us.

I lean back into my seat

against the skipper’s shoulders

and look up into the morning sky

trying to open my eyes wide

so I can take it all in:

the lower layer of clouds

dark and billowy and moving

the upper layer feathery, pale and stationary

the disk of the sun showing through

like a white ring just above the horizon.

I catch myself wondering, like a little child:

Why am I alive?

How did I come to be here, in the middle of this lake

 at this hour, on this day?

What does it mean to be conscious in the universe?

In April

Billowing, puffy, dark gray clouds,

dampness in the air, sometimes

a hint of mist coming down.

Dense gray clouds with jagged edges

hanging back with a mere threat of rain.

That’s what we see

when the sky lightens up

after launching our boat in darkness.

Feeling clear-headed and alert, I think

Something special will happen,

something mystical and strange,

today out on the water.

Our skipper keeps telling us

how pretty it all is,

how many fish we will catch,

who will hook the first one.

I watch a heron fly low over the water,

with its neck curled up over its back

and its long legs hanging straight out behind,

crossing in front of us from starboard to port,

disappearing into the next cove.

We follow it.

In May

Here stands Carl Schwarz

proud owner and skipper

of a sixteen-foot-long twenty-five-horse bass boat

with his arms outstretched and in each hand

a nice two-pound black bass

ready for you with the camera.

Gathering his filet knife and cutting board

he proceeds to clean our catch

with no intention of keeping any for himself.

Carefully cutting and trimming the meat

tossing the guts, skins and bones to his cats

always looking for eggs or crawdads

he keeps saying over and over:

“Isn’t this the life, Robbie?

Isn’t this the life?”

Robert Allen lives in San Antonio with his wife, two children, one cat, and five antique clocks. His poems have appeared in Voices de la Luna, the Texas Poetry Calendar, di-verse-city, and TPA. He loves cardio-boxing, facilitates the in-person Open Writers Lab at Gemini Ink, and fished for many springs with his brother and a man who worked for their parents' business.

texas dreamscape

Sister Lou Ella Hickman

June 8, 2025

            inner space

            discovery for the first time

            now named awe

            everything is dark:

            the acre of water lilies edge to the right

            the tall pines spire along the shore

            the surface still as sleep

            i look across the lake

            a picture

            at night

Sister Lou Ella Hickman, OVISS is a former teacher and librarian whose writings have appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies. Press 53 published her first book of poetry in 2015 entitled she: robed and wordless. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2017 and in 2020.

Lake of Loss

Jim LaVilla-Havelin

June 8, 2025

On the day we all drove out to see the eclipse

                             and got there way too early

        we drove around the hilly 

countryside

dipped down a turning road

                              to see Medina Lake -

Medina Lake almost emptied

                              from the drought

piers sticking out into thin air

      all their leggings showing;

the waterline like a bathtub ring

      the vista from the sealed-up

seafood shack just an arid 

                               empty that was once 

a lake

when we got back 

to the eclipse party

we got to watch

a grey sky get grayer

the whole sky an emptiness

we’d counted on;

peering into a staggered

somewhat natural world.

Jim LaVilla-Havelin is the author of six books of poetry. His most recent, Tales from the Breakaway Republic, a chapbook, was published by Moonstone Press, Philadelphia, in May 2022. LaVilla-Havelin is the Coordinator for National Poetry Month in San Antonio.

The Cormorants

Vincent Hostak

June 8, 2025

late summer, Inks Lake       

All at once they drop from the black frocked tree 

leaving it nude and sweltering  

From the shore I thought they might be leaves

But I’ve been deceived by lake light before

The cormorants know all the ages of this lake 

from its cold murky bottom to boiling surface skin

Still flying they pierce through sparks 

towards thicker water, a sunken roadbed

where the stout fish dwell in secret channels

Days which speak the language of peace are rare 

I thought I might find one here

But the lake turns so slowly and like the cormorants

I can’t wait for the best parts to rise

My mind yearns to cling to their slick black feathers

 and fall with them through every season of the lake

Vincent Hostak is a writer and media producer from Texas now living near the Front Range of Colorado south of Denver. His recently published poems are found in the journals Sonder Midwest and the Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas, and as a contributor to the TPA. He writes and produces the podcast: Crossings: the Refugee Experience in America.

White Birds Near Cold Water

Jennifer Hill-Flores

May 4, 2025

The bulb of the belly slips in,

anchored by spindly legs,

straight as swords.

The cold water cracks,

shots in the dark, an array of pushpins

teasing out fear and mourning and

the quiet suffocation.

Your only job is to breathe, not brace.

Stop bracing. The body begins to contract

with a deep and heavy song

pushing through raw toes and

fingers on fire.

In the swimming sightline,

wet head bobbing above and below—

like loose memories

dotting the horizon—

you see an island that wasn’t there the last time,

when the sun won all the days of summer.

Now, this bump of land

vibrates with white birds,

but not seagulls or any species you know.

You call them “white birds,”

wondering when you will start to

care about the names of things.

They turn to you,

How far can you swim?

You know it’s cold in there.

Let’s see what you’re made of.

Thinking birds can talk,

telepathically, on a winter day,

as you swim in the frigid currents

against a grey-purple day’s end

is enough to distract you for

ten feet—time is long and short at once.

Breathe broadly as blood rushes to

protect every organ in your body.

You’re alive and swimming, and

heartbeats flutter through you,

all heavenly in their dispersions.

And those birds watch you,

your skin aflame with love.

(Lake Travis, January)

Jennifer Hill-Flores is a writer and editor living in Austin, Texas. She holds an MA in Writing from Johns Hopkins University and a BFA in Writing, Literature & Publishing from Emerson College. She is a teaching artist with the Austin Library Foundation and serves as a volunteer reader for Ploughshares. Her pieces have been published in Black Fox Literary Magazine, Bridge Eight, Cathexis Northwest, Flash Fiction Magazine, Funicular Literary Magazine, San Antonio Review, Wild Roof Journal, and others.

Unmarked Caddo Pathways

Milton Jordan

May 4, 2025

Tucked deep into Texas’ northeast corner 

and leaking across an imagined state line,

the bayou backs up among knees and hanging moss

that pulls the lower limbs of the cypress 

toward a narrow strip where a lone bateaux

slips silently through the dark come early

to this unmarked path through forest,

as Amberman pulls his paddle through currents

more noticeable against his stroke feathered

to wrinkle the gray green surface,

an old hand whose hands have worn two smooth 

grips just below the paddle’s knob.

From Milton: “An earlier version of this poem appeared in the chapbook The Amberman Poems, in memory of my father.”

Milton Jordan lives with Anne in Georgetown, Texas. He co-edited the first Texas Poetry Assignment anthology, Lone Star Poetry, Kallisto Gaia Press, 2022.

Medina Lake

Dario Beniquez

May 4, 2025

There isn’t a drop of water in this county lake. 

The only thing in it is a silver skiff that sank 

during a windstorm one season.

At the muddy bottom of the lake, 

a white and blue beach ball sits buried 

next to a half-buried, eroding log. 

Nearby, a mahogany headboard sticks out, 

left behind by a sleepwalker who wandered off 

many years ago.

Where did she go?

Now, only a few curious visitors come to this place.

Dario Beniquez grew up in Queens, NY. He graduated from Pratt Institute with a BEIE. He also holds an M.F.A. from Pacific University, OR. Dario runs two poetry venues: one at the Maverick Library and the other at the Walker Ranch Senior Center in San Antonio, Texas. He is the author of the poetry collection “Zone of Silence.”

Lake without Water

Chris Ellery

May 4, 2025

“It is significant that Mother Earth comes from the heavens above, but also generates the creative energy that arises from the darkest, deepest place. When seen as a collective dream of humanity, Earth Diver myths depict the emergence of creative energy and greater consciousness that comes from below.”

Michael Meade, “Chaos and Creation on Earth” (Living Myth Podcast #272)

The Woman who fell from Sky to Turtle’s back 

found a world overwhelmed by water. 

Toad dove deep to bring up a little mud in his mouth

for Woman to make an island.

My trail map claims I’m standing in a lake. 

Dry grass, scrub brush, tumbleweeds, and prickly pear. 

Sidewinder divots in the dirt. 

Deer tracks and bobcat tracks and scat. 

In the ocean of dream, I am dreaming I am living in a desert. 

This waterless lake fills a hollow of an ancient ocean.

Eons after the land rose up to push back the sea,

people decided to dam the stream that flowed 

through the dry seabed. They remembered a millennial flood

and cries of mothers of drowned sons and daughters.

Since the lake was made, clouds have mostly kept away.

The sky used up its thunder. 

Woman was pregnant with twins when water fowl 

set her like sunlight on Turtle’s back. 

Her Soft son came into the world through her birth canal, 

the Hard one kicked his way out through her side, 

breaking her into pieces that became the vegetation.

The Soft son created the dove-tender beings of earth.

The Hard son made the monsters and called 

for creatures to come who build lakes that burn. 

I have come to this thirsty land in a time of war, 

hiding wounds inside a longing for change. 

My trail map claims I still have seven miles to walk.

The trail leads west, where the Hard brother waits.

How can Earth Diver dive in a lake with no water

and fetch up mud to make a New Earth?

I’ll tear myself in two. I’ll shove the Hard half 

toward the Sun to steal a storm from Father Sky.

I’ll send what’s Soft deep down with those 

that burrow in Mother Earth—Insect, Viper, 

Rodent, Root—in search of River, 

rushing through caverns in the darkest Ground.

O.C. Fisher Reservoir

Palm Sunday, 2025

Chris Ellery is author of six poetry collections, most recently One Like Silence and Canticles of the Body. He has received the X.J. Kennedy Award for Creative Nonfiction, the Dora and Alexander Raynes Prize for Poetry, the Betsy Colquitt Award, and the Texas Poetry Prize. He is a member of the Fulbright Alumni Association, the Texas Institute of Letters, and the Texas Association of Creative Writers.