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An Interview with Zurina

Brigitte Whiting


I’m Zurina and currently live in Casablanca, Morocco. I've also lived in other countries— Egypt, South Africa, Turkey, USA. This nomadic existence drew me to writing. I wanted to anchor my kids to South Africa, my home country, and help them understand our history, culture, and language. I initially wrote stories for them, with local South African names, some local words and local faces.

I work full time, which does not leave a lot of space for writing, but I think about words all the time. I have no formal education in writing. My mother never went to high school but she perfected her language through practice. There was always a book by her bed. Nothing fancy— lots of Catherine Cookson and Koontz. Why the latter? I don’t know. She was a widow and lived with two young children. She later confessed that she stopped reading Koontz because he scared the bejeez out of her. She clearly gave value to books. Perhaps that is why I love books so much. We never read together.


Tell us something about yourself. What do you bring from your background into your writing?

To me, writing was initially about telling stories to my children. I was keen to use some local slang in these stories. I wanted them to connect with their heritage. Also, we used to visit our family once a year and the local words helped orientate my kids. My stories for children are often about mothers and kids engaged in a bonding activity like drawing or singing or reading. After writing several stories I realized that I was trying to paint the connection between mothers and children – which is a strong part of my upbringing – and the concept that not all stories about Africans need to depict some form of struggle. Even in the struggle and poverty, there are familial connections that are just about being and loving and caring. In fact, the touchpoints between family members anchor your sense of being and who you are. The images on the television showing struggle and engorged bellies and flies sitting on snot-nosed kids are part of Africa, but only part. There are so many other parts that depict community, survival, love, caring, grit, and the concept that we are all part of each other. I wanted to write those stories.

As my kids grew older, I realized that they live in a bubble far from my home and history. I then thought about writing short stories about the first place I called home – an area always abuzz with people. The language – a blend of other languages – has a musicality. We laugh, even when we are in pain, even when the army is camped outside our homes, even when we cannot see a bright future. I thought I would compile these stories into a collection for my children. I then I realized that I don’t actually know how to write a story. This pained me. It fed into my feeling that I was always trying to overcome some educational deficiency from the past. South Africa and its legacy of segregation always seemed to be lurking, waiting to show me how little was actually spent in developing me as a human with voice.

Determined to learn, I did a search on the internet and found WVU. This has been my main learning platform.


What do you write? Specific genres?

Over time, I discovered that I like literary fiction. I’d like to say that I write literary fiction, but that seems too bold. I try to write literary fiction. I also like to write flash. I enjoy writing about the essence of one moment. It’s not always a story, but it’s something that moves me and the only way I can process the feeling is through words (or at least trying to find the words). More recently, I also started writing essays – thoughts and observations that strike me as I travel to different places. I constantly try to make sense of the world by referring to my reference—my original home. I’m comparing, contrasting, analyzing human behavior. I am drawn to understanding why we do what we do. My essays could be called creative nonfiction. As my writing skills improve, I cannot help but describe what I see around me, what I’m feeling, how it impacts. I’ve also written “poetry.” I put that in quotation marks because I know little about the craft of writing poetry, though I do enjoy poetry (so very, very much). There is a poetry book on my desk—at home and at work—in my bedroom and our living room. I know I can find a description for any emotion and thought in the words of Langston Hughes, Lucille Clifton, Maya Angelou, Joy Harjo, Pablo Neruda, Rumi. I do wish I knew how to write poetry so that I can finish the many “poems” saved on my computer.

As I learn more about writing craft, one of my goals is to edit/revise/rewrite my old stories and get them ready for publication into that compilation of stories/essays for my children.


What classes are you taking at WVU, and how have they helped your writing?

I’ve been a member of WVU for about a decade, but I was not active all those years. Life interrupts—work, moving from country to country, raising children, divorce, losing my mother. Large parts of those years are drowned under the depths of work and raising my kids without a support network because we are far from family. Even in the lean periods I am constantly thinking about writing or reading. When we move, I ship hundreds of books to our new location. After I joined WVU, I tentatively signed up for classes, but often did not have the time or confidence to finish them. More recently, especially, the past 5 years, I spent more time trying to learn.

I am a member of the 29 Rue de Fleurus group. This is my anchor. This is where I experiment. This is where I share all the ups and downs, successes and failures. I do not doubt that I would have given up on writing if I was not part of this group. They help me through everything, including building my writing confidence. I am a lifetime member of WVU because of this group.


Have you published anything?

I tend to write for myself. Perhaps to prove that I can write. But I have had some small success publishing short pieces: a couple of pieces included in Write Yourself out of a Corner by Alice LaPlante; “Promises” in 50-Word Stories; “The Hunt” in Bunbury Issue 18; and “Kirstenbosch” in Akashic Books.


What would you tell anyone who has aspirations to publish something?

Writing is about doing it. I’ve spent so much time thinking about it, beating myself up about it, giving up on it, being annoyed with myself about it. However, in the end, just like anything we do, it only gets done when we actually do it. In terms of process, I think it’s true that the first hurdle is to get the words on the paper. More recently I tell myself, get any words on the paper – write a bad first draft of something. The real writing takes place after the first draft is on the paper. Thinking about writing in this way frees me to jot down anything. It doesn’t really matter if it’s good or bad or if there’s a story or not. Getting the initial words on the page creates space in my mind for other things. It’s like letting the air out of a pressure cooker.

The other thing I’ve learned is that I have to do me. There are so many talented writers in the world and I used to lament the fact that their writing highlights how much I do not know. I used to think that I had to write like them. I’ve tried. It does not work. My stories flow when I write like me, in my voice and my word order. When I stay true to me and my voice, I feel my writing and that is enough—in fact, that is more than enough. Surprisingly, when I do that, I tend to get positive feedback on my writing.

I’ve learned a lot of craft at WVU. A LOT. I arrived without the tools for analyzing writing (I read, but was not a good reader) or the ability to harness key craft concepts into my own writing. WVU has everything we need to succeed. The key ingredient to that success is ME or YOU. We have to show up and try and keep trying.


Is there something you'd like to see offered at WVU?

I sometimes wish there was a place where we could submit finished work for in-line edits.


What is the biggest surprise you've experienced at WVU?

I thought I would learn about craft. The most surprising part is that WVU helped build my writing confidence. Even more surprising, I’ve made friends. Really! I could not have imagined this. It’s a gift and I am really very grateful.


A writer's tip or two you'd like to share.

Writing is not easy. Showing up is the key. That is the hardest part. Sometimes we shy away from a topic because we do not want to excavate parts of our lives or the human condition that pain us. I think that is where the gold lies and we are doing ourselves a disservice when we do not put in the work to get that onto the paper. Of course, I write this so easily, but am guilty of avoidance on a daily basis.

It is natural to be demoralized about writing from time to time (or most of the time). During those periods, I encourage myself to take classes. I try to keep some connection to writing.

Mostly, I tell myself to get something on the page. Anything. One word. When I manage to do this, I always feel like I succeeded, even if no real product results from what I’ve written. It helps to declutter my mind, making space for other ideas and thoughts.

Also, we tend to get different types of feedback from our classmates. Some can be very generous, which is amazing. I learn a lot from those classmates and am grateful for their generosity of time, spirit and care. I feel they’re invested in my learning and think they are modelling a core concept of WVU—we learn from each other.


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Miriam Manglani

Jack pulled the comforter over his head and clamped his hands over his ears, but it did
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To the Moon

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Brigitte Whiting

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Paul K. McWilliams

“We love those who know the worst of us and don’t turn their faces away.”
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Mike Hanlon, an old childhood friend of mine, had cultivated the pot, not for kicks or profit, but expressly for relief.  He was a poor and suffering soul growing...

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A Day to Remember

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Brigitte Whiting

Annie had dreamed of her wedding day since she was six years old and received a bride doll. She'd even planned and revised how the day would unfold a hundred times. Her mother had read the notes and lamented how she didn't remember her own wedding. Annie vowed...

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Thanksgiving Thought

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Dub Wright

Oily rags covered her toes and loose leather straps ran around her heels. A hint of blood seemed to darken each step she took through the falling Thanksgiving snow.

“Hav ye ah pence, kind sir?”

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Dashing Past

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Paul K. McWilliams

He recalls an old mill pond. He sees with ease the boy he was, a child smoking while watching the small red and white bobber he has cast out to the edge of the lily pads, hoping mostly for a bass or a pickerel while expecting a perch, ...

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Coulda

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Paul K. McWilliams

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SkippyGraycoat

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Peter Mancusi

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A Pot Full of Beans

by

Brigitte Whiting

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Lisa Benwitz

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Emerson

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Paul K. McWilliams

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Paul K. McWilliams

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What We Long For

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Cyril Dabydeen

Creating an imaginary garden
                            with real toads in it.
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Nitin Mishra

The old grand piano sat in lonely corner of the room. Dust covered the piano body, and insects crept in through the keys. For the house’s inhabitants, the grand piano was merely a dead wooden sound-making device mechanically operated. No one ever tried to infuse life into the...

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Kim Bundy

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Paper Wasps

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Brigitte Whiting

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Leaving You

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Miriam Manglani

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RICK'S CAFÉ

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Cynthia Reed

We’re in Casablanca. I’ve been here before but Derek has not. “It would be beyond belief to go to Casablanca and not go to Ricks Café,” he famously said when we planned this trip – and here we are. ‘Casablanca’ is his favourite film of all time, no...

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On HelenR and Writers’ Village University

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Zurina Saban

I cannot tell you why I decided to write. Perhaps circumstance nudged me or perhaps curiosity or perhaps a desire to find the words to process the world, the human condition. Perhaps I wanted to find out how I feel or how my eyes see the world. Perhaps...

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Milkweed and Monarchs

by

Brigitte Whiting

Each fall, Maine’s monarch butterflies migrate two thousand miles to spend the winter in Mexico. Then the following February, the butterflies begin their trek north. It will take three to five generations—the adult monarchs laying eggs, the caterpillars growing, forming themselves into chrysalises and metamorphizing, and new butterflies...

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Bibliosmia

by

Penny Camp

My love for reading started early. I traveled the world and rode dragons, fought knights, stormed castles, stole treasure with pirates and rescued kidnapped princesses. I floated down rivers in the deepest regions of unexplored lands. I climbed trees and mountains and flew on clouds.

Mom read to...

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To Thwart a Wild Turkey Hen

by

Brigitte Whiting

A flock of wild turkeys has wandered in and out of my yard for years. I have a raised deck so my birdfeeders stand ten feet off the ground and the turkeys graze under them. They are timid birds, and typically when I step out onto the deck, ...

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Lessons Learned

by

Sandra Niedzialek

I joined a writing critique group in the spring of 2019. I wanted to learn how to write both fiction and nonfiction. I was rather confident that I wouldn’t have any problems. How hard could it be after writing business letters and lesson plans for thirty years? Plus, ...

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Home

by

Penny Camp

What makes a place a home? I grew up on a small farm in Sunnyside, Washington, where my dad raised sheep and my mom took care of the house and yard. For almost twenty-two years I called this place home. But home wasn’t the location, Sunnyside. It was...

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The Style of No Style

by

Frank Richards

I must be the Charlie Brown of writers because I’ve never been able to figure out what “style” is all about. What does that word, ‘style,’ mean? I’ve always had a problem with it. If there were such a thing as “styleblindness,” a disease like colorblindness, I’d be...

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To All Recovering Wrecks

by

Paul McWilliams

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Corona Clean

by

Fran Schumer

The Corona virus presents new challenges. Stuck at home, and with more of us sleeping, eating and working here, and a dirtier house, I was finally going to have to figure out how to use my new vacuum cleaner. Ordered a year ago, it mostly sat in its...

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Enjoy the Ride

by

Penny Camp

Get up early. You can’t ride all day if you sleep in. Braid your hair tight — you don’t want it flapping in the wind. Make sure you don’t wear the undies with the seams down the back because after a long day of riding they will make...

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Occasional Neighbors

by

Brigitte Whiting

I understand a little bit about wild turkeys. They're on a constant hunt for food, drifting through the neighborhood scrounging what they can. But I don't know how it happens that a few will either be left behind by the flock or leave it. This past fall, I'd...

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Cocoa and Biscuits

by

Penny Camp

Saturday mornings were special occasions at our house when we were growing up. My friends begged to spend the night so they could be part of the Saturday morning ritual.

Mom would take out her green plastic bowl and splash in a little water, a little cocoa powder, ...

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Livin’ the Dream

by

Holly Miller

When I was a child, my mom and Aunt Leona would pack us six kids into our blue Chevy Belair and drive to a local mobile home dealer (they were known as trailers back then). We would walk through the new homes, just for something to do. How...

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Fall in Maine

by

Brigitte Whiting

Autumn is falling in Maine, harder this year than I remember over the last few falls. We've had two nights of close to freezing temperatures, not enough to ice over the birdfeeders or kill any of my plants yet, but cold enough to turn the furnace on. My...

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Best Laid Plans

by

Penny Devlin

Every year shortly before spring, the Gurney’s Seed & Nursery Co. catalog shows up on my doorstep. The cover is plastered with a WARNING label in big black letters informing me that if I don’t order now, this will be my last catalog. It also has coupons: $100...

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One January Morning

by

Brigitte Whiting

Mornings, I like to have a Kindle eBook open on the dining room table so I can read and look out into the backyard to see what might be happening. 

I live in a raised ranch with an attached two-car garage. My deck, which is off the kitchen...

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The Ruins and the Writing Technique of Negative Space

by

Sarah Yasin

A book club I’m part of recently discussed The Ruinsby Scott Smith. It’s not a book I would have finished reading based on the first 50 pages, but sticking with it afforded me insight into what a narrative voice can do. The story is about a group...

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A River of Words

by

Penny Devlin

Go to work every day. Do your job. Do it well. Always learning, getting better every day. Soaking in the letters that become words, that lead to success.

Meetings, instructions, to-do lists, directions — the words start to drown like a river of brown muddy water rushing through...

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Canada, Marty, and The Exorcist

by

Jen Lowry

On our homeschool adventure today, we dreamed aloud of the places we would travel to if we could. My kids and I agree: Ireland and Scotland are our top two places to visit. We played music from Spotify and sang aloud to the merry tunes of the Irish.

...

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Truth

by

Angela Hess

I am twisted, bent, and deformed on every side. Everyone trying to use me to serve their own purposes, to justify their own beliefs and actions. Their eyes constantly sliding away from my pure, unaltered form, too brilliant and painful to behold without their chosen filters to dim...

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A Monarch Chrysalis

by

Brigitte Whiting

The monarch caterpillar couldn't decide where to turn itself into a chrysalis. He wandered across my front stoop so many times I was afraid I'd step on it so I stopped using the front door. One time, he'd be crawling up a post of the front railing. Another...

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Monarch Butterflies

by

Brigitte Whiting

I had no idea what milkweed looked like because I'd never seen it, but I'd always wanted it to grow in my yard so I could see the monarch butterflies.


For the longest time, I've hoped the patch of wonderfully fragrant plants with pale purple flowers growing...

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For Meno

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

Dedicated to my sister Marilyn Anne Walker Potoski

When I was little,
You were my protector.
I called...

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Overheard

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

as I ride the elevator, the door opens,
two men, one grey-haired, the other red-haired,
dressed in immaculate...

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A Haibun

by

Louise E. Sawyer

In our Japanese Poetic Forms class, we studied the haibun form. It is an inspiring event in the...

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The Guardian

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

The lone poplar tree has watched over
the back yard for fifty years.
It has been a haven...

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Stranded

by

David Yerex Williamson

Airport runway lights
smashed again
we wait
for the sun
cold coffee in paper cups
torn night
draped...

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Kisikisotowaw Awasisak

by

David Yerex Williamson

breeze over empty shoes
whispers stories from those
who the land gave
lowered flags on stone buildings
hush
...

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Septembering

by

David Yerex Williamson

Half-way through
the old argument I study the recipe
on the Pacific Evaporated Milk can
harvest milk and...

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The Living

by

David Yerex Williamson

If you want to learn to live
     truly  
fall in love
with one who is dying.
...

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March 1st at Lochside Drive

by

Louise E. Sawyer

I crunch my boots into the snow,
stare at the daffodil shoots,
which struggle to bloom soon,
attempt...

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Sonnet for Yanni

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

Yanni’s my black and white tuxedo cat.
He’s christened after Uncle John, our friend.
He supervises birds from...

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Springtime in the Valley

by

Frankie Colton

When it’s springtime in the Valley
Here is my advice to you
Stay inside, the wind is blowing
...

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The Hundred Stairs

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

The practical reason for building
the Hundred Stairs
was to create a shortcut
between Third Avenue and uptown...

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Why Can’t I Be Happy With How I Look?

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

Why can’t I be happy with how I look?  
    
Why do I wish for her...

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The Cat Days of Summer

by

Daniel Novak and Gerardine Gail Esterday

The long, slow climb to the highest branches stretching into an open sky.
Focusing on the ground, a...

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Lynn’s Tree

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

Lynn’s maple tree
was always the last to emerge
from winter’s sleep,
when it burst into leaf,
the...

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The Scream That Is Also a Song

by

Enza Vynn-Cara

Free verse on the page that
is my tongue; raw flesh,
smooth and thin, dipped
in blood-tinted ink—

...

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The Moods of McCorquodale

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

Our very first visitor was a cat.
Corkie came for a day, adopted us.
He soon had his...

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Haunted House

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

a grey woodsy coloured house
stands abandoned
in the midst of a haunted wood,
its windows are broken,
...

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Déjà Vu

by

Enza Vynn-Cara

She went into the woods to find
the wolf that haunted her

She went to the brook to...

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Be Leery Of What Falls From Above

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

My forest dances on the wind, swirling above the green and brown copsewood. Above, branches split, held up...

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ARS Poetica

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I paint with words

I see
the pink tinge of fluffy white clouds
at sunset

I see
my...

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Lake Katherine

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

turquoise water of the lake
stretches for miles,
as far as the eye can see

two spruces wave
...

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Neighborhood Walk Meditation

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

Vultures gather on the old man’s neighbor’s barn,
‘decorated with ravens and barren trees.
A small cottontail stirs...

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Dream Metaphor

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I shiver in the darkened room,
stretch, try to pull the covers higher,
suddenly I am floating near...

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A Whitmanesque Inventory: Spring

by

Phebe Beiser

So glad it rained last night. Now, late morning, sun shines,
an unexpectedly warm early March. What a...

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Solitary

by

Malkeet Kaur

For eons now, the very core of my being
has become inaccessible.

Solitary.

Once it used to be...

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The Blanket Hugs Me

by

Louise E. Sawyer

I’m grateful that I have a daybed
downstairs where I can rest during the day
with my Guinea...

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On Love and Dreams

by

Miriam Manglani

1.
Love is a beast and angel and dream on fire.

2.
Your soul wakes in your dreams.

...

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The Writer’s Breastplate

by

Louise E. Sawyer

…apologies to St. Patrick


Creative Spirit with me,
Creative Spirit before me,
Creative Spirit behind me,
Creative Spirit...

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The Sweater

by

Malkeet Kaur

As I rummage through the clothes,
I spot it, the well-worn white sweater
that now had aging spots...

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The Holly Tree

by

Nolo Segundo

We have a large holly tree
in our backyard—
is it foolish to say
you love a tree?

...

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waiting on an email

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

rain beats against the metal awning.
winds whipped up against two storms
racing each other over the Mississippi
...

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You Talkin' to Me?

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Kitten Wonder Full

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Off the Pier

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Capturing the Balloon Launch

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Cooper in the Sun

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Flores Para Los Muertos

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Post Modern Totem

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Raccoon Delight

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Constructing a Crew

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Moth in the Mirror

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Cat's in the Cradle

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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A New Day Begins

by

Bob Hembree

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Angst

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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The Fly on the Wall

by

Bob Hembree

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Glancing Vulnerably

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Fowl Squabbling

by

Bob Hembree

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A Mid-Photo's Daydream

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Solar Reflection

by

Bob Hembree

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Being Held Up

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Reflections

by

Paula Parker

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Jack

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

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Hollister

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Evelyn

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

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Curiosity

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Rebecca

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

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