Tag: Linda Laderman

ONE ART’s 2026 Best Microfiction Nominations

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ONE ART’s 2026 Best Microfiction Nominations

Erin Murphy – Insomnia Chronicles XXIII
Howie Good – Shadows and Ghosts
John Amen – Hide & Seek
Linda Laderman – A morning with my dead father
Laura Daniels – Artillery Shelling

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A Note from The Editor

Although, of course, ONE ART identifies as a poetry journal, the name of the lit mag was partly chosen to allow for precisely this sort of gray area. Many “prose poems” published in ONE ART walk a line between poetry, flash fiction, flash creative nonfiction (CNF), or “micros” by any other name. After all, writing is writing is writing.

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“Best Microfiction 2026 will be published by Pelekinesis in the summer of 2026. The Best Microfiction anthology series considers stories of only 400 words or fewer. Co-edited by award-winning microfiction writer/editor Meg Pokrass, and Flannery O’Connor Prize-winning author Gary Fincke, the anthology will have Pulitzer Prize winning poet Diane Seuss serve as final judge.”

Learn more about Best Microfiction here.

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ONE ART’s December 2025 Reading

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ONE ART’s December 2025 Reading

Date: Sunday, December 7

Time: 2:00pm Eastern

Featured Poets: Amy Small-McKinney, Linda Laderman, Laurie Kuntz, Susan Michele Coronel

>>> Register Here <<<

FREE!

(Donations appreciated.)

About Our Featured Readers:

Susan Michele Coronel lives in New York City. She has received two Pushcart nominations and won the 2023 Massachusetts Poetry Festival First Poem Contest.  Her poems have appeared in publications including Spillway 29, Plainsongs, Redivider, and Fourteen Hills. In 2021 her full-length manuscript was a finalist for Harbor Editions’ Laureate Prize, and in 2023 another version of the manuscript was longlisted for the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award.

Learn more about Susan online at:

susanmichelecoronel.com/

Laurie Kuntz is an award-winning poet and film producer. She taught creative writing and poetry in Japan, Thailand and the Philippines. Many of her poetic themes are a result of her working with Southeast Asian refugees in refugee camps in Thailand and the Philippines after the Vietnam War years. In a past life, she was an ESL teacher and published two ESL texts that were used widely in ESL programs both nationally and internationally. She has published seven poetry collections. Her 8th book, a full length collection entitled Shelter In Place will be published in 2026 by Shanti Arts Press.

Learn more about Laurie online at:

lauriekuntz.myportfolio.com/home-1

Linda Laderman is a Michigan poet and writer. Her poetry has appeared in, or is forthcoming from, numerous literary journals, including Eclectica, The MacGuffin, SWWIM, Action Spectacle, The Westchester Review, and ONE ART. She is a past recipient of Harbor Review’s Jewish Women’s Prize. Her micro-chapbook, What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know, can be found online here. In past lives, she was a journalist and taught English at Owens Community College and Lourdes University in Ohio. For nearly a decade she was a docent at the Zekleman Holocaust Center near Detroit.

Learn more about Linda online at: 

lindaladerman.com.

Amy Small-McKinney is a Montgomery County PA Poet Laureate Emeritus. She is the author of six poetry books, including three full-length books and three chapbooks. & You Think It Ends (Glass Lyre Press), her newest full-length book, was released in March 2025. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, including American Poetry Review, Pedestal Magazine, Tahoma Review and Verse Daily, among others.  She has contributed to many anthologies, for example, Rumors, Secrets, & Lies: Poems about Pregnancy, Abortion, & Choice (Anhinga Press, 2022) and 101 Jewish Poems for the Third Millennium (Ashland Poetry Press). Her poems have also been translated into Korean and Romanian.

Learn more about Amy online at:

amysmallmckinney.com/

A morning with my dead father by Linda Laderman

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A morning with my dead father

                       The morning air is all awash with angels
                                     — Richard Wilbur

This is the morning I’ll spend with you. I’ll have the conversation I’ve been putting off, the way a child sheds the coat her mother insists she wear despite the April sun, warm like the nape of a newborn’s neck. This is the morning I’ll say what it was like to live inside a widow’s weeds, how it tangled my breath, stole my words. This is the morning I’ll think of what’s possible and make space for you to enter. When I hear the leaves rustle I’ll believe you’re listening. I’ll rest on a rock near the lake and throw pebbles in the water and consider each ripple as thoughts that bounce between us. This is the morning I’ll reimagine you as the young man in the snapshot I found—you leaning against a 1938 Dodge sedan, fedora tipped to the side, smiling, with a hint of a swagger, confident that the ground beneath you would hold. I’ll talk like I remember you cradling my baby body, how you called her song of my heart in the love letters you wrote from Kentucky. Who were you then? This is the morning I want to know.

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Linda Laderman is a Michigan poet and writer. Her poetry has appeared in, or is forthcoming from, numerous literary journals, including Eclectica, The MacGuffin, SWWIM, Action Spectacle, The Westchester Review, and ONE ART. She is a past recipient of Harbor Review’s Jewish Women’s Prize. Her micro-chapbook, What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know, can be found online here. In past lives, she was a journalist and taught English at Owens Community College and Lourdes University in Ohio. For nearly a decade she was a docent at the Zekleman Holocaust Center near Detroit. More work and information at lindaladerman.com.

Bandstand by Linda Laderman

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Bandstand

I loved the after-school quiet in our apartment. No one to tell
me what to do or watch. I’d find my mother’s Camels, light up
and turn on American Bandstand. Dick Clark was my touchstone.
There, in black and white, I pictured my curly brown hair straight
and blonde, my body, thin and lithe, like the girls called regulars.
I coveted their sweaters, some with bedazzled Peter Pan collars,
their shirts trimly tucked inside their pleated plaid skirts. I had power
when Bandstand was on. I’d dance the Pony or the Twist, and dream
the boy with the Elvis hair picked me to join him on the dance floor.
One afternoon Dion was on the show. He sang his hit, Run Around Sue.
I spread my arms, danced and spun. It was just me, Dick, and Dion.
In that minute, I was a skinny rich girl from Philly, a Bandstand regular,
living my life as if I had all the time in the world to figure it out.

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Linda Laderman is a Michigan poet and writer. A former college instructor and journalist, her poetry has appeared in, or is forthcoming from, numerous literary journals, including Rats Ass Review, SWWIM, ONE ART, Action-Spectacle, Scapegoat Review, Rust & Moth, The Jewish Writing Project, Rise Up Review, Adanna Literary Journal, and MER. She is a past recipient of Harbor Review’s Jewish Women’s Prize, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her micro-chapbook, What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know, can be found online here. Find her at lindaladerman.com.

Cathie by Linda Laderman

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Cathie

Sunday morning. The line is long. I walk to the hostess stand to check the wait. Thirty-five minutes. It’s worth it. The food is good and cheap. Three thick slices in an order of French toast. I look for Cathie, our regular waitress. She knows our order by heart. I start back towards the end of the line when I notice a 5×7 framed photo on the shelf behind the stand. I move closer to get a better look at the picture. A headshot of a woman. Her blonde hair touches her bare shoulders. A smile I think I recognize. I read the words under the picture. Cathie, waitress—died. I pry details from the girl at the counter—when, how, who found her? I consider my reaction. I didn’t see her out. And almost anyone who meant anything is gone. In a dream, I scratch the bluebells off my black wallet and put them in a red pot. I never touch another piece of French toast.

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Linda Laderman is a Michigan poet and writer. Her poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals, including Gyroscope, SWWIM, ONE ART, Thimble Literary Magazine, The Scapegoat Review, Rust &Moth, Minyan Magazine, 3rd Wednesday, and Mom Egg Review. She has work forthcoming from Action, Spectacle and The Argyle Literary Magazine. She is the 2023 recipient of Harbor Review’s Jewish Women’s Prize, and was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her mini-chapbook, What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know, can be found online at https://www.harbor-review.com/what-i-didnt-know-i-didnt-know. Find her at lindaladerman.com.

ONE ART’s Top 25 Most-Read Poets of 2023

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~ ONE ART’s Top 25 Most-Read Poets of 2023 ~

1. Abby E. Murray
2. Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
3. Betsy Mars
4. Donna Hilbert
5. Linda Laderman
6. Alison Luterman
7. Julie Weiss
8. Robbi Nester
9. Roseanne Freed
10. Karen Paul Holmes
11. Heather Swan
12. Timothy Green
13. James Diaz
14. Jane Edna Mohler
15. John Amen
16. Barbara Crooker
17. Jim Daniels
18. Susan Vespoli
19. Sean Kelbley
20. Susan Zimmerman
21. Kip Knott
22. Jennifer Garfield
23. Margaret Dornaus
24. Paula J. Lambert
25. Gail Thomas

ONE ART’s Top 10 Most-Read Poets of December 2023

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~ ONE ART’s Top 10 Most-Read Poets of December 2023 ~

  1. Abby E. Murray – Three Poems
  2. Betsy Mars – Delivery
  3. Mick Cochrane – Dabbs Greer
  4. Roseanne Freed – My wet eyes stared into their lights
  5. James Diaz – Once More, Into The Light
  6. Linda Laderman – On Thanksgiving no one wants to hear poetry
  7. Dick Westheimer – CT Scan Assay
  8. Michelle Bitting – Poor Yorick
  9. Lynne Knight – Three Poems
  10. Karen Paul Holmes – Two Poems  

On Thanksgiving no one wants to hear poetry by Linda Laderman

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On Thanksgiving no one wants to hear poetry

I ask my son; would you like to listen to a poem?
Not really, he says, do you want to hear football scores?

His newly divorced friend says you know I should read
poetry. I liked it in college, though he says he doesn’t recall

which poets he read. It’s too long ago, but I liked Frankenstein.
I remind him that it’s Mary Shelley’s novel, not Percy’s, the poet,

My granddaughter, the swimmer, scrunches her nose when
I mention how she could have fun with sonnets, write 14 lines,

or take lines from other poets and create your own poem, a cento.
Think of it like swimming, each stroke builds on the next one.

She rolls her eyes and takes another bite of mashed potatoes.
Everyone explains why poetry holds no metaphor for their lives—

how they never liked verse, except maybe Mother Goose,
and who has time to learn to read or write poetry when

they’re busy with work and kids? My daughter-in-law
says, I remember a poem by Emily Dickinson, about a feather.

That gives me hope, so I ask my grandson what he’s read.
We read Keats and Poe, sophomore year, but I’ve forgotten it all.

When the dishes are cleared, we sit near the fireplace.
I’m going to read a poem, I say, and pull a paper from my purse

After I’m finished, my daughter-in-law’s eyes well. My son fidgets
with his watch and asks if anyone knows who’s winning the game.

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Linda Laderman is a Michigan writer and poet. She is the 2023 recipient of The Jewish Woman’s Prize from Harbor Review. Her micro-chapbook, “What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know” will be published online at Harbor Review in September, 2023. Her poetry has appeared in The Gyroscope Review, The Jewish Literary Journal, SWWIM, ONE ART, Poetica Magazine, and Rust & Moth, among others. She has work forthcoming in Thimble Literary Magazine and Minyan Magazine. For nearly a decade, she volunteered as a docent at the Zekelman Holocaust Center in Farmington Hills, Michigan. Find her at lindaladerman.com

ONE ART’s 2024 Pushcart Prize Nominations

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ONE ART’s 2024 Pushcart Prize Nominations

Abby E. Murray – What It’s Like to Wonder Whose Country It Was First (12.11.23)

Bonnie Naradzay – Bede’s Sparrow (11.1.23)

Linda Laderman – Final Score (10.9.23)

Hayley Mitchell Haugen – Reserved (8.27.23)

Jennifer Garfield – self portrait at 39 (8.2.23)

Cheryl Baldi – THE DAY FALLING TO PIECES (7.30.23)

Final Score by Linda Laderman

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Final Score

June’s heavy humidity held our breath in its hands.
We wondered if it was safe to sit through the heat,
but Cleveland was in town and the Tigers were on fire.

Street vendors kept cool with plastic fans.
You stayed in the car. I paced the parking lot.
C’mon we’ll miss the first pitch.

Your face paled when I ordered our usual—
two grilled kosher hot dogs. You shook your head
like I’d suggested a pig roast on Shabbat.

Instead you bought a beer and nursed it until we stood
to stretch—together ten years and that was the first time
I saw you drink beer in a ballpark.

The Tigers held their lead. You said nothing, not even
when we watched the parade of players’ wives climb
the stairs in stilettoes and miniskirts.

I pointed to the one in head-to-toe Gucci, hoping
you’d laugh and roll your eyes, then yell, like always,
for Charlie the singing Italian ice guy to come by.

You barely blinked when you caught a foul ball,
as if it flew from the sun into your open palm.
When you loosened your grip, it dribbled

down the steps until an usher grabbed it
and threw it back. Look, luck fell into your lap, twice.
For months, I’d lie awake and replay that day.

Why did I nudge you from the car? What else had I missed?
By the time the EMT’s reached us, your body was slack.
I ran behind the stretcher shouting questions.

I don’t remember what I did with our seasons tickets.
Maybe I gave the rest to a neighbor or shredded them.
I know the Tigers won, but I can’t recall the final score.

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Linda Laderman is a Michigan writer and poet. She is the 2023 recipient of The Jewish Woman’s Prize from Harbor Review. Her micro-chapbook, “What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know” will be published online at Harbor Review in September, 2023. Her poetry has appeared in The Gyroscope Review, The Jewish Literary Journal, SWWIM, ONE ART, Poetica Magazine, and Rust & Moth, among others. She has work forthcoming in Thimble Literary Magazine and Minyan Magazine. For nearly a decade, she volunteered as a docent at the Zekelman Holocaust Center in Farmington Hills, Michigan. Find her at lindaladerman.com

Four Poems by Linda Laderman

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My Mother Holds Her Grief

like a collection of precious stones in a plum pouch. I watch her untie its silk strings & spread the stones across her satin sheets. She separates them by color & holds a cerulean blue with faceted edges up to the light. She rubs it over her body & lingers on her thigh, then takes a red thread & wraps it around. She hangs it from her neck, an amulet to hold her grief. She teaches me to hold her grief too, says it’s as easy as making a bed. Hold it there, fold it here, tuck the corners under. Always tuck the corners under. I sit beside her bed. She gives me a turquoise, cool and smooth. When she turns away, I rub it on my thigh & tuck it under the corner.

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I should have left you first

but I waited until autumn’s red birds scattered
their seeds, giving way to a bitter winter, expected,

but holding out for a thaw. I waited for the peony,
pale pink, to emerge from the mound of dirt

near our doorstep, dependable, a return to life.
I waited for the blood moon to reveal itself, hopeful

it could be seen through earth’s hazy gaze—
I waited for spring’s rainy season to clear,

though June, being unseasonably stingy,
refused to cede a day without a downpour.

on summer’s cusp, I woke from a half sleep,
my skin drenched in knowing. still, my eyes

stayed shut, until the blue-black night found me.
I waited until the days stretched, the sun set late,

temperatures rose, and the duck in the Hosta
vanished, leaving a gap strewn with leaves and grass,

her batch of eggs hatched and ready to fly. I waited
until the children left, filled with illusions of time,

as if life was forever—a chance to do what I couldn’t.
I waited for your infatuations to wane, but they didn’t.

I waited for the first freeze, then blew my breath
into the icy vapor, kissing winter’s frosted air.

thinking, if I waited long enough, my haunted dreams
would disappear. and you did.

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When We Dance

We dance on the hardwood floor. His white hair lays
        bare my memories. The nights that lasted until morning.

The sound of Detroit Jazz pushes us. Belgrave, Franklin, Carter.
        I turn it up. I’m wound. Our arms zig and zag, two old saws.

I hip bump him, snap my fingers. He lets out a surprised
        laugh and twists me around our kitchen. I let him do it.

We twirl. His face is red, shy, like a boy. I want to seduce him,
        but I don’t know. I’ve gotten used to not having.

My breath is hard. My hands sweat. I wonder if he took a Viagra.
        I take his arm. Purple blotches stain his skin. Mottled by time.

In the morning, I ask if he remembers when each day took its time.
        How we craved a chance to hear the silence.

Now, I store time in a stone. I step over its power to fool.
        When I feel regret, I sink into a place with no light.

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Fine China

I worry that my last poem will be my last poem. Let’s talk about quatrains. I create a series of prompts, a list of lines. I’m exhausted from nothing. I list nothings. Nothing good can come from this. Can all this be for nothing? She has nothing on you, You know nothing about me. Only lines stacked, like my fine china, packed away, forgotten as the drop of dried cranberry stuck under the rim. I take the place settings out of the basement cabinet, sit on the cold concrete floor, and remove the felt separators. Nothing. I focus on the memories the dishes hold. An ekphrastic after the matching teapot? Nothing. Empty, like the dishes. I bring two place settings upstairs to soak. I shop for a roasting chicken, red potatoes, baby carrots, and a brown sugar pecan pie. If I can’t write, I’ll fill the damn plates.

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Linda Laderman is a Michigan writer and poet. She is the 2023 recipient of The Jewish Woman’s Prize from Harbor Review. Her micro-chapbook, “What I Didn’t Know I Didn’t Know” will be published online at Harbor Review in September, 2023. Her poetry has appeared in The Gyroscope Review, The Jewish Literary Journal, SWWIM, ONE ART, Poetica Magazine, and Rust & Moth, among others. She has work forthcoming in Thimble Literary Magazine and Minyan Magazine. For nearly a decade, she volunteered as a docent at the Zekelman Holocaust Center in Farmington Hills, Michigan. Find her at lindaladerman.com

~ ONE ART’s Top 10 Most-Read Poets of April 2023 ~

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  1. Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer – Ambition
  2. Donna Hilbert – Bad Weather
  3. Jim Daniels – Five Poems
  4. Linda Laderman – Burnt Toast
  5. Robbi Nester – The Inheritance
  6. Betsy Mars – Leveling
  7. Bella Barbera – Five More Minutes For One More Lifetime 
  8. Paula J. Lambert – Spring
  9. Carol Parris Krauss – Pretty Bottles All in a Row
  10. John Amen – The 80s

Burnt Toast by Linda Laderman

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Burnt Toast

I don’t know how to be old.
Everyone I loved died years before old age.
My mother, father, friends taken without warning.
Most days, my brain lies to me. It says I’m young.
It doesn’t take long for my body to say otherwise.
Yesterday, the woman who colors my hair watched me
struggle to open a bottle of water. She offered to help.
Her look said, poor old lady, I’ll never be old like that.
Any bit of patience I possessed has vanished, like the years.
My therapist tells me to be understanding with my husband,
who is fine with being old. When he asks, What did you say,
for a third time, don’t confront. Answer again, and again,
if necessary. She says I shouldn’t complain—that most women
my age would give anything for a man who rubs their back.
The first thing I smell in the morning is the bitter scent
of my husband’s burnt toast. He says he can’t smell it,
so I crack open the window and wonder why we have tiles
that read Home is Love and Joy on the sill when we still
argue about silly things, like the time I asked if he’d move
the porcelain chicks from the middle of the table onto a shelf.
He declined. Our conversations are riddled with deliberations.
We discuss the dishwasher. Should we run it, or wait?
What do we want to eat tonight? Carry in or cook?
Catch a movie or stream something to watch?
Today was too cold to be out. I barely made it to the grocery.
Sleep, when it comes, is a relief. Somewhere only I can go.

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Linda Laderman is a 73-year-old (almost 74) Detroit poet. Her poetry has appeared in One Art, The Willawaw Journal, The Jewish Literary Journal, The Hole in the Head Review, and The Write Launch, among others. She has work forthcoming in May in The Writers Foundry Review. She’s studied with the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute and workshops regularly with the Poetry Craft Collective, a cohort of poets who review and encourage each other’s writing. For many years, she was a docent at the Holocaust Center near Detroit, where she led adult discussion tours. Find her at lindaladerman.com.

Three Poems by Linda Laderman

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Redemption

Mother worries.
No man, money, or prospects.
Her hopes dwell in a junk drawer,

crammed with S&H Green stamps.
I help paste the multi-colored
squares into redemption books.

We cover each page in hues of yellow,
blue, green, a quilt of stamped wishes-
a color T.V., a hot pink Schwinn starlet.

On market day, she cozies up to the grocer,
her smile warm as a fresh-picked peach.
He winks and gives us double stamps.

Every Saturday morning, Mother sends me
to the corner drug store with a signed note.
Please sell my daughter a carton of Lucky Strikes.

She unravels the gold tape,
then taps the pack against her palm.
My cue to get her lighter.

The tip of her cigarette glows, like a birthday
candle dangling from her mouth. I picture
it burning to the end, ash singeing her lips.

She offers me a drag.
Cigarette between my fingers, she grabs it back.
Not yet, we still have more stamps to paste.

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Mercy

A neighbor stops me,
Your ex is ill. He’s at Mercy.
I say nothing.
It’s been 20 years.
But what do I know about time?
I was 19 when I met you.
My emotions split, like bark on the birch
that stood behind our first house.
I rehearse my response.
Should I embrace you?
Will my nervous laugh,
the one you mocked, return?
An attendant shows me to your room.
Family only.
I hear the whir of machines
How bad is it?
I wonder if you remember
when I cheered your name,
hurrying from the stands
to find you under the time clock.
You said I shared your victories.
Privacy was the prize I coveted.
Filling your body with spurious cures,
you recoiled when old people
discussed their diagnosis.
Now your time is measured in doses.
A nurse asks if I’m your wife.
I tell her, I’m just about to leave.
You murmur; we did ok for a while.
I nod, slide my forgiveness into your palm.

*

Delivery Day

My stepfather takes ten boxes of Thin Mints,
making me the top sixth grade seller.
On delivery day I wait for my mother,
eager to hand over the stack of boxes.
When there’s no sign of her car,
I ignore the mid-March chill,
patches of muddy snow,
and walk the eight blocks home.
I see a row of cars parked on our drive.
Feeling bad news, I pick up my pace.
Mother, bare-armed, stands on our porch.
She motions for me to run.
Can’t she see my full arms?
Where was she today?
She points skyward and cries,
I found him upstairs.
I am still. My feet planted in mud.
How will I pay for what he took?

*

Linda Laderman grew up in Toledo, Ohio. She earned an undergraduate degree in journalism from the E. W. Scripps School of Journalism at Ohio University in Athens. Her news stories and features have appeared in media outlets and magazines. Her poetry has been published in a number of journals, including The Scapegoat Review, The Write Launch and 3rd Wednesday. Her poem, War Ghazal is forthcoming in Writers Resist. Linda currently lives in the Detroit area, where for the last decade, she volunteered as a docent at the Zekelman Holocaust Center.