Announcement: New Editorial Policy (2026)

Dear CMJ Community,

We have now spent a year working as editors here at Cold Moon Journal, having taken over from Robin who made the journal what it is today. We're going to make some changes: 

— We will now have six-week reading periods and six weeks of production of a volume. Why? Because it is challenging to be reading between 500—1000 poems every month and to make creative uses of your poems. 

— Every three months, we're going to make chapbooks of selected texts. These will exist as both (free) PDFs on the website, and a physical book that can be purchased via Amazon. No themes yet. There will be illustrations by Oana, and commentary by both of us. 

The submission windows are as follows:

Jan 1 — February 15 open. February 16 — March 31 closed.

April 1 — May 15 open. May 16 — June 30 closed.

July 1 — August 15 open. August 16 — September 30 closed.

October 1 — November 15 open. November 16 — December 31 closed.

Submissions are therefore open until Feb 15th (they were closed last week while we made these changes, so please re-send your texts!).

The first chapbook of texts from 2026 will be available on April 1st 2026. We are also planning a book of all of the work we chose in 2025, details to be confirmed.

Happy writing!

Best regards,

Oana & Timothy

Immigrant Gifts, a haibun by Ingrid Bruck

Granddaddy Uno speaks chipmunk: they eat bread from his fingers. Nana Aili is trilingual: sew, knit and crochet. Aunt Mary speaks bird: when she walks outside, a white ibis follows her. My mother Alice, fluent in three languages: books, babies and men. 

My immigrant grandparents from Finland brought special talents. My mother Alice's gifts are different from the other's. She asks her sister Mary, "Do you think I’m adopted?"

tarnished thimble

the winter landscape

empty

Artur Zieliński

her smile

far off on the train

sparkling moon 

jej uśmiech

daleko w pociągu

iskrzy księżyc

—Artur Zieliński

Patricia Carragon

crystal glass—

another year

retires

—Patricia Carragon

Amihan, a haibun by Ruth F. Corro

Cloudy December afternoon, Ibajay, Aklan. I step into a classroom at five minutes to one, holding a class record that says fifty-six names on the roll. The room is almost empty.

I pace: door to teacher’s table, table to door, black shoes squeaking on the concrete floor like a nervous heartbeat. Behind the school, the rice fields lie like a brown mat; in front, the national road stretches silently. The sky presses low, offering every excuse to cancel the period. I could blame the weather, blame the harvest chores, blame poverty. Plenty of teachers before me have done exactly that.

Fifty-six names, five bodies.

I stop pacing. Five is enough.

I call the five by name—Amy, Ruel, Jim, Henry, Joselito. They drag the broken chairs into a small circle and read Henley’s lines aloud. When I reach the final stanza, Jim, who wakes at four to clean the pigsty and feed the pigs, mouths the words with me. Amy, who sometimes walks three kilometers barefoot, lifts her chin. Even Joselito, a Balik-aral, sits straighter than the cracked chalkboard.

Outside, the sky stays heavy. Inside, five voices rise, small but certain. I no longer need fifty-six chairs filled.

heavy clouds

unheard voices

rise

("In the Philippines, amihan refers to the season dominated by the trade winds")

Zoran Doderovic

dementia –

the bed rail divides

two realities

—Zoran Doderovic

Sharon Ferrante

half a bird 

in half a tree

half swaying 

half singing 

we miss you too 

—Sharon Ferrante

heavy hearts 

me and the fog 

hugging an oak 

—Sharon Ferrante

Susan Lee Roberts

dressed in black—

moonlight

rolls down her cheek

—Susan Lee Roberts

Sathya Venkatesh

heading home—

my briefcase

already lighter

—Sathya Venkatesh

Urszula Marciniak

old couple

suddenly starting

a snowball fight

dwoje staruszków

zaczyna znienacka

bitwę na śnieżki

—Urszula Marciniak

the tearful clown

on a cold hospice morning

an empty boy's bed

zapłakany klaun

ziąb i puste łóżko

chłopca z hospicjum

—Urszula Marciniak

Edited and translated by Alexander Daly & Marta Daly.

F. S. Blake

spring buds the sorry you can't hear

—F. S. Blake

Peter Kovalik

the hen breeder 

picks plums as if

they might break

chovateľ nosníc

zbiera slivky akoby

sa mohli rozbiť

—Peter Kovalik

Photos by Michael Shoemaker

 

Taking a long walk, Michael Shoemaker

Misty Lake Morning, Michael Shoemaker

Edited by Oana Maria Cercel.

Jamie Wimberly

pine straw

what’s left of being

neighborly

—Jamie Wimberly

John Pappas

falling leaves —

the one we call

my funeral suit

—John Pappas

all day snow

another poem

in the bin

—John Pappas

David Ngo

left too early

the unheard whisper

of snow 

—David Ngo

Thomas Landgraf

passing winter...

a woman in the same carriage

sleeping

—Thomas Landgraf

Arvinder Kaur

no sound

other than birdsong

at dawn

these moments

of quiet longing

—Arvinder Kaur

Morgan Ophir

washing potatoes

the shape of

my wedding ring

—Morgan Ophir

Bill Fay

late snow

my steps

inside my father’s

—Bill Fay

unburdened

a canary sleeps

in Buddha’s hands

—Bill Fay

Anne Fox

opening petals

this dream again           

of death

—Anne Fox

Haiga by Martina Matijević

—Martina Matijević. 

Edited by Oana Maria Cercel.

 

Alvin B. Cruz

creasing the corner

of a love poem

crescent moon

—Alvin B. Cruz

 

last petal

the pause before

she loves me not

—Alvin B. Cruz

Patricia Nellene Deal

—Patricia Nellene Deal

 

Tuyet Van Do

charity supplies

a woman asks 

about free wine 

—Tuyet Van Do