Photo by Lois Nantais
Uproar invites writers of all genres to submit their works written in consideration of our monthly theme. Once per month the moderators will select the best submissions and publish them here. See “About Us” for submission criteria. We are limiting the number of times we will publish work by the same writer to three per
Call For Submissions: Uproar is looking for submissions related to the theme “Anywhere But Here.” You can interpret this theme as you choose, be it travel pieces, places you would like to go, a change of scenery, a different state of mind or situation. We are looking for high quality poetry, prose, spoken word, and
A bitter, stupid wind blows over the ridge and down through the pines surrounding our cabin. It is purposeless. The snow has already been scoured from the frozen soil, and the temperature is dramatically below freezing so we’re not going outside, anyway. This wind doesn’t even whistle through the boughs; it just creates a
Now that I’m white-haired I don’t hate my mother for naming me for the time of year I was born. She was of that generation who thought it cool to name a kid after a season. I know five Summers, three Autumns, and two Springs, although the latter get wisecracks about being loose. Winter,
Anchors These January days are longer, sun higher, snow melts off the slope so drip, drip, drip down the spikes before cold nights turn them rigid and they fringe the roof – fingers pointing at inefficient heating, ventilation, ice dams, loosened shingles. But this afternoon they wax poetic – prisms of light along the eaves,
Miscarriage February 9th again, and once again I lose the baby, a fog of nose and arms and legs— a world not sea-blue, but blood-red, full of volcanic beginning. Ending in February: bark-littered snow, limb-battered oaks. A split-stripped weeping willow creaks. Once it seemed I could hold what was needed to swaddle nothing into something—something
Seasonal speed bump— large clump of rock salt in the road January— skyscraper tops shrouded in snow January, yet no one on the sledding hill January— one man, one dog on the beach January— wind-driven whitecaps on the still-unfrozen lake
you are cold and hard and I know what that means: many winters of children and fenceposts and frostbitten tongues have taught me lessons about the flavours of frost designs and regret but still I know I do not learn and I will kiss you and taste you and find myself stuck until the spring
midnight in winter Ice on the window: skin of the world we do not want, the word the lips refuse to spill. The enemy. The fragile, dermal glass is there, impotent shout against the winter. Voice cries out, silent, inside: whisper, mutter, shiver, curse. A distant train from someplace warm howls. It carries memories of
It needs strength to break the ice when it’s frozen as solidly as silence. Or so I thought. It needs strength to break the ice, to break the mould and reform. Or so I thought. But just suppose, the ice gives up it’s power and allows the colour to break through, bright so the delicate
Snowshoeing—March For M and K Frozen branches of barren birch cast blue-grey shadows on the Long Trail, blanketed white. Trees encased in ice and snow, shimmer against cobalt. Cheeks red, ruddy. Our noses, eyes, sting and drip; tiny hairs now miniature icicles. Still, our bodies warm as we climb. We peel layers, swiftly stuff them
Please enjoy our latest theme issue of “Out In The Cold” featuring 7 poems and 2 prose pieces! We have some terrific pieces this month.
Old order is subject to decay, they say, and when fate summons, old statues fall freely. Heart-held loves, friends, hatreds, foes: all. Yes, all give way to mighty time’s sway. Bright, fearless, grand, green youthful years with each passing year grow thick wisdom layers, while marching on its way, time fills with fears the cup
Old Acquaintance I hope to see you in the new year if my town isn’t on lockdown and your city lifts its restrictions you know it’s been a mighty long time You can’t really share a pint over zoom, now can you? And you certainly can’t pass it on the left-hand side no matter how
i learned to avoid going out for new years (a candle lit for Noelle) during countdowns i was always emerging: the washroom, the bar, or outside for some air with all the starry lights an auld lang syne is sometimes a shadow wanting to touch my hair my lips my partner expected my return his
Fallen snow inspires a blank page Infectious germs excuse social solitude Shortened days awaken the dormant night owl Enduring darkness allures the secret soul-searcher Scant warmth sets the spirited pen in motion
Seed Futures catalogues arrive fill my mailbox in December barely weeks since the garden ceased to produce I have just tucked it up for the winter, in drab browns and greys lidded compost bin, raked brittle leaves scoured pots and trays but inside there is colour if only on the page – bright gold blossoms
Your June Picture the year as a clock and it’s straight up 6. The world spreads before you like ketchup. Don’t shade your eyes, you miss a minute. You are thirsty—bee pollen is everywhere, so many flowers, so many flowering chances. No vagueness, just brilliance, each color, every contour— Awake! Anew! Alive!
Breakthrough It’s a long and desolate road. I think it’s always been so. Such a desolate road to travel before the brightness ahead, the light after desolation when the sun is freed from its winter shackles. Such a desolate road to travel waiting, hoping, searching for the brightness, the light after desolation when the sun
Panacea It’s snowing Over a Covid world. The snow is cleansing The air, weighing Each invisible culprit down. Each snowflake An antidote to fear. If only it could! Armies of microscopic Ice lattices, silencing Deadly viruses to the ground. Neutralizing their dangerous Spikes in layers of snowfall Where they could be titrated To innocuous, elemental
A Chance of a Lifetime Every day, a new beginning, a chance to get it right, to get a new start, a new perspective. Today may look the same as yesterday, but trust me, it’s not. Notice the small details. Look! Here’s a new crocus after the long harsh winter, showing off its purple dress.