The Largesse of the Maidenhair Fern

poems by

Gary V. Powell

ISBN:  978-1-964277-69-1, 52 pages, $14 (+ shipping)

Release Date: March 3, 2026

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Gary V. Powell lives with his beautiful wife near the shores of lovely Lake Norman, North Carolina. A 2022 deGroot Foundation Writer of Note and a Pushcart Prize nominee for both his poetry and short fiction, his first poetry chapbook, Super Blood Wolf Moon, won Kallisto Gaia Press’s 2020 Contemporary Poetry Prize. His second poetry chapbook, Permafrost, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2023. Recent poetry appears in or at the Telluride Institute, Southword 44, and Kakalak. His prize-winning poems, “The Largesse of the Maidenhair Fern,” and “Wiffle Ball,” appear in Passager Journal and Writer’s Digest, respectively. Recent fiction appears in the North Carolina Literary Review, Bull Men’s Fiction, moonShine Review, and Prime Number Magazine.

In his opening poem, “5AM,” Gary V. Powell immediately grounds us in the senses with images ‘… sharp as knives.’ The poems in The Largesse of the Maidenhair Fern “…[hold] the blood and skin/gristle and bone/where sunlight cannot reach.” Yet Powell reaches and exposes them in factories and Corvettes, in love and in letting go. And “… by these acts [by these very poems, he] … honored the value/of that which could not be replaced.” ~Kim Blum-Hyclak

A deep and gritty reverence pervades this collection—for sweat and labor, for family, for the beauty of this dangerous world. It plunges us into vividly rendered sensory experiences, from seeing a child cartwheel through castle ruins to the sexual encounter in the title poem. Powell is a born raconteur, “a brand unto himself.” Through these poems, readers will find themselves “reclaiming for a little while / the weightless days of their youth.” ~David E. Poston, author of Letting Go.

5 AM

was the scent of coffee and Aqua Velva
as advertised on TV sporting events

watched by men with whiskers
strong as the steel beams

that stood the six-span bridge
between our house and my dad’s grocery

men with whiskers sharp as the knives
used to carve whole beef quarters

shouldered off the 6 AM delivery
into ribs and steaks and chops

bought by housewives who lined
three deep at his meat counter

or the scent of English Leather slapped
like a razor against a strop

onto men’s faces burdened by butchery
before dawn softened their skin

brightened their eyes and ground tongue
cheek and offal into hamburger

sold ten cents a pound cheaper
than the cross-town competition

or the scent of Brut and cow’s blood
soaking sawdust on a cement floor

and the starched white aprons worn
vainly as a priest’s vestments

by George and Johnny and Jimmy
journeymen on his crew

whose blades raged quick as flame
while they joked and smoked

down to ash the Kent Camel and Winston
cigarettes that never left their lips

and 5 AM was the scent of bacon
and eggs sizzling in a skillet

like mosquitoes fried by charcoal
grill fire the night before

or the scent of Old Spice stinging
like the cold of a meat cooler

that’s locked a working man inside
and kept the key for yet another day

Schwinn

I remember waking early
in our rented shingle house
on a cold Christmas morning
and tiptoeing down the hall
to where Santa had somehow
made good on our wish—
a blue bike for my sister
and a black one for me.

Our father worked two jobs that year—
cutting meat for a local grocer
and earning a journeyman’s wage
while raising turkeys and hens
by the tens of thousands
on another man’s farm
for a share of the profit
should a profit be turned.

Our mother also worked
outside the home—a relative rarity
for women those days—
exchanging lamps and clocks
for precious yellow stamps
acquired by thrifty housewives
and sealed by their saliva
into tidy little books.

He departed before first light
and didn’t return until after dark.

She saw us off to school
but a latchkey welcomed us home.

Snow had fallen overnight
covering roads and fields
beneath a half-moon’s grin
so it would be spring
before we’d ride those bikes
up and down and around town
crashing bones and scraping knees
on creosote and gravel.

For years we washed fenders
scrubbed mud off tires and white walls
cleaned spokes and in between
oiled chains and gears and brakes
applied Turtle Wax to where a shine
might rise on chrome and steel
and by these acts we honored the value
of that which could not be replaced.

Dads of the Winter Solstice

deep down in December
the 5 AM dads blow
an avalanche of snow
from sidewalks and drives
with ornery Toros and Hondas
before slamming a cup
of diesel and mortgage debt
kissing their suburban wives
and Disney kids goodbye
and joining the pack
wolfing its way to work
in offices and factories
constructed of chaos and steel
only to rejoin the herd
twelve hours hence
for the cowboy-commute
home through a tunnel
of darkness and doubt
where they’ll shovel out
the daylight’s divulgence
before falling asleep
in their uneasy chairs
in front of the TV trap
only to rise again and again
all the snowy mornings
of their wild and imperfect lives