Issue No. 3 on Winter in Michigan is here!

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While we’re between formal reading periods for submitted work at the moment, we’ll have a new call for art and writing launching soon. We invite you to review our submission guidelines here. Questions? Drop a line at talk@peninsulaartsmag.com.

From Our Latest Issue:

Snow / Greta Bolger

“This winter, bare pavement the last four weeks, birthday gifts for my grandson irrelevant: snow shovel, snow tube, snowball gun.” Greta Bolger writes on snow and its new absence.

Winter, 1877 / Carl Lavigne

“If the ice gave in, Will and Stuart would learn that still waters run deep, and there are bodies at the bottom of the lake.” In “Winter, 1877,” Carl Lavigne’s characters take a treacherous journey.

Coldest Day / Bruce Gunther

“A dog’s bark several blocks away travels on the steady wind -a wind with sharpened teeth.” Bruce Gunther shares a piece on bitter cold and fine snow.

i think the cold is punishing me / BEE LB

the wind whipping through the edges / of my windows and doors. my unmade bed / and its frozen sheets. the blue / of the lake at night. the burnt haloes / of light all around. it’s like someone painted the world / but no one did. ” BEE LB writes on the frigid days.

Mid-December / Bruce Gunther

The morning crow / perched in the skeletal branches / of the maple remains silent / and flutters its crepe paper wings. Bruce Gunther shares a piece on snow and stillness.

Michigan Winter / Joanne Gram

“Stepped into a park covered in brown leaves / awash in a fine flurry of white snow” Joanne Gram writes on a season’s start.

half an aubade for december / BEE LB

“the sun is for gracing the lake on the best of days, warming the trees that reach tallest, thinning the ice without ever breaking.” BEE LB writes on the winter sun.

Good Morning, the Sun in October / BEE LB

“i don’t know what changed / aside from everything, but the sorrow / that has been coiling in my chest like a snake / beneath a heat lamp has unfurled…” BEE LB writes on the sun in October, after Sanna Wani.

Fall Call / Derek R. Smith

“Fall, with its amber slowness, rich, dark early evenings, mouldering leaf piles.” Derek R. Smith writes on this slumbery season.

When I Was Young, The Woods / Ron Riekki

“they were insisting on owning / the world, the lake bathed in / leaves, the leaves falling on top / of leaves, so many that my little / brother would hide…” Ron Riekki writes on youth in the woods.

Breathing Color / Derek R. Smith

“Under auburn leafy canopy crystal chilled / Water rushes, bubbling, dancing…” Derek R. Smith writes on trees and reflections.

Meadow / Mary Anna Scenga Kruch

“We walked toward the river into late September light, seeking space between the recent diagnosis and us;” Mary Anna Scenga Kruch writes on time in a perfect place.

Sepia Seepage Circa 1952 / Gerard Sarnat

“Lill taught me to fish for perch (I’d try to keep them alive in an old trunk on the shore) in the oil-slicked gas-smelling boathouse, how to row the dinghy.” Gerard Sarnat reflects on an upbringing.

State Trunkline / BEE LB

“Each mile ticks slower & the sky is layered stair by stair & if the whole world is not about to collapse, it is certainly straining under some unseen weight.” BEE LB writes from the road.

Seiche / Monica Rico

“When the rain came, I was relieved not to yank another sail on.” Monica Rico writes on a seiche at harbor.

Huff and Puff

“So the point is not to get caught up in perfection, the point is to produce something….” Kathryn Almy writes on leaves.

September / BEE LB

“A strip of film clicking into place. the dial winding, lining the film for the next shot–” BEE LB writes on the change of seasons.

There Was a Bluff / Ron Riekki

“The wind would only whisper, the woods making soft sounds behind us, everything so quiet, as if the trees knew they were going to be books one day, and this was a library…” Ron Riekki writes on “holy silence.”

Into the Hemlock Forest / Keith Taylor

“We walk down the trail at the edge of Carp Creek, almost to its mouth, then wade across.” Keith Taylor spends time in the creek and forest in “Into the Hemlock Forest.”

Power Island Killed Me / Christopher Wilson

“As I walked up, I noticed a massive fire pit smoldering by the trailhead.” In “Power Island Killed Me,” Christopher Wilson’s narrator has a new adventure in a familiar place.

Spirits in the Backyard / Keith Taylor

“After the chopping and hauling away were over, the long-lived dryads must have had no place to roost.” Keith Taylor reflects on his backyard in “Spirits in the Backyard.”

Black Crown / Monica Rico

“& of course there are flowers without scent, the ostentatious hydrangeas cover the house lest it not look like the others…” Monica Rico writes on flowers, herons, and walking women in “Black Crown.”

Beach, Lake Michigan / Annaka Saari

“Sitting in the sand I remember the blue-gray strokes of a painting my grandmother created years ago.” Annaka Saari reflects on time spent at Lake Michigan.

Sound and Water / Tyler Duffrin

“The cicadas, the birdsong, it’s like a symphony, it’s outrageous.” Tyler Duffrin reflects on our continuous search.

Canadian Fires / Keith Taylor

“The moon is red tonight and there’s a tang of pine smoke in the air.” Keith Taylor reflects on the 2023 haze.
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Snow / Greta Bolger

“This winter, bare pavement the last four weeks, birthday gifts for my grandson irrelevant: snow…

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