Looking Back and Looking Ahead – An Introduction
Short Takes did not appear in Persimmon Tree until the summer of 2010, close to four years after the magazine was founded. Fittingly, “First Thing in the Morning” was the topic for that first appearance. Just eight entries were chosen, all in prose. On the Editor’s Page, then editor and Persimmon Tree’s founder, Nan Gefen, greeted the new feature:
… we were very pleased to receive over a hundred entries for our first SHORT TAKES contest. What a delight it was to read them. The range on the topic, “First Thing in the Morning,” was wider than we ever imagined, and the quality was excellent.
Editors and readers would say the same today: we are pleasantly surprised every issue by the large number of entries we receive, the broad range of perspectives and plots each topic produces, and, especially, by the consistently high literary and artistic quality of the submissions.
But much has changed as well. I would date the beginning of major changes from the five stand-alone Covid Short Takes supplements we published in 2020 and 2021. They were intended to capture with immediacy the unprecedented events and emotions of those sometimes frightening, often lonely, too often tragic months. The supplements gave us something creative and worthwhile to do when lockdown had deprived us of so many of our usual contacts and pursuits. Even more important, they were a way we could reach out from our isolation to touch other people.
The Covid supplements changed Short Takes more by happenstance than by planning. We realized that it was incumbent upon us to recognize and honor as many of our readers, writers, and artists as we could, even if that meant increasing the number published in each supplement from the prior Short Takes average of six or seven to18 or 20. That turned out not to be difficult, because we received so many thoughtful, unique, and beautifully written submissions.
Poetry had been included only occasionally in the Short Takes sections of earlier issues. Suddenly, in the Covid supplements, we were publishing as much poetry as prose, although, perhaps because we still felt that poetry and Short Takes didn’t quite belong together, we decorously separated the prose and poetry under their own headings.
The Covid supplements also marked the first major use of paintings, photography, and the other visual arts outside the Art section. Our editors and readers supplied us with an array of beautiful, often heart-rendingly poignant art in every medium, and we made copious and beneficial use of all of it. Looking back on those supplements today, I am struck by how much those limpid and lovely paintings, collages, tapestries, and photos captured, and transformed into something bearable, the loneliness we were all feeling.
In addition to the visual arts, the Covid supplements also included the exquisite piano playing of Music Editor Gena Raps and tender readings of her own poetry by Poetry Editor Cynthia Hogue, marking the first extensive use of videos in Persimmon Tree.
Looking back across Short Takes’ 15 years, I am struck by the number of new and emerging writers and artists, still publishing in Persimmon Tree today, whose careers effectively began with their publication long ago in Short Takes: Ronna Magy, Priscilla Tilley, Ronnie Hess, Sherri Wright, J.I. Kleinberg, gaye gambell-peterson, windflower, Denise Beck-Clark, Merry Song, Niomi Rohn Phillips (naming just a few, and with apologies to the many brilliant writers and artists who are not on this list, though they have appeared many times, and, we hope, will appear many times more, in the virtual pages of Persimmon Tree).
Short Takes is at times lighthearted, occasionally somber, or even melancholy, but it’s always surprising and memorable. I have been known to complain about the time and attention it takes to edit Short Takes, but I would not give it up for the world. With my sincere and heartfelt thanks to everyone who has made it so, I’m pleased to present this issue’s installment: a timely and sweet chorus of paeans to Persimmon Tree itself. Enjoy!
Waltz No. 7 in D minor
Not Far from the (Persimmon) Tree
Like the mystery surrounding the derivation of the word persimmon, I don’t remember when and how I came to know about Persimmon Tree (PT). But like the tree, erect, crooked, or willowy, it has grown and persisted: this is the 75th issue celebrating women writers, composers, and artists over sixty.
Like the ripened fruit, each PT contributor is in the fall of her life and will continue to mature well into her winter. Contributors, like ripe persimmons, come in a variety of colors, sizes, and shapes; their works address a variety of literary purposes.
The published fruits of Persimmon Tree are popular and have been consumed for a long time (19 years!) The Tree is deciduous, i.e., selective in what it publishes, and each published work has a sweet, tangy texture.
In certain cultures persimmons are viewed as a status symbol. So, too, I do when I submit my work to PT for consideration.
Like the ripened fruit, each PT contributor is in the fall of her life and will continue to mature well into her winter. Contributors, like ripe persimmons, come in a variety of colors, sizes, and shapes; their works address a variety of literary purposes.
The published fruits of Persimmon Tree are popular and have been consumed for a long time (19 years!) The Tree is deciduous, i.e., selective in what it publishes, and each published work has a sweet, tangy texture.
In certain cultures persimmons are viewed as a status symbol. So, too, I do when I submit my work to PT for consideration.
Yes, you can google it!
I found Persimmon Tree by googling “writing for women over 60.” I am so glad I did.
By extending a warm invitation to older women writers, Persimmon Tree acknowledges and respects the wealth of experiences, rich memories, and heartfelt lessons that come with each gray hair and wrinkle. These are markers of a life well-lived, ready to be shared with those who are willing to listen.
We want to savor, share, and pass these memories and their reflections along, as Sue Fagalde Lick did in her essay “Tuna Noodle Casserole.” Lick described her experience of the passing of time, and the importance of holding on to “markers” throughout our journeys. That essay spoke to me!
For Lick, her marker was the tuna fish casserole. For me, it is the consistent thread of myself, which I saw last week during my 70th birthday party.
As family and friends celebrated with me, I realized that, in many ways, I am the same girl I always was. I’m energized by being surrounded by those I love, which takes me back to receiving the “Friendliest Girl” award in seventh grade, many moons ago. Along with this honor, I sometimes overthink and worry about details. Weeks before the party, I would wake up wondering whether there would be enough hummus for thirty guests, had I chosen the right desserts (is there a wrong one?), and how to calculate the amount of wine and beer to buy for a largely non-drinking crowd.
My high-energy self has been a guiding force in my life, usually for good. However, it’s not always been smooth sailing. I’ve come to understand the value of pause, the importance of nurturing thoughtful relationships, and the ongoing practice of self-reflection.
Through life’s challenges, when I pause and converse with that girl I always was, I re-center and try again. I appreciate the guidance that “Tuna Noodle Casserole” offered, as well as many of the other essays, stories, and interviews in Persimmon Tree.
I look forward to savoring more of the writing of Persimmon Tree’s wise women.
By extending a warm invitation to older women writers, Persimmon Tree acknowledges and respects the wealth of experiences, rich memories, and heartfelt lessons that come with each gray hair and wrinkle. These are markers of a life well-lived, ready to be shared with those who are willing to listen.
We want to savor, share, and pass these memories and their reflections along, as Sue Fagalde Lick did in her essay “Tuna Noodle Casserole.” Lick described her experience of the passing of time, and the importance of holding on to “markers” throughout our journeys. That essay spoke to me!
For Lick, her marker was the tuna fish casserole. For me, it is the consistent thread of myself, which I saw last week during my 70th birthday party.
As family and friends celebrated with me, I realized that, in many ways, I am the same girl I always was. I’m energized by being surrounded by those I love, which takes me back to receiving the “Friendliest Girl” award in seventh grade, many moons ago. Along with this honor, I sometimes overthink and worry about details. Weeks before the party, I would wake up wondering whether there would be enough hummus for thirty guests, had I chosen the right desserts (is there a wrong one?), and how to calculate the amount of wine and beer to buy for a largely non-drinking crowd.
My high-energy self has been a guiding force in my life, usually for good. However, it’s not always been smooth sailing. I’ve come to understand the value of pause, the importance of nurturing thoughtful relationships, and the ongoing practice of self-reflection.
Through life’s challenges, when I pause and converse with that girl I always was, I re-center and try again. I appreciate the guidance that “Tuna Noodle Casserole” offered, as well as many of the other essays, stories, and interviews in Persimmon Tree.
I look forward to savoring more of the writing of Persimmon Tree’s wise women.
alone, a visual poem by J.I. Kleinberg
I Am a Twentieth-Century Woman
Born in mid-century, 1951, my consciousness—including my tastes, values and ideals—was formed in that decade. What I was then I am now, though I’ve also adapted to the realities and needs of today, such as my computer, cell phone, car, and other creations that represent the era they’re from.
This also applies to writing and literature. It occurred to me one day that many of the editors of literary journals were much younger than I, as were the writers whose work they accepted, and presumably their readership as well. Could the many rejections my writing was receiving be due at least in part to an age gap? Perhaps my writing was simply outdated. So I decided to look for literary journals that were owned and run by my peers. That’s when I found Persimmon Tree.
Persimmon Tree’s demographic details notwithstanding, it publishes high-quality writing that appeals to people who think. You might say everyone thinks, but I’m referring to people who think for enjoyment and not because they must. They think because doing so is fun and rewarding.
Most of my experience with Persimmon Tree has been with the two columns that appear in each issue and are composed of responses to prompts: Short Takes and the Forum. I’m proud to say that several of my responses to Persimmon Tree prompts have been published. It’s also these two columns that I’ve read the most, for, unless I’m engaged in a novel, I tend to prefer reading shorter pieces.
Perhaps the best result to come from my association with Persimmon Tree, besides being published, is that I’ve become a better writer. My heartfelt thanks to Persimmon Tree! I look forward to having it in my life for many years to come.
This also applies to writing and literature. It occurred to me one day that many of the editors of literary journals were much younger than I, as were the writers whose work they accepted, and presumably their readership as well. Could the many rejections my writing was receiving be due at least in part to an age gap? Perhaps my writing was simply outdated. So I decided to look for literary journals that were owned and run by my peers. That’s when I found Persimmon Tree.
Persimmon Tree’s demographic details notwithstanding, it publishes high-quality writing that appeals to people who think. You might say everyone thinks, but I’m referring to people who think for enjoyment and not because they must. They think because doing so is fun and rewarding.
Most of my experience with Persimmon Tree has been with the two columns that appear in each issue and are composed of responses to prompts: Short Takes and the Forum. I’m proud to say that several of my responses to Persimmon Tree prompts have been published. It’s also these two columns that I’ve read the most, for, unless I’m engaged in a novel, I tend to prefer reading shorter pieces.
Perhaps the best result to come from my association with Persimmon Tree, besides being published, is that I’ve become a better writer. My heartfelt thanks to Persimmon Tree! I look forward to having it in my life for many years to come.
Beyond the Mirror
Last Thursday was my half-birthday celebration day. I have always savored this sacred, just me day. On this halfway day, I reflect on who I was and who I might soon be. This year, staring into the magnified mirror, I tweezed yet another black chin hair hidden in a new fold of skin. On this in-between day, I realized that in six months I will be seventy, entering my eightieth decade of life. Holy Shit! How could this be? I am now far closer to being a hundred than the year, at twenty-five, when my life felt my own
Weed tweezed, I flipped the mirror to what I call “the forgiving view,” the side that shows less of me and more of the world I inhabit. Tipping the angle to soften the light, I caught the eye of the daring young woman who once inhabited this sagging skin. There in my mirror’s eye, I could see her chasing down the North Cascades riding her Free Spirit road bike, leaning onto the edge of the tire to keep hold of the road. “Sixty-five!” Tony screamed. “You’re going 65 miles per hour!” That fearless young woman is still there, in me. I still ride the edge of life and dare to fly at warp speed; but on that afternoon of my in-between birthday, 65 felt increasingly like a fleeting memory.
Three years ago, a writing teacher recommended Persimmon Tree. “I think your writing and photographs would be a good fit,” she said. “Plus, the magazine is for women of your age.” Of my age? I wasn’t old. I saw myself young, like the bad-ass forty-something changemakers who came to me for counsel.
Recently, when one of my photo collages companioned Amy Smyth Miller’s “What Lies Within,” I smiled at my instructor’s wisdom. The pairing was perfect. In her essay, Miller reflects on beauty, birds, and impending mortality. My photo collage is a portrait of a woman enmeshed in a world of imposed identities.
Today, as my mirror magnifies the flaws of my undeniably and unreliably aging body, Persimmon Tree offers far more than a mere reflection. In celebrating Persimmon Tree’s diamond jubilee, I want to honor both the reflective and refractive qualities of stories and poems within each issue. In addition to self-discovery through reflection, the writings and images refract/bend time and place, evoking a motion of time where turning points propel a letting go, where uncertainty redefines legacy, and where I often find myself pulsing with the mystery and magic of what we might collectively become.
And then there are the hymns of reckoning. Reading these stories and gazing into the images, all created by other women with lined and wizened faces, I am reminded that our age gives us a voice that is not about speed or weeds but a place to bend the limits of time to offer insights about the daunting uncertainty of life.
Weed tweezed, I flipped the mirror to what I call “the forgiving view,” the side that shows less of me and more of the world I inhabit. Tipping the angle to soften the light, I caught the eye of the daring young woman who once inhabited this sagging skin. There in my mirror’s eye, I could see her chasing down the North Cascades riding her Free Spirit road bike, leaning onto the edge of the tire to keep hold of the road. “Sixty-five!” Tony screamed. “You’re going 65 miles per hour!” That fearless young woman is still there, in me. I still ride the edge of life and dare to fly at warp speed; but on that afternoon of my in-between birthday, 65 felt increasingly like a fleeting memory.
Three years ago, a writing teacher recommended Persimmon Tree. “I think your writing and photographs would be a good fit,” she said. “Plus, the magazine is for women of your age.” Of my age? I wasn’t old. I saw myself young, like the bad-ass forty-something changemakers who came to me for counsel.
Recently, when one of my photo collages companioned Amy Smyth Miller’s “What Lies Within,” I smiled at my instructor’s wisdom. The pairing was perfect. In her essay, Miller reflects on beauty, birds, and impending mortality. My photo collage is a portrait of a woman enmeshed in a world of imposed identities.
Today, as my mirror magnifies the flaws of my undeniably and unreliably aging body, Persimmon Tree offers far more than a mere reflection. In celebrating Persimmon Tree’s diamond jubilee, I want to honor both the reflective and refractive qualities of stories and poems within each issue. In addition to self-discovery through reflection, the writings and images refract/bend time and place, evoking a motion of time where turning points propel a letting go, where uncertainty redefines legacy, and where I often find myself pulsing with the mystery and magic of what we might collectively become.
And then there are the hymns of reckoning. Reading these stories and gazing into the images, all created by other women with lined and wizened faces, I am reminded that our age gives us a voice that is not about speed or weeds but a place to bend the limits of time to offer insights about the daunting uncertainty of life.
The Persimmon Lady
I’m a Persimmon Tree ‘newbie,’ having discovered the magazine by happenstance while doing some research on the health benefits of persimmons. In investigating the cultural and symbolic significance of persimmons (longevity, posterity, good fortune), I understand why the name Persimmon Tree was chosen. I’ve found the magazine enlightening, supportive, and engaging. Having recently turned 70, I am delighted to have found an online magazine for us women over 60. I’m grateful for the diversity and strength I see in the articles, stories, and poems. As part of my ‘short take,’ I wrote the following poem in remembrance of eating persimmons as a young girl with the wise 75-year-old Mrs. Bodine who lived down the street from me.
just beyond the sagging gate
Mrs. Bodine’s old house stands, empty.
in the back yard weathered persimmon trees
stand guard over the garden’s remnants.
leaves rust-red in October, ochre and bronze
scatter down from the persimmon’s hard slender limbs.
copper leaves slowly falling away, one by one
their orange-red globes hanging on patiently.
this display of ornaments hangs from nude branches
as if Mrs. Bodine left them there to decorate the season.
memory of persimmon’s mellow sweetness
permeates my tongue, taking me back to my cozy childhood.
“Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted…
sniff the bottoms…the sweet ones will be fragrant.”
we gathered persimmons in yard-wide baskets
filling them with mounds of the just picked fruit.
autumn evenings spent eating persimmons with Mrs. Bodine,
her fireplace warm and fragrant with wisdom and persimmon leaves.
“Peel the skin tenderly, she said, “not tearing the meat.
Chew the skin, suck it, and swallow. Now, eat.”
the meat of the fruit sweet and jelly-soft,
a luscious topping for her crisp buttered bread.
like its namesake, Persimmon Tree is sweet, evocative~
consume all of it, taking it to one’s heart.
just beyond the sagging gate
Mrs. Bodine’s old house stands, empty.
in the back yard weathered persimmon trees
stand guard over the garden’s remnants.
leaves rust-red in October, ochre and bronze
scatter down from the persimmon’s hard slender limbs.
copper leaves slowly falling away, one by one
their orange-red globes hanging on patiently.
this display of ornaments hangs from nude branches
as if Mrs. Bodine left them there to decorate the season.
memory of persimmon’s mellow sweetness
permeates my tongue, taking me back to my cozy childhood.
“Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted…
sniff the bottoms…the sweet ones will be fragrant.”
we gathered persimmons in yard-wide baskets
filling them with mounds of the just picked fruit.
autumn evenings spent eating persimmons with Mrs. Bodine,
her fireplace warm and fragrant with wisdom and persimmon leaves.
“Peel the skin tenderly, she said, “not tearing the meat.
Chew the skin, suck it, and swallow. Now, eat.”
the meat of the fruit sweet and jelly-soft,
a luscious topping for her crisp buttered bread.
like its namesake, Persimmon Tree is sweet, evocative~
consume all of it, taking it to one’s heart.
If Proust Met a Persimmon
Persimmon Tree is such a perfect publication for my age and concerns and has made me think, often and not surprisingly, of…persimmons! Those thoughts led to this poem.
Not too hard, not too soft,
orange skin shining, ripe for
that first bite, luscious
flesh rolled round the tongue,
mouthful of sweetness,
persimmon in its prime.
The fullness of the fruit,
the way the pleasure lasts,
nourishing my memories,
even now, reminding me
of that first taste,
the lush delight,
so perfect in its time.
Not too hard, not too soft,
orange skin shining, ripe for
that first bite, luscious
flesh rolled round the tongue,
mouthful of sweetness,
persimmon in its prime.
The fullness of the fruit,
the way the pleasure lasts,
nourishing my memories,
even now, reminding me
of that first taste,
the lush delight,
so perfect in its time.
July is a language, a visual poem by J.I. Kleinberg
Writing and Reading
Persimmon Tree was a happy revelation when I discovered it about four years ago. At that time, there were opposite emotions at war within me. One, the ugly one, was that thing that older women often complain about, but that no one expects will happen to them: in spite of a lifetime of professional accomplishment and community activism, I felt I had become invisible, overlooked.
The other emotions were sweeter. I had within me stories to write; at last I had time to write them, and I was bursting with the need to write them. I still had a loving marriage that was, miraculously, kinder and gentler than ever. And I had grandsons who make my heart leap up whenever I see them.
I have had several Short Takes pieces published or shortlisted in Persimmon Tree, and that has made me feel seen. And, more important, I have read beautiful short fiction by brilliant writers who explore the range of experiences of women as we age: The fear of being alone. The fear of estrangement and running out of time to repair relationships. That fantasy of, for once in our lives, doing something bad … and getting away with it.
One recent non-fiction piece, “What Lies Within” by Amy Smyth Miller, clutched my heart, and I returned to reread it. The narrator and her husband live in a beautiful setting, as I do with my husband, although we don’t have a pond with glowing Koi and visiting mallard ducks. The story describes the unique way in which each of us is aging. Like the author, we savor sipping morning coffee together, realizing that nothing is forever, that change is inevitable and likely unwelcome.
But enough about love and beauty. Two fiction pieces in the Spring 2025 issue, Patricia Anne Bowen’s “Game of Interludes” and Zoe Burke’s “New Moons” thrilled me with the idea that a bit of mischief would be delicious–even at my age. Who knows: maybe Persimmon Tree has inspired me to try it.
The other emotions were sweeter. I had within me stories to write; at last I had time to write them, and I was bursting with the need to write them. I still had a loving marriage that was, miraculously, kinder and gentler than ever. And I had grandsons who make my heart leap up whenever I see them.
I have had several Short Takes pieces published or shortlisted in Persimmon Tree, and that has made me feel seen. And, more important, I have read beautiful short fiction by brilliant writers who explore the range of experiences of women as we age: The fear of being alone. The fear of estrangement and running out of time to repair relationships. That fantasy of, for once in our lives, doing something bad … and getting away with it.
One recent non-fiction piece, “What Lies Within” by Amy Smyth Miller, clutched my heart, and I returned to reread it. The narrator and her husband live in a beautiful setting, as I do with my husband, although we don’t have a pond with glowing Koi and visiting mallard ducks. The story describes the unique way in which each of us is aging. Like the author, we savor sipping morning coffee together, realizing that nothing is forever, that change is inevitable and likely unwelcome.
But enough about love and beauty. Two fiction pieces in the Spring 2025 issue, Patricia Anne Bowen’s “Game of Interludes” and Zoe Burke’s “New Moons” thrilled me with the idea that a bit of mischief would be delicious–even at my age. Who knows: maybe Persimmon Tree has inspired me to try it.
Happy Seventy-Fifth
I didn’t realize that Persimmon Tree and I would be sharing a momentous occasion in 2025. Yikes, seventy-five sounds so well…mature. You’ve completed seventy-five issues, a momentous accomplishment; and I will be seventy-five this year, also a milestone! How can I, who used to dance to the Doors, who had long sandy-blonde hair and participated in Berkeley demonstrations, be reaching an age that feels like I am at the threshold of the last chapters of my life? How can I have a fifty-year old daughter and teenage grandchildren? I don’t know how it happened, but here we are.
My writing career began rather late, after I retired in 2009. I had already done many volunteer jobs and had been the president of several organizations, including a stint at the first woman president in the hundred-year history of my Orthodox synagogue. I wanted to do something completely different. I needed to feel vital and stimulated in my retirement and by chance found a writing class that met near Lake Merritt during the daytime, which meant I did not have to trek from my Oakland hills home at night.
From my very first class, I knew I had miraculously hit on the right thing. Though I had always written as a history major, I never thought I had the creative chops to do short stories or poetry. I discovered a world I had never known and started sending my work out everywhere. Creative writing became my passion and helped me weather my breast cancer diagnosis in 2011 through poetry and blog writing. I have since published more than sixty pieces and have received two Pushcart nominations. In 2020, I published my first book of poetry, My Runaway Hourglass.
In writing poetry, I uncovered a distinctive voice, witty and perceptive. It was as though I were seeing my world with new eyes. I revisited my home in San Francisco in my poetry and wrote about my neighbors, my mother’s lilac tree, going on excursions with my father to Playland, my piano teacher. Painful memories were also unleashed as I wrote about my brother’s mental illness. I learned that once one opens the box of memory, there is no containing what lies within it.
I was very pleased to have one of my poems, “The Two Week Vacation” published by Persimmon Tree in December of 2013, as part of a West Coast collection curated by Maria Mazziotti Gillan, guest editor. She described how the competition was of “such high quality that selecting just a few poems for inclusion in the winter issue was very challenging.” I was bursting with pride to have my poem in that company. I also was included in another Short Takes column for Persimmon Tree, a publishing highlight for me.
So, happy seventy-fifth issue, Persimmon Tree. Let’s make a deal and age gracefully. I’ll keep writing relevant pieces, and hoping you keep publishing them!
My writing career began rather late, after I retired in 2009. I had already done many volunteer jobs and had been the president of several organizations, including a stint at the first woman president in the hundred-year history of my Orthodox synagogue. I wanted to do something completely different. I needed to feel vital and stimulated in my retirement and by chance found a writing class that met near Lake Merritt during the daytime, which meant I did not have to trek from my Oakland hills home at night.
From my very first class, I knew I had miraculously hit on the right thing. Though I had always written as a history major, I never thought I had the creative chops to do short stories or poetry. I discovered a world I had never known and started sending my work out everywhere. Creative writing became my passion and helped me weather my breast cancer diagnosis in 2011 through poetry and blog writing. I have since published more than sixty pieces and have received two Pushcart nominations. In 2020, I published my first book of poetry, My Runaway Hourglass.
In writing poetry, I uncovered a distinctive voice, witty and perceptive. It was as though I were seeing my world with new eyes. I revisited my home in San Francisco in my poetry and wrote about my neighbors, my mother’s lilac tree, going on excursions with my father to Playland, my piano teacher. Painful memories were also unleashed as I wrote about my brother’s mental illness. I learned that once one opens the box of memory, there is no containing what lies within it.
I was very pleased to have one of my poems, “The Two Week Vacation” published by Persimmon Tree in December of 2013, as part of a West Coast collection curated by Maria Mazziotti Gillan, guest editor. She described how the competition was of “such high quality that selecting just a few poems for inclusion in the winter issue was very challenging.” I was bursting with pride to have my poem in that company. I also was included in another Short Takes column for Persimmon Tree, a publishing highlight for me.
So, happy seventy-fifth issue, Persimmon Tree. Let’s make a deal and age gracefully. I’ll keep writing relevant pieces, and hoping you keep publishing them!
No More More, More, More
At 90, I finally figured it out. In times of chaos and peace, poetry provides the bridge to get me across. Naomi Shihab Nye, the phenomenal poet, understands that. The last Persimmon Tree issue featured her poems. What caught my breath were her lines,
Live with less, carefully placed. Enjoy the next ten minutes,
It does not have to be more, and more, and more from her poem Too Muchness. Maybe that’s the problem these days. Everything is more. More bad news, more inane government policies, more hatred instead of kindness, more tyrannical pronouncements designed to divide, more richness, more poorness, more badness versus goodness, and more, and more, and more. I love Nye’s poem, the honesty and tips on how less often works better than more. And I love Persimmon Tree because it always manages to give me something to think about and cherish in well-chosen poetry that lifts my spirits, and transports me away from all the “mores.”
Live with less, carefully placed. Enjoy the next ten minutes,
It does not have to be more, and more, and more from her poem Too Muchness. Maybe that’s the problem these days. Everything is more. More bad news, more inane government policies, more hatred instead of kindness, more tyrannical pronouncements designed to divide, more richness, more poorness, more badness versus goodness, and more, and more, and more. I love Nye’s poem, the honesty and tips on how less often works better than more. And I love Persimmon Tree because it always manages to give me something to think about and cherish in well-chosen poetry that lifts my spirits, and transports me away from all the “mores.”
Make Way for Ducklings
I don’t recall how I stumbled upon Persimmon Tree: an online magazine for the arts by women over sixty. The description suited me well as it celebrates the arts created by older women.
Shortly after that, I hiked up to Everest Basecamp in Nepal, at the age of 72, on April 27, 2023. (The oldest woman my guide Bishnu Bhatta, had previously helped to achieve that goal was 64.) It proved that you are never too old to do what you are passionate about. I wrote about my experience as a piece of inspirational writing for Persimmon Tree for the Fall issue, 2023.
It is difficult to say when I started writing. When I was eight years old, at elementary school, my teacher wanted us to write about our daily life, a sort of a diary to hand in periodically. I considered my daily life mundane, lacking adventures. So, to spice things up, I made up a story about herding my mother’s brood of ducklings around the orchard and a little pond, devising their daily adventures or misadventures. That story lasted several weeks. I never knew what my teacher thought about my diary, but it spurred my imagination and creativity.
When I was twelve years old, I bought an exercise book and began to keep a journal of my favorite passages of books, poems, illustrations I read and perused, and my reflections. I didn’t own many books, and so that was the best way I could still have abstracts and pieces of things I treasured and loved to hang on to. I burned that journal when I left for the United States to attend Wellesley College on a full scholarship, fearing that it would be found and read by an unintended audience.
When I started volunteering as a medical humanitarian, there was no internet, radio, TV, or newspaper to distract me during the long lonely nights, so I began to write my memoir, The Girl Who Taught Herself to Fly, which was published in 2022.
I also blogged during my almost two decades of volunteering, notably my Ebola blog, which triggered an NPR interview, and fueled my first published book: Lest We Forget: A Doctor’s Experience with Life and Death during the Ebola Outbreak in 2018. My blog furnished materials for another book, Into Africa, Out of Academia: A Doctor’s Memoir (2020) which is all about my volunteering in one of my favorite continents.
My passion for travel took me to Greenland, and when kayaking among the majestic fjords, icebergs, and glaciers, I was inspired to write a poem, “Listen,” for the Short Takes section of Persimmon Tree’s fall 2024 issue, and a letter, “Merry Christmas from Port Lockroy Post Office, Antarctica,” for the Short Takes theme, “The Annual Letter,” in the winter 2024-25 issue.
Persimmon Tree provides me a space to express my creative and imaginative energy, which started as a child herding a brood of ducklings.
Shortly after that, I hiked up to Everest Basecamp in Nepal, at the age of 72, on April 27, 2023. (The oldest woman my guide Bishnu Bhatta, had previously helped to achieve that goal was 64.) It proved that you are never too old to do what you are passionate about. I wrote about my experience as a piece of inspirational writing for Persimmon Tree for the Fall issue, 2023.
It is difficult to say when I started writing. When I was eight years old, at elementary school, my teacher wanted us to write about our daily life, a sort of a diary to hand in periodically. I considered my daily life mundane, lacking adventures. So, to spice things up, I made up a story about herding my mother’s brood of ducklings around the orchard and a little pond, devising their daily adventures or misadventures. That story lasted several weeks. I never knew what my teacher thought about my diary, but it spurred my imagination and creativity.
When I was twelve years old, I bought an exercise book and began to keep a journal of my favorite passages of books, poems, illustrations I read and perused, and my reflections. I didn’t own many books, and so that was the best way I could still have abstracts and pieces of things I treasured and loved to hang on to. I burned that journal when I left for the United States to attend Wellesley College on a full scholarship, fearing that it would be found and read by an unintended audience.
When I started volunteering as a medical humanitarian, there was no internet, radio, TV, or newspaper to distract me during the long lonely nights, so I began to write my memoir, The Girl Who Taught Herself to Fly, which was published in 2022.
I also blogged during my almost two decades of volunteering, notably my Ebola blog, which triggered an NPR interview, and fueled my first published book: Lest We Forget: A Doctor’s Experience with Life and Death during the Ebola Outbreak in 2018. My blog furnished materials for another book, Into Africa, Out of Academia: A Doctor’s Memoir (2020) which is all about my volunteering in one of my favorite continents.
My passion for travel took me to Greenland, and when kayaking among the majestic fjords, icebergs, and glaciers, I was inspired to write a poem, “Listen,” for the Short Takes section of Persimmon Tree’s fall 2024 issue, and a letter, “Merry Christmas from Port Lockroy Post Office, Antarctica,” for the Short Takes theme, “The Annual Letter,” in the winter 2024-25 issue.
Persimmon Tree provides me a space to express my creative and imaginative energy, which started as a child herding a brood of ducklings.
readers of light, a visual poem by J.I. Kleinberg
What Was I Thinking?
Over the past couple of years, I have promoted Persimmon Tree to too many friends who now submit to Persimmon Tree their stories, poems, and drawings. I conclude that I cut off my nose to spite my face by doing so. This is such a dreadful cliché, but it is appropriate, or do I mean relevant?
The quality of the writing you publish is terrific; there are some brilliant writers out there ready to respond to the stream of suggested topics pursued throughout the year. I can’t keep up!
You published my very short story titled Intentions and later a letter excerpt in the 2024 seasonal round-up. I was close to ecstatic, as the switch to online leaves me feeling out in the cold (another cliché) despite a reasonable earlier writing record.
Now I have too much writing crying out for space, but despite achieving only eight percent on my English schooling Latin exam, I must just say ave atque vale. Keep up the good work!
Editor’s Note: We hope Jane doesn’t really mean this. To her, we say: Tibi perseverandum est.
The quality of the writing you publish is terrific; there are some brilliant writers out there ready to respond to the stream of suggested topics pursued throughout the year. I can’t keep up!
You published my very short story titled Intentions and later a letter excerpt in the 2024 seasonal round-up. I was close to ecstatic, as the switch to online leaves me feeling out in the cold (another cliché) despite a reasonable earlier writing record.
Now I have too much writing crying out for space, but despite achieving only eight percent on my English schooling Latin exam, I must just say ave atque vale. Keep up the good work!
Editor’s Note: We hope Jane doesn’t really mean this. To her, we say: Tibi perseverandum est.
Loss. And. Gain.
How did Persimmon Tree become such an integral part of my life? Like any relationship, it began gradually, slowly, until it emerged into one of the finest literary connections I have.
Real people. Real stories. Real art and music. People like me. Women over 60. Writers. Artists. Musicians.
Persimmon Tree began the year I was diagnosed with breast cancer. The year I followed up on a slight suspicion I almost dismissed. The year a nurse ordered more definitive tests for me. The year my life was saved.
And like me, Persimmon Tree has had the same number of issues as years I am old.
I cannot recollect when the first-time magic happened… the first time I read Persimmon Tree. I know Sue Leonard was editor and Jean Zorn publisher.
Intrigued by the quality, depth, and realness of the contributors, I did my own research. I learned about Nan Gefen, founding editor. I came across her early writings. Summer 2010 resounded loud and clear. Pondering the untimely loss of her sister, she bravely spoke of loss. And gain. She mentioned the first “Short Takes” contest—wrote about receiving over one hundred entries. And now? Under the leadership of Jean Zorn and Margaret Wagner, I would imagine this has grown exponentially. And is going strong.
How did I get brave enough to submit my first entry to Short Takes? It was 2020, and my short take, “Justice for All,” was one of a dozen entries chosen.
When each new edition is launched, the first things I read are the introductions from Margaret Wagner and Jean Zorn—they are my footing for the rest. Then I move to “Short Takes”—whether my submission is selected or not. I savor each entry before going to the next, as if I am using enough self-control to taste a tiny piece of chocolate… one small amount at a time instead of gobbling all of it at once.
From there, over time, I read the other sections and marvel at the way each author weaves her personal spin on life, loss, gains, growth, heartache, joy, politics—the entire spectrum of our existence. I love seeing photos and reading bios of contributors; I also love expanding my book selections from those advertised. Perhaps the book my writing class and I wrote– Stories We Have Shared: An Anthology Tribute to our Extraordinary Writing Guru – Doris Northstrom (Amazon 2024)—received a few new readers when we advertised it in Persimmon Tree.
The absolute beauty of Persimmon Tree is that, like life itself, it will go on. The baton will always be passed. New talented generations of women will be available to take over as those who need to step down gracefully do so. The world needs to listen, read and be moved by us—women over 60. Women who sometimes feel invisible. Women who have the most to say. Persimmon Tree opens the door for us to shout from the rooftops.
I am grateful.
Real people. Real stories. Real art and music. People like me. Women over 60. Writers. Artists. Musicians.
Persimmon Tree began the year I was diagnosed with breast cancer. The year I followed up on a slight suspicion I almost dismissed. The year a nurse ordered more definitive tests for me. The year my life was saved.
And like me, Persimmon Tree has had the same number of issues as years I am old.
I cannot recollect when the first-time magic happened… the first time I read Persimmon Tree. I know Sue Leonard was editor and Jean Zorn publisher.
Intrigued by the quality, depth, and realness of the contributors, I did my own research. I learned about Nan Gefen, founding editor. I came across her early writings. Summer 2010 resounded loud and clear. Pondering the untimely loss of her sister, she bravely spoke of loss. And gain. She mentioned the first “Short Takes” contest—wrote about receiving over one hundred entries. And now? Under the leadership of Jean Zorn and Margaret Wagner, I would imagine this has grown exponentially. And is going strong.
How did I get brave enough to submit my first entry to Short Takes? It was 2020, and my short take, “Justice for All,” was one of a dozen entries chosen.
When each new edition is launched, the first things I read are the introductions from Margaret Wagner and Jean Zorn—they are my footing for the rest. Then I move to “Short Takes”—whether my submission is selected or not. I savor each entry before going to the next, as if I am using enough self-control to taste a tiny piece of chocolate… one small amount at a time instead of gobbling all of it at once.
From there, over time, I read the other sections and marvel at the way each author weaves her personal spin on life, loss, gains, growth, heartache, joy, politics—the entire spectrum of our existence. I love seeing photos and reading bios of contributors; I also love expanding my book selections from those advertised. Perhaps the book my writing class and I wrote– Stories We Have Shared: An Anthology Tribute to our Extraordinary Writing Guru – Doris Northstrom (Amazon 2024)—received a few new readers when we advertised it in Persimmon Tree.
The absolute beauty of Persimmon Tree is that, like life itself, it will go on. The baton will always be passed. New talented generations of women will be available to take over as those who need to step down gracefully do so. The world needs to listen, read and be moved by us—women over 60. Women who sometimes feel invisible. Women who have the most to say. Persimmon Tree opens the door for us to shout from the rooftops.
I am grateful.
Musical Chairs
In this poetic prose piece, Julia is Julia Fehrenbacher— a poet and teacher. Laura is our Senior Living Facility’s Life Enrichment Coordinator. Laura hasn’t published yet, but we’re working on it.
Laura wields the magic of an architect or a maze-builder. She weaves balcony weather with whether, whim of in or out, sun or shade and five changes of mind and position in the hour before the school bus drops off and U-turns. The mowers and delivery trucks provide noise and things to question from so many cushioned lawn chairs and one rarely-used wooden rocker.
There are always wheelchairs, walkers, canes, and the occasional person independent but unable to maneuver the fresh air activity’s shape. This breezy balcony is a good bribe for motivation, distraction, or dream. Laura brings juices and water to hydrate or encourage wakeable senses and memories.
Laura reads Thursday’s googled poetry. This week, it’s Julia’s. Julia teaches writing and her website assures that everyone can try this craft. Laura knows capacity and capability, and she likes Julia’s poems because they strengthen hope with creative motion.
The nearby apartment kids race to the June afternoon pool. The nearby little dog yaps, wanting to join someone’s fun. Good poetry pays attention. Laura could write, moving scene and meaning the way she notices and shifts our points of view. Julia would know this just by seeing Laura’s musical chairs.
Laura wields the magic of an architect or a maze-builder. She weaves balcony weather with whether, whim of in or out, sun or shade and five changes of mind and position in the hour before the school bus drops off and U-turns. The mowers and delivery trucks provide noise and things to question from so many cushioned lawn chairs and one rarely-used wooden rocker.
There are always wheelchairs, walkers, canes, and the occasional person independent but unable to maneuver the fresh air activity’s shape. This breezy balcony is a good bribe for motivation, distraction, or dream. Laura brings juices and water to hydrate or encourage wakeable senses and memories.
Laura reads Thursday’s googled poetry. This week, it’s Julia’s. Julia teaches writing and her website assures that everyone can try this craft. Laura knows capacity and capability, and she likes Julia’s poems because they strengthen hope with creative motion.
The nearby apartment kids race to the June afternoon pool. The nearby little dog yaps, wanting to join someone’s fun. Good poetry pays attention. Laura could write, moving scene and meaning the way she notices and shifts our points of view. Julia would know this just by seeing Laura’s musical chairs.
Congratulations and Thank You
Thank you, Persimmon Tree, for this wonderful magazine. I have been reading, and occasionally submitting my words, generally to Short Takes, for years—I don’t know how many.
I am not a writer with multiple degrees after my name. I did not go the typical college route, and eventually worked in nursing, without nurturing my casual interest in writing. Later, when my life became smaller, I treated myself to a writing class at UMASS Boston, for students of advancing years. That class, taught by a wonderfully gentle teacher, opened the door to new possibilities for expressing my thoughts, fears, and observations about my life journey. I became a writer.
Short Takes is a great forum and opportunity to tackle a suggested topic in a concise way. I love the challenge of limiting and refining the total amount of words and thoughts to less than 500. I could easily ramble extensively without that boundary.
I write from my heart. It is not a strict or always grammatically correct teacher (I do love dashes), but it encourages me to share honestly some of my life experiences. I love that written words can connect us to strangers. I am sometimes surprised by how deeply affected I can be by another’s sadness, humor, or simply stated truth. This, to me, is a huge part of sharing our humanity, of seeing our similarities rather than our differences. I believe that we each have an individual journey, but we intersect daily with others, directly and indirectly.
I can be intimidated by other writers’ academic titles and their years of learning specific techniques and skills. I don’t have their knowledge. I am home-grown, full of observations and some hard-learned lessons. I am grateful to have been gently guided to dare to speak and write for myself. I am mildly giddy when a piece is accepted here or elsewhere. Only mildly, because I don’t allow myself a full blown WooHoo!! But I’m working on that.
Continued best wishes, as Persimmon Tree celebrates this milestone, and persists in empowering older women to share their voices and perspectives as we all continue to grow.
I am not a writer with multiple degrees after my name. I did not go the typical college route, and eventually worked in nursing, without nurturing my casual interest in writing. Later, when my life became smaller, I treated myself to a writing class at UMASS Boston, for students of advancing years. That class, taught by a wonderfully gentle teacher, opened the door to new possibilities for expressing my thoughts, fears, and observations about my life journey. I became a writer.
Short Takes is a great forum and opportunity to tackle a suggested topic in a concise way. I love the challenge of limiting and refining the total amount of words and thoughts to less than 500. I could easily ramble extensively without that boundary.
I write from my heart. It is not a strict or always grammatically correct teacher (I do love dashes), but it encourages me to share honestly some of my life experiences. I love that written words can connect us to strangers. I am sometimes surprised by how deeply affected I can be by another’s sadness, humor, or simply stated truth. This, to me, is a huge part of sharing our humanity, of seeing our similarities rather than our differences. I believe that we each have an individual journey, but we intersect daily with others, directly and indirectly.
I can be intimidated by other writers’ academic titles and their years of learning specific techniques and skills. I don’t have their knowledge. I am home-grown, full of observations and some hard-learned lessons. I am grateful to have been gently guided to dare to speak and write for myself. I am mildly giddy when a piece is accepted here or elsewhere. Only mildly, because I don’t allow myself a full blown WooHoo!! But I’m working on that.
Continued best wishes, as Persimmon Tree celebrates this milestone, and persists in empowering older women to share their voices and perspectives as we all continue to grow.
seize power, a visual poem by J.I. Kleinberg
Familiar Fruit
I discovered Persimmon Tree when I was hunting through the internet to find a home for some of my writing.
Having reached beyond being of a “certain age” to where “I do not want to admit being this old,” I was thrilled to find somewhere that wanted to hear what I had to say. And I could read what others had to say that resonated with me.
Imagine my joy when part of my scribble to your Forum space ended up in one of your emails!
I am one of those folks who reads the entire issue from cover to cover and then goes back to the sections that really ring bells. Sometimes it is an essay that tugs at my heart, another time a poem, and then another time someone sounding off in the Forum makes me consider different points of view.
No matter what captures my attention, I know I am going to enjoy some great reading.
Having reached beyond being of a “certain age” to where “I do not want to admit being this old,” I was thrilled to find somewhere that wanted to hear what I had to say. And I could read what others had to say that resonated with me.
Imagine my joy when part of my scribble to your Forum space ended up in one of your emails!
I am one of those folks who reads the entire issue from cover to cover and then goes back to the sections that really ring bells. Sometimes it is an essay that tugs at my heart, another time a poem, and then another time someone sounding off in the Forum makes me consider different points of view.
No matter what captures my attention, I know I am going to enjoy some great reading.
Ember Days
by Mary Gilliland
Woolf’s pen runs dry, Tesla holes up, Lincoln emerges in yet another bardo, and the witnesses for peace include soldiers under duress, models transformed to artists, descendants of forced immigrants, survivors of hurricanes.
Ember Days begins with ritual and ends with prayer as the poems tunnel through Wednesday’s jammed boulevards, Friday’s worthless cash, Saturday’s prodigal feet.
“Gilliland is a poet of witness and spirituality, grappling with climate devastation while also interrogating world policies and politics.”
— Best American Poetry
“Gilliland waltzes smoothly between the cheeky and conversational and the lyrical.”
— LitHub
“I am spellbound by the largesse of vision and the beauty.”
— Cynthia Hogue
Mary Gilliland is the guest poetry editor in the winter 2022 issue of Persimmon Tree.
Order from: https://www.codhill.com/product/ember-days/
Find out more at https://marygilliland.com/
Suzanne S. Austin-Hill, wife, mother, grandmother, senior, and BIPOC, lives in Ruskin, a crowded suburb of Tampa, FL. She’s a retired, internationally recognized mathematics educator and has transitioned from technical endeavors to more soulful forms of expression as a poet and photographer. Suzanne counts Persimmon Tree among her favorite reads.
Dr. Lisa Baron is a writer, creative writing teacher, experienced psychotherapist, workshop facilitator, and past academic. She is the author of twenty publications (essays and poems) and has co-authored two books, Living Art: Exercises for Igniting Creativity and Conversations with My Younger Self. She recently moved to Evanston, IL, after spending twelve years in Chapel Hill, NC. Visit her 
Denise Beck-Clark writes poetry, fiction, and non-fiction, draws, and takes pictures. Now retired, she earned her living as a social worker and psychotherapist. She still spends time as a mother to her adult son, who has Down syndrome.
Carolyn Campbell is a journalist, educator, photographer, and essayist captivated by people navigating life’s shadows. Her writing and images have been showcased in galleries and publications nationwide. Publication credits include Wow! Women on Writing, Persimmon Tree, Bewilderment, Voice Catcher, Portland Mercury, The Oregonian, Daily Yonder, and The Other Oregon.
After a 25-year teaching career, Sara Etgen-Baker began writing. She’s written a collection of memoir vignettes (Shoebox Stories), a collection of poems (Kaleidoscopic Verses), and a novel (Secrets at Dillehay Crossing). Her writing has appeared in a variety of publications including Guideposts and Chicken Soup for the Soul.
Karin Evans is a Berkeley journalist, author, and poet. Her book, The Lost Daughters of China, was a national best seller. Her poetry has appeared in Berkeleyside, Alehouse, and the Stafford Anthology. She was recently Writer-in-Residence at the annual O'ahu Writers Retreat. She is a certified yoga teacher and serves on the City of Berkeley Commission on Aging.
Susan Glassman has an M.A. in English Literature from the University of Michigan and another M.A. in Urban Affairs from Washington University in St. Louis. She has had a career in teaching, government, and non-profit management. Currently she writes short stories and creative non-fiction. She was nominated for a prize for a short story by the St. Louis Writers Guild (SLWG) and has published in SLWG anthologies.
After Joanne Jagoda retired, one inspiring writing workshop launched her on an unexpected trajectory. Her prize-winning poetry, short stories and nonfiction appear on-line and in numerous print anthologies. She has received two Pushcart nominations and published her first book, My Runaway Hourglass, in 2020. Visit her 
Elise Kazanjian is a San Francisco poet whose work appears in the 2024 collection, Season Lightly with Salt; Vistas & Byways; Poet Laureate Lee Herrick's project, Our California; and the San Francisco Chronicle. She has worked at Sunset Magazine; as Foreign Editor, CCTV, Beijing, China; and as a pawnbroker.
Kwan Kew Lai is an author, a former Harvard Medical Faculty physician, and a humanitarian volunteer. Her latest book, The Girl Who Taught Herself to Fly
Jane Manaster is originally from the north of England, but a longtime Texan. In addition to creating 'flash' stories that intertwine fact, memory, and fiction, she wrote newspaper columns for children and later for grandparents. Somewhere in there, she also became a geographer and published three short natural history books. Now, she reviews nonfiction books and writes short stories.
Ellen Reichman, M.Ed, a native New Yorker, resides with her polar opposite love of her life husband in the Pacific Northwest, where they raised their children. She is a former teacher, counselor, and drug/alcohol supervisor for youth. Her work has been featured in Persimmon Tree, CIRQUE, CURE, Heal, Passager, and Common Ground Review; she has also published columns and articles in local newspapers, and is a children’s book writer.
Nancy Scott's over 975 essays and poems have appeared in, among others, *82 Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Braille Forum, Chrysanthemum, Kaleidoscope, The Mighty, One Sentence Poems, Pulse Voices, Shark Reef, Wordgathering, and Yahoo News.
Priscilla Tilley, a longtime Persimmon Tree subscriber, loves to read about other women’s experiences in the world we live in. She is a mother and grandmother, still amazed by the differences in each offspring in the family. “I maintain a stubborn hope that kindness and encouragement will make our world a better place.”
Susan Young says, “I love to travel and am honored to have met many wonderful people who have enriched my life. I enjoy reading, photography, and people-watching. I can always be found with pen and paper in hand so I don’t miss the Muse when she comes to call.”
J.I. Kleinberg lives in Bellingham, WA, and on Instagram