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Poetry is the expression of the human experience. Wordsworth defined poetry as "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings;" Emily Dickinson said, "If I read a book and it makes my body so cold no fire ever can warm me, I know that is poetry;" and Dylan Thomas defined poetry this way: "Poetry is what makes me laugh or cry or yawn, what makes my toenails twinkle, what makes me want to do this or that or nothing."

Poetry is many things to many people. If we narrow it down to its most central characteristics, it is economy of language. It is clean, clear and concise. It's musical and emotive, evocative and surprising, logical and mystical. It is complexity and sophistication. In other words, it is something that is unwilling to be defined.  In the end, whether through sound, form, or rhetoric, pattern, beat or rhythm, it is the sharing of what it is to be human. 

We are excited to share the Poetry of these talented authors. We applaud all of our contributors and encourage everyone to continue to follow their artistic and literary dreams. For those whose works we’ve selected, we hope this is just the beginning of an illustrious career in the arts.


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 cat, gray and white tiger-striped
Languid and lazy, sprawled across the golden rays
Slinking along the forest’s edge of gravel green
Alongside a gray and black, orange and white tiptoeing Tortie
Sun King, a golden avatar gracing the heavens
High above the humming metal boxes that lay scattered about the landscape.
Stopping, staring, a snake and bug wrestle just off the road
Bestowing red, orange, and golden yellow warmth gently down the patchwork of branches, Tiger tripping past, pouncing, and missing a mole
Flowing heat, flowing passion that melts as it touches the cold ground
Intent on the snake, intent on the wasp;
Intent on dinner, All separate. No one eats.
Swirling among the bursting flowers frozen in worship
Seeing a mask under the leaves. I hold back food,
Green, blue, and purple fields of vibrant lucidity stretching into the distance
Melting dreams, melting time, the cat wakes
Setting out a spoonful of potato salad ~


BIOs: Daniel George Novak (Dan Novak) is an American vrăjitor. Dan was born and raised in Chicagoland and now lives with his wife and children in Boulder County Colorado. His arguably relevant inquiries enable lucidity. However, Dan has no other currently published works. He spends most of his free time pulling on loose threads in the thin air. You can find Dan at craftersgate.com

Gerardine Gail (Baugh) Esterday is a nomad living for...

Read more: The Cat Days of Summer


For Meno

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

Dedicated to my sister Marilyn Anne Walker Potoski

When I was little,
You were my protector.
I called you Meno
because I could not
pronounce your name.

You took me
to Sunday school
and birthday parties.
We played on the swing
and the teeter totter,
made mud pies.

We helped Mom
with household chores,
cut out cookies,
decorated them with raisins.
We tied rags on our feet
to polish the floors.

You took me to school
on the last Friday of the month.
We pretended to be teachers
and instructed our dolls.

You were always
my big sister.


*Photo is of the author, her sister and parents. 


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A long-time member of WVU, Word Weavers and Julia Cameron study groups, she has a Certificate of Creative Writing and is working on her MFA Certificate in Poetry. Glennis published in various anthologies, e-zines, and Village Square. She published fourteen books of poetry and seven chapbooks. You can find her at gwalkerhobbs.angelfire.com and on Amazon.

Read more: For Meno

 


 

The Living

by David Yerex Williamson

If you want to learn to live
     truly  
fall in love
with one who is dying.
Make space for ghosts
who visit, leave but remain.
Learn the full depths
the long seconds
of one today.
Dust off the nows
and the thens
but mostly the nows.
Learn the forgetfulness
of faith, flesh
but never of memory
the shape of a voice
    small but whole.


Bio: David Yerex Williamson is an instructor and poet living in Treaty V territory in northern Manitoba, Canada. His recent works have appeared in The Dalhousie Review, Aesthetica, Prairie Fire, The New Quarterly and Prairie Journal of Literature. David is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Through Disassembled Houses of Perfect Stones is his first full length poetry collection, released by At Bay Press in April, 2022. When not teaching, writing or drawing, David chases his dogs along the Nelson River.

Read more: The Living

 


 

Stranded

by David Yerex Williamson

Airport runway lights
smashed again
we wait
for the sun
cold coffee in paper cups
torn night
draped in two windows
a layer of moon
on the lake


Bio: David Yerex Williamson is an instructor and poet living in Treaty V territory in northern Manitoba, Canada. His recent works have appeared in The Dalhousie Review, Aesthetica, Prairie Fire, The New Quarterly and Prairie Journal of Literature. David is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Through Disassembled Houses of Perfect Stones is his first full length poetry collection, released by At Bay Press in April, 2022. When not teaching, writing or drawing, David chases his dogs along the Nelson River.

Read more: Stranded

 


 

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 business suits,
quickly rush into the car, look at their watches,
I mentally christen one Grandpa, the other Red,
I cannot help but overhear their conversation

Red claims that cyanide is quicker,
can kill a person within ten minutes,
Grandpa argues it turns nails blue,
adds “arsenic is better,
you can put it in a drink and
it’s not detectable by the victim,
antifreeze in booze is also good,
sends a person into a fatal sleep”

“on the other hand,” Grandpa continues,
“a sharp icicle could be ‘picked’
in the winter, frozen and in July
driven into a jugular vein,
the ice will melt, dry up;
it’s the perfect murder weapon,
won’t be found on the body”

my heart drums in my ears,
my teeth chatter, I shiver,
Red changes his mind:
“no, if you inject potassium chloride
under the victim’s tongue,
it will show up as a heart attack”

as I scurry off the elevator,
the two men follow me,
am I their intended target?
I reach the door of the conference room
with the two men still behind me

I dive into the ladies’ washroom,
splash cold water on my face,
inhale, exhale very deeply,
manage to calm myself

I return to the meeting room,
I hear thunderous applause,
on no! the two men sit at a table

the MC greets the audience, announces
“please welcome our two...

Read more: Overheard

 


 

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
It will ruin your hairdo.

To the west the sky is dusty
Tie the trash can to the post
If you venture to the mailbox
Grab your hat before it’s lost.

Wind is howling, windows rattle
Twigs are blowing off the trees
When it’s springtime in the Valley
Let me stay inside, oh please.


Bio: Frankie Colton is a storyteller who loves to write. After retirement as a library teacher, she returned to live in the San Luis Valley in Colorado near Mt. Blanca and the Great Sand Dunes. She loves her family, her pets, and nature. Her writing has been featured in the Willow Creek Journal, Messages from the Hidden Lake, SLV Trout Unlimited newsletter, and The Circle Book: A Conejos County Anthology.

*This photo was taken by Frankie Colton. In the photo, you can see Mount Blanc and the Great Sand Dunes, which were formed by blowing winds.

Read more: Springtime in the Valley

 


 

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 Flin Flon.

The big rock beneath it
was too big to blast away
without damaging
buildings uptown,
but other plans were made.

In the meantime,
the favourite game in town
becomes guessing how many
steps there really are:
101, 100, 99, 97?
It becomes an eternal dilemma.

Other plans are made for the rock.
A tunnel is built through it.
It can’t be a shortcut to uptown.
It may be a secret tunnel to a gold mine.

It may be a bomb shelter for protection
in case of a nuclear attack.
Perhaps it leads
to a gangster’s hideaway.

After years of speculation,
the truth comes out:
it’s really a passageway
for sewer pipes.


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A long-time member of WVU, Word Weavers and Julia Cameron study groups, she has a Certificate of Creative Writing and is working on her MFA Certificate in Poetry. Glennis has published in anthologies, e-zines, and Village Square. She has published fourteen books of poetry and seven chapbooks. You can find her at Angelfire and Amazon.

Read more: The Hundred Stairs

 


 

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 to push my walker
this afternoon through the slush
down the driveway to the world.

Midnight, my Guinea pig companion,
chews hay and vitamin C tablet,
snuggles in his purple carrier
on my walker. We wake up
from a type of hibernation,
exhilarated to be outside.

The cars speed by on the highway,
Lochside Drive, as they journey
from Victoria to Sidney.
Reaching the bottom of the driveway,
I look both ways, wondering whether
to risk the hazards of jaywalking.

A man walking on the other side
of the highway becomes a crossing
guard on my behalf. He steps out into
the street, puts his hands in the air
blocks the traffic, as if he is a pro,
even though he has no yellow vest.

Midnight and I cross to the other side,
with a close-up view of beach,
logs, stones, shells, and a distant
scene of offshore islands, topped by
a sky painting of shades of grey,
blue openings, white clouds.

The waves gently caress the beach
at Bazan Bay near the Lochside Trail.
They invite me to dream of Spring
poems, stories, as the water expands
unto the hills of our neighbour,
the United States of America.


BIO: Louise E. Sawyer lives with her Guinea pig Midnight on Vancouver Island. She is working on the Nonfiction MFA certificate and the Poetry MFA certificate. Her poetry chapbooks are ...

Read more: March 1st at Lochside Drive

 


 

Septembering

by David Yerex Williamson

Half-way through
the old argument I study the recipe
on the Pacific Evaporated Milk can
harvest milk and honey chicken
the moon tires, we tire
radio plays, a drop
of blue sky in a bowl
the window tires
ten people we never met are dead
a famous woman we never met is dead
the argument tires
there is honey in the pantry
ingredients
what a day might bring
poetry a diary
of what we wish for
and what we get

Bio: David Yerex Williamson is an instructor and poet living in Treaty V territory in northern Manitoba, Canada. His recent works have appeared in The Dalhousie Review, Aesthetica, Prairie Fire, The New Quarterly and Prairie Journal of Literature. David is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Through Disassembled Houses of Perfect Stones is his first full length poetry collection, released by At Bay Press in April, 2022. When not teaching, writing or drawing, David chases his dogs along the Nelson River.

Read more: Septembering

 


 

Kisikisotowaw Awasisak

by David Yerex Williamson

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


no ancestor’s language
supports narrow shoulders
little bones do not sleep
under stones
articles stained, collect
on shelves addressed by Others
silence those who were then
whisper stories
of those who are now


near the fence
even the birches wear orange


you cannot walk your path
we cannot walk your path
so we will carry your song
a little longer down the road


breeze over empty shoes
carries whispers deep from the land
lowered flags on stone buildings
hush
who buried you


Bio: David Yerex Williamson is an instructor and poet living in Treaty V territory in northern Manitoba, Canada. His recent works have appeared in The Dalhousie Review, Aesthetica, Prairie Fire, The New Quarterly and Prairie Journal of Literature. David is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. Through Disassembled Houses of Perfect Stones is his first full length poetry collection, released by At Bay Press in April, 2022. When not teaching, writing or drawing, David chases his dogs along the Nelson River.

 *  Kisikisotowaw awasisak is the Ininimowin (Swampy Cree) phrase for “remember the children.”

Read more: Kisikisotowaw Awasisak

 


 

A Haibun

by Louise E. Sawyer

In our Japanese Poetic Forms class, we studied the haibun form. It is an inspiring event in the poet’s life and it is followed by a haiku. The haibun tells a story, including a person or pet or maybe a flower in shortened, clipped sentences. There are different kinds, such as nature haibun, travel haibun, and fiction haibun. But always there is a personal connection for the poet, whether with nature, a pet, experiences, or imagination. Although the words are minimal, often the haibun includes figurative language. It exhibits emotion.

The haiku at the end provides insight about the haibun or it may extend the story. The haiku picks up on the emotion in the haibun and focuses on one specific feeling, such as moodiness, desolation, joy, presence, appreciation, or comfort.

 Here is a haibun and haiku sequence of my own:

 Guinea Pigs are Not Allowed Chocolate

 Midnight, Guinea pig companion, turned five two weeks ago. He lost weight, visited his vet doctor. Soon he was gobbling food, piling on grams, teasing me, running through a tunnel. He prefers human food—“rabbit food”—cucumber, zucchini, carrot, lettuce. a grape, a piece of papaya. Oats in moderation. He’s not so keen about hay or pellets. He likes garden parsley, grass, and dandelion leaves.

 I pick up crumbs of chocolate off my bed before he can snatch them. I don’t want a sick or dying Guinea pig. I’m grateful for his new lease on life, stroke his head, and listen to him...

Read more: A Haibun

 


 

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 windows that
have perches for his naps and time to spend.

He likes to greet our guests at the front door.
He rubs against their legs, meows, and purrs.
He stretches his fur body along the floor,
then swiftly thumps his tail so fast it blurs.

He likes to play with his young brother Blake.
They fight over the scratcher and the chair.
When feeding time comes, Blake’s the first awake,
But the tuxedo cat’s the first for food there.

At the day’s end, when all is said and done,
I can’t commence to count the hearts he’s won.


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A long-time member of WVU, Word Weavers and Julia Cameron study groups, she has a Certificate of Creative Writing and is working on her MFA Certificate in Poetry. Glennis has published in various anthologies, e-zines, and Village Square. She published fourteen books of poetry and seven chapbooks. You can find her at Angelfire and on Amazon.

*The photo was taken by Harry C. Hobbs All rights belong to the photographer.

Read more: Sonnet for Yanni

 


 

The Guardian

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

The lone poplar tree has watched over
the back yard for fifty years.
It has been a haven for cats
chased by neighbourhood dogs.

Toby, the grey and white, pink-nosed cat,
climbed the poplar, jumped up to the shed roof
to survey his neighbourhood kingdom.    

Jonine, the silver-grey kitten,
and Nicolas, the black kitten,
chased each other around the base.

A few years later, Nicolas, now senior cat,
supervised the orange tabby
and black-orange-brown tortie kittens
from his place on the deck,
inspected the yard, meowed me a report.

Black ants invaded the base of the tree.
Black and white Downy woodpeckers
hammered at the bark in search of food.

Torrential rain from the thunderstorm
ripped branches from the trunk,
caused others to sag
against the neighbour’s roof.

We discovered my tree was decaying,
needed to be cut down,
like the execution of a giant.

The tree surgeon came this morning.
He toiled two long hours
to amputate the trunk and branches.

Now only a stump remains,
like a giant’s crumbled headstone.


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A long-time member of WVU, Word Weavers and Julia Cameron study groups, she has a Certificate of Creative Writing and is working on her MFA Certificate in Poetry. Glennis has published in anthologies, e-zines, and Village Square. She published fourteen books of poetry and seven chapbooks. You can find her at Angelfire and Amazon.

*The photo was taken by Harry C. Hobbs All...

Read more: The Guardian

 


 

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 perky-round breasts or his thick wavy hair?  
Why are my nostrils two different sizes?
Why am I not softer or rounder or heavier or thinner?
Why aren’t my eyes perfect?

I want to have a style without looking like I care to have a style.

Why can’t I see I am unique?

I am a snowflake that farts loudly,
I can’t dance with two left feet,
and my voice is painfully off-key,
I am so embarrassed.

I want to be taller to get things from the top-shelf, and shorter when the room demands.

I can’t swim! I can’t fly! — I guess that rules out ever being a bird or a fish.

I am unique under my not-perfect skin, an impressive snowflake.

I know that to be true — really, I do.

Why do I beat myself up for being different?
too sick, — too allergic, — too itchy, — too fat, — too skinny, — too old.

Why can’t I be happy with how I look?
Why do I want something I am not?
Why can’t I be happy with me?

Imperfection here — when I look in a mirror — why can't I see me?


BIO: Gerardine Gail (Baugh) Esterday is a nomad living for the moment in Fairview Heights, Illinois, with her cats. Managing Editor in Poetry for Village Square Literary Journal. ...

Read more: Why Can’t I Be Happy With How I Look?

 


 

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 neighbourhood knew
spring had truly arrived

in September, the maple tree
was the first to change
its leaves to yellow
and fall to the ground

yesterday the tree still had its leaves,
Lynn died this afternoon,
the maple is now turning yellow,
it, too, mourns for her


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian poet and writer. She
graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of Winnipeg, helped
found a local Writers Guild, and currently serves as its secretary. A member of Writers Village University and co-moderator of Word Weavers Poetry Group, she has a Certificate in Creative Writing and is working on her MFA in Poetry. She has published thirteen books of poetry; and has prose and poetry published in various anthologies and e-zines. She currently has two poetry books and two novels in progress

*The photograph is the artistic property of Harry C. Hobbs

Read more: Lynn’s Tree

 


 

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 with humid air, pushed down with drenching rains, bending against gale force winds. Trees dance in lacy green dresses.

They spin; she spins; it …

Often the best moves are pirouetted high in the tree tops, in quiet mornings with nary a breeze on the ground.

Heavy tops crack – snap - swing upside down, held up by needy vines that drained away its life sap; now, greedily grasping at its dried corpse.

Honeysuckle perfumes the heavy morning as the air splits the tree. Poison Oak holds a limb for a second; then it shudders, cracks, and falls so hard that sound reverberates up my legs and sends me to my knees. My heart skips a beat trying to escape from my chest, pounding with a primal fear of that sound, that profound dying weight.

The weight of the branch slides it straight down, gouging, scraping, and breaking branches.
Shaking the tree from its head to its roots. Sliding vertically, upside down. Folding in on itself, touching bark once in its life as a dying missile.

She, he, they, it….

Burns itself into its roots; it hovers for a second.

Then, vines snap.

Sending its limbs plunging sword-like. Slicing humid air with a fearful cracking and a grinding, a deep rumbling nothing can stop.

Like water…

Nothing can move...

Read more: Be Leery Of What Falls From Above

 


 

Lake Katherine

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

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

two spruces wave
at the tiny black trees
on the horizon

fluffy white clouds
sail across the sky
gulls soar across the sky
and fly into infinity


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian poet and writer. She graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of Winnipeg, helped found a local Writers Guild, and currently serves as its secretary. A member of Writers Village University and co-moderator of Word Weavers Poetry Group, she has a Certificate in Creative Writing and is working on her MFA in Poetry. She has published thirteen books of poetry; and has prose and poetry published in various anthologies and e-zines. She currently has two poetry books and two novels in progress.

*Photo was taken by Glenda Walker-Hobbs.

Read more: Lake Katherine

 


 

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 humans’ training down pat.

Sunshine on his fur, pretty to look at,
If we fed him too late, he made a fuss.
Our very first visitor was a cat.

He expected his liver; it had to be stat.
If I delayed turkey, I swore he ‘d cuss.
He soon had his humans’ training down pat.

The rocking chair made him an acrobat,
but never, ever label him a wuss.
Our very first visitor was a cat

Our tabby often argued with back chat.
He never could be called a gloomy Gus.
He soon had his humans’ training down pat

With dogs, Corkie became a real hellcat.
His good nature brought his humans love plus.
Our very first visitor was a cat.
He soon had his humans’ training down pat.


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian poet and writer. She graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of Winnipeg, helped found a local Writers Guild, and currently serves as its secretary. A member of Writers Village University and co-moderator of Word Weavers Poetry Group, she has a Certificate in Creative Writing and is working on her MFA in Poetry. She has published thirteen books of poetry; and has prose and poetry is published in various anthologies and e-zines. She currently has two poetry books and two novels in progress.

*The photo is of Corkie, taken...

Read more: The Moods of McCorquodale

 


 

ARS Poetica

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I paint with words

I see
the pink tinge of fluffy white clouds
at sunset

I see
my neighbour raking her lawn
with her granddaughter’s help

I see
my tuxedo cat curled up on the couch
resting his head on its arm

I see
green maple leaves waving in triumph
after a long, harsh winter

I see
the waters of Ross Lake lapping
against the Boardwalk along the shoreline

everywhere I look
I see images of life

I paint with words


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian poet and writer. She graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of Winnipeg, helped found a local Writers Guild, and currently serves as its secretary. A member of Writers Village University and co-moderator of Word Weavers Poetry Group, she has a Certificate in Creative Writing and is working on her MFA in Poetry. She has published thirteen books of poetry; and has prose and poetry published in various anthologies and e-zines. She currently has two poetry books and two novels in progress.


*The photo was taken by John Weller and we have permission to use it.

Read more: ARS Poetica

 


 

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—

To whom loves me—or maybe no
courting your ego
as if it were a baby, I sing
into your wax-filled ear, the love that chains my heart.


Bio: Enza Vynn-Cara is the pen name of Vincenzina Caratozzolo, who has a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing. Her short stories appear in Second Helpings, an Anthology with Recipes, and in Women Who Write With Elves, an Anthology. She has had poetry and flash fiction published in Blink Ink, Fifty Word Stories, and Village Square.

Read more: The Scream That Is Also a Song

 


 

Déjà Vu

by Enza Vynn-Cara

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

She went to the brook to seek
the doe that was her youth

She went to the mountains to find
the trail not taken

and lost her way once again.


Bio: Enza Vynn-Cara is the pen name of Vincenzina Caratozzolo, who has a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing. Her short stories appear in Second Helpings, an Anthology with Recipes, and in Women Who Write With Elves, an Anthology. She has had poetry and flash fiction published in Blink Ink, Fifty Word Stories, and Village Square.

Read more: Déjà Vu

 


 

Haunted House

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

a grey woodsy coloured house
stands abandoned
in the midst of a haunted wood,
its windows are broken,
the roof sags,
its black shingles curl up,
bats fly around the chimney,
an owl hoots from a tree,
its yellow eyes glow in the dark

inside the house, floors sag,
creak when walked across,
a white-sheeted figure
floats around the room,
skeletons dangle from the ceiling,
grinning in the dark,
a curved staircase
leads to the second floor,
doors squeak, slam shut

wart-nosed witches flying on brooms,
accompanied by their black cats,
arrive for a banquet of eyeballs,
deviled eggs, pumpkin pie
and dead velvet cake,
celebrate Halloween
in the haunted house


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian poet and writer. She graduated with a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of Winnipeg, helped found a local Writers Guild, and currently serves as its secretary. A member of Writers Village University and co-moderator of Word Weavers Poetry Group, she has a Certificate in Creative Writing and is working on her MFA in Poetry. She has published thirteen books of poetry; and has prose and poetry published in various anthologies and e-zines. She currently has two poetry books and two novels in progress.

Read more: Haunted House

 


 

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 under pompous grass,
blackberry branch thorns entangle my knees.
I keep my eyes out for snakes, ticks, and fleas.

As I pass the front door, onto the dog shed,
My cat, Puccini’s paw is on the window,
He waves to me, well-dressed in tuxedo fur.
A deer stares at me from between the trees,
Camouflaged in a scene of brown and white,
head bowing, bouncing her hoof up and down.
My dog, Umberto, is excited to see me,
maybe he wants to run with the deer,
they kind of look like golden retrievers.
A falcon soars between riblets of clouds.
skyward, a flock of geese honks all the way,
flying through calm heavens of white and blue stripes.
I pass the wishing well, now broken down.
Tears fall as I see the pet burial mound.
Buddha and metal grates deter the coyotes.
I hate to pick up pet bony pieces.
The burial mound looks like a Joseon kings.
The owl in the tree keeps repeating, “Who?”

New kitty is named after Joseon King Taejong.

Sad to see the frozen pond of my turtle.
My reptilian twin for fifty-four years.
Angel grave marker of a Siamese kitten,
Memories of my lost pets surround me.
Their souls visit me in the form of butterflies.


BIO: Lina Sophia Rossi is a lifetime member of Writers' Village University and an MFA student. Her...

Read more: Neighborhood Walk Meditation

 


 

Dream Metaphor

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I shiver in the darkened room,
stretch, try to pull the covers higher,
suddenly I am floating near the ceiling
yet my body lies in the bed below

I gaze through the wrong
end of a telescope, ants crawl
over it, swarm on my body,
cover it with angry red bites

I analyze the situation,
deliver a scientific treatise,
arcs of red, blue, yellow flash
like painted sunsets in comics books

green holograph hockey figures
skate around the room,
shoot pucks at the ceiling,
sweat from my scalp trickles down my face

a masked stranger rushes in,
fires a machine gun at the figures,
cuts them down with bursts of bullets
which ricochet off the walls,
rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat,
bodies lie scattered around the room

my body thuds to the floor,
I inch my way under the bed,
curl up in a fetal position,
my heart beats like sticks on a snare drum:
thumpity-thump-thump,
thumpity-thump-thump

my hands are clammy, my throat dry,
my breath chokes me,
loud screams deafen me,
I am the one screaming.
 

BIO: Glennis Hobbs (Glenda Walker-Hobbs) is a Canadian writer and member of Word Weavers and Julia Cameron study groups. She is a long-time member of WVU, and secretary of her local writers’ group. She has published twelve books of poetry including five chapbooks. Glennis has had her poetry and prose published in various anthologies, including Village Square. Her poetry page can be found at https://gwalkerhobbs.angelfire.com/

Read more: Dream Metaphor

 


 

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 blessing
for me and the wildlife! My land technically does not reach beyond
the creek, yet no houses show until the top of a steep incline.
Only tall trees reaching to the southern sky while others lay on the ground,
fallen soldiers unable to stand in dirt so steeply slanting.
A mile gives space to this former urban gal. Retirement grants these gifts.
I allow wildness to do its thing, although I do mow the front

Call and response of songbirds overtake cars on the road
this Sunday morning. My casual bird knowledge recognizes
only the cardinals, blue jays, robins, and occasional red-tailed hawk.
My partner and I get excited when we see a representative of the bluebird family
pausing on the perimeter of the deck. Then there’s the tap-tap-tapping
of a woodpecker tackling a dead tree. First sighting of the green-headed mallard
with his family feeding by floating on the water and tipping forward, butts
in the air, snatching insects or underwater delights.

There’s a spoiled white-tailed deer who stops by the side yard sporadically to check
out any leftovers. Lucky to be offered seeds from Cathy’s Amazon parrot,
who has its own palace in the room formerly called my office.
Office! That damnable term yanks my mind out of a perfect natural morning
returning me to thirty years, prisoner to a manufactured building.
These wild creatures coexist with...

Read more: A Whitmanesque Inventory: Spring

 


 

Solitary

by Malkeet Kaur

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

Solitary.

Once it used to be filled with unrestrained joy,
now it's simply a deep dull hollow.

Empty.


BIO: Malkeet Kaur became a golf writer by chance in 1987, and since then, she has not stopped writing about the Royal and Ancient game. In between writing about golf and running her own publishing business, she dabbles in creative writing, and is now a budding poet. Her golf articles can be viewed at ParGolf and GolfRPM.

Read more: Solitary

 


 

-=> Click Here for More Poetry <=-

To Humor a Lunatic

by

Nitin Mishra

The lunatic was not a lunatic previously in his youthful days. He used to be a young, handsome student with a very genial nature and an ever-charming smile always hung on his oval plump face. His eyebrows were so perfectly aligned over his twin eyes that sometimes his...

Read more: To Humor a Lunatic

 

 

 

Autumn Winds

by

Patrick Curran

My eyes closed, moments from sleep, I hear a voice. I hold my breath for a moment, my heart racing in protest.

“Bill, is that you?”

Other noises follow. I’m as still as the bed beneath me.

At last I realise it’s from the TV downstairs. I feel...

Read more: Autumn Winds

 

 

 

Resolve

by

Brigitte Whiting

One spring afternoon, you watched the neighbor kids playing with a spotted puppy. They had company so maybe it was theirs. If they brought the dog into your yard, you’d shoo them off.

You certainly didn’t want to raise a puppy. Or a dog to run your...

Read more: Resolve

 

 

 

Safe

by

Brian Hunt

Everyone wore a mask now, but why they did was no longer a question. Those who asked either disappeared or, after a suitable period of re-education, joined their faceless colleagues. The masks kept us free not just from airborne threats to health but from the complexities of signalling...

Read more: Safe

 

 

 

Eagles’ Run

by

Sandra Niedzialek

Sarah Jensen works at the county morgue. It’s the only job available, her probation officer tells her. She’s a lousy thief, it seems. Gah, she hates scrubbing stainless steel. She’s the only one in the morgue because her shift is from 4 p.m. to 11 p.m. As she...

Read more: Eagles’ Run

 

 

 

How Horrible the Moon

by

Brian Hunt

How horrible the moon. How horrible the pale light it cast upon my grave as it called me to my duty.

In a few short hours I would leave the comfort of my grave to walk among the living. I scared most of them, but now after over...

Read more: How Horrible the Moon

 

 

 

The Woman in the Mirror

by

Miriam Manglani

Jack pulled the comforter over his head and clamped his hands over his ears, but it did
little to block out his parents’ screaming. If it got any worse, he would hide in his closet.

“I told you I wanted shrimp for dinner,” Amit, Jack’s father, scowled and...

Read more: The Woman in the Mirror

 

 

 

To the Moon

by

Brigitte Whiting

"How terrible the moon," Mr. Abrams said each time there was a full moon. "There's sadness with beauty."

At first, when the future Mrs. Abrams met him, she thought it was odd. When he was young, he'd wanted to ride on the back of his older brother's motorcycle...

Read more: To the Moon

 

 

 

Eight Ball

by

Maggie Mevel

Morgan smiled at the barista taking her cappuccino order. The coffee a small indulgence to celebrate a fantastic day. Two job offers. The gods were smiling on her, finally. She set her purse on the counter, and a rack of keychains beside the cash register tinkled at the...

Read more: Eight Ball

 

 

 

One Precious Day

by

Paul K. McWilliams

“We love those who know the worst of us and don’t turn their faces away.”
                                                                                                                     -Walker Percy

                                                                   

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...

Read more: One Precious Day

 

 

 

A Day to Remember

by

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...

Read more: A Day to Remember

 

 

 

Thanksgiving Thought

by

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?”

A single coin flew through the cold air, and a rag-covered hand suddenly...

Read more: Thanksgiving Thought

 

 

 

Dashing Past

by

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, ...

Read more: Dashing Past

 

 

 

Coulda

by

Paul K. McWilliams

Jim Keohane drops his razor into the basin of hot soapy water as his body slumps suddenly with the news coming over the radio.  Bobby Kennedy was fatally shot at the Ambassador Hotel just after midnight in Los Angeles, just after 3 AM, Eastern Standard Time. Alone, no...

Read more: Coulda

 

 

 

SkippyGraycoat

by

Peter Mancusi

Skippy Graycoat woke up early to the chirping of birds. It had been a long night for the young squirrel. He spent hours fixing up his new apartment, a fancy little hollow inside of an old, maple tree, and he was happy to finally have some privacy. No...

Read more: SkippyGraycoat

 

 

 

A Pot Full of Beans

by

Brigitte Whiting

Clara Beth didn't remember that she'd promised to fill the cast iron bean pot for the Smithville Annual Bean Hole Bean Pot supper until late Friday afternoon when she received the call that the bean hole was prepared, the embers hot and ready. "Almost ready," she lied. What...

Read more: A Pot Full of Beans

 

 

 

The “Ely Kay”

by

Paul K. McWilliams

It’s my boat yard, and I don’t much care for the look of her. It’s a point of pride. You should be able to take a level to a boat up on lumber. Every day with her list, she stares me down. She looks guilty and sad with...

Read more: The “Ely Kay”

 

 

 

Emerson

by

Paul K. McWilliams

He hurts, body, mind, and soul. Death has made its introduction and he has given it a knowing nod. At this moment he’s in a hospice unit. The head of his bed is elevated and he’s in the consoling company of his dog, Emerson. The dog proved quickly...

Read more: Emerson

 

 

 

What We Long For

by

Cyril Dabydeen

Creating an imaginary garden
                            with real toads in it.
                                    --Marianne Moore


Frogs circle the yellow-and-black snake in the trout stream by instinct, no less. Mr. Yorick, tall, but roundish, ...

Read more: What We Long For

 

 

 

The Piano

by

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...

Read more: The Piano

 

 

 

How You Can Go Wrong

by

Lisa Benwitz

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Angelina scoffed at Sam, her husband of sixty years. “You’re not leaving. You won’t last a day without me.”

“I can’t deal with you anymore,” he said as he walked out the door. As if she’d been the one to disappoint, to betray.

Angelina’s sagging...

Read more: How You Can Go Wrong

 

 

 

Makers and Takers

by

Kim Bundy

Jake dropped the baby off at daycare early that morning and replaced three water heaters by lunch. There were two HVAC systems left to service, so he wolfed down a sandwich as he drove between jobs. When he got back to the shop that afternoon, his boss called...

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Blunt Trauma

by

Paul K. McWilliams

To all, excepting only Annie, Charles W. Durgin fell while fishing and drowned.  It has been nearly ten years since she struck him with his own club, the club he affectionately called “the priest.” Nightmares still waken her upright and screaming. Not the stifled screams into his calloused...

Read more: Blunt Trauma

 

 

 

Man in the Mirror

by

Nitin Mishra

It may have been the sultriest day of the decade, who knows, maybe two or even three decades and the excessive humidity had invited swarms of insects. In such a sweltering afternoon people were destined to stay indoors, and if anyone ventured out, the insects would certainly torment...

Read more: Man in the Mirror

 

 

 

The Impostor

by

Mick Clark

I was amazed by how many people were stuffed inside my uncle Henry’s corpse.

My aunt clung to me for the first time in her life, bird-bone brittle and ashen pale, while the mourners breathed crowds of ghosts into the icy morning air.

The coffin swayed...

Read more: The Impostor

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Milkweed and Monarchs

 

 

 

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, ...

Read more: To Thwart a Wild Turkey Hen

 

 

 

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, ...

Read more: Lessons Learned

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Home

 

 

 

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...

Read more: The Style of No Style

 

 

 

To All Recovering Wrecks

by

Paul McWilliams

Like the many millions that have come before you, and like the still many millions around you, you may find yourself facing both a troubled past and an uncertain future. Initially and unavoidably, both your past and your future need to be faced concurrently. In so doing, you...

Read more: To All Recovering Wrecks

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Corona Clean

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Enjoy the Ride

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Occasional Neighbors

 

 

 

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, ...

Read more: Cocoa and Biscuits

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Livin’ the Dream

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Fall in Maine

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Best Laid Plans

 

 

 

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...

Read more: One January Morning

 

 

 

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...

Read more: The Ruins and the Writing Technique of Negative Space

 

 

 

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...

Read more: A River of Words

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Truth

 

 

 

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...

Read more: A Monarch Chrysalis

 

 

 

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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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.

...

Read more: Canada, Marty, and The Exorcist

 

 

 

The Goldfinch

by

Brigitte Whiting

On a Monday afternoon, I carried a bucket of water outdoors to refill the birdbath. A male goldfinch jumped down from the bath’s rim, and hopped away as quickly as he could to creep beneath a nearby spruce branch. I thought how odd he was...

Read more: The Goldfinch

 

 

 

My Mobile Space

by

Janet Harvey

 

In June, I will expect to find my special place in Townsville, Queensland. Last year it was in Darwin, Northern Territory, and today my place is in Hobart, Tasmania.

 

 

We live in a truck, a 2004 Isuzu 350NPR turbo automatic...

Read more: My Mobile Space

 

 

 

My Desk

by

Luann Lewis

Another rejection letter and I feel like a loser. Yeah, I know, I’m not trying to make a living doing this. I even claim to be “writing for myself.” Butwe all want validation and, let’s face it, us writers want readers. So here I sit, ...

Read more: My Desk

 

 

 

Of Heroes and Holiness

by

Angela Hess

What does a hero look like?

 

George Bailey is a hero.

 

George Bailey dreamed of traveling the world.

 

George Bailey gave up his dreams to care for his family and community.

 

Rudy left his family...

Read more: Of Heroes and Holiness

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Lynn’s Tree

 

 

 

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—

...

Read more: The Scream That Is Also a Song

 

 

 

Lake Katherine

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

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

two spruces wave
...

Read more: Lake Katherine

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Be Leery Of What Falls From Above

 

 

 

Déjà Vu

by

Enza Vynn-Cara

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

She went to the brook to...

Read more: Déjà Vu

 

 

 

Haunted House

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

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

Read more: Haunted House

 

 

 

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...

Read more: The Moods of McCorquodale

 

 

 

ARS Poetica

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I paint with words

I see
the pink tinge of fluffy white clouds
at sunset

I see
my...

Read more: ARS Poetica

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Neighborhood Walk Meditation

 

 

 

Dream Metaphor

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

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

Read more: Dream Metaphor

 

 

 

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...

Read more: A Whitmanesque Inventory: Spring

 

 

 

Solitary

by

Malkeet Kaur

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

Solitary.

Once it used to be...

Read more: Solitary

 

 

 

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...

Read more: The Blanket Hugs Me

 

 

 

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.

...

Read more: On Love and Dreams

 

 

 

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...

Read more: The Writer’s Breastplate

 

 

 

The Sweater

by

Malkeet Kaur

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

Read more: The Sweater

 

 

 

The Holly Tree

by

Nolo Segundo

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

...

Read more: The Holly Tree

 

 

 

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
...

Read more: waiting on an email

 

 

 

Looking for Weeds

by

Louise E. Sawyer

Pushing my walker with the purple
pet carrier propped up on the seat,
I walk down the driveway.
...

Read more: Looking for Weeds

 

 

 

Ocean Mood

by

Malkeet Kaur

The roaring, crashing surf summon us.
Soft and damp ecru sand lies beneath our bare soles.
The sun-baked...

Read more: Ocean Mood

 

 

 

The Beetle in the Sink

by

Miriam Manglani

There is a beetle in the sink.  
A big fat one,
shiny and black
with sharp needle...

Read more: The Beetle in the Sink

 

 

 

Four Cats – Four Friends

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I
the painting of four cats
hangs on my living room wall


II
you can see
Glory Barrie...

Read more: Four Cats – Four Friends

 

 

 

On Eating an Orange and Seeing God

by

Nolo Segundo

I miss the big navels, the big navels when they are not in season,
but almost any orange...

Read more: On Eating an Orange and Seeing God

 

 

 

Summer – A Pantoum

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I sit on my deck and enjoy summer sun.
Zephyrs caress my cheeks with soft kisses.
Bombay cat...

Read more: Summer – A Pantoum

 

 

 

Who Is Margaret?

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I find the small black and white picture in a box
of old letters untouched for twenty years.
...

Read more: Who Is Margaret?

 

 

 

Your Broken Heart

by

Miriam Manglani

I found your heart’s hinge —
I knew it could open!
Inside, I saw all of its broken...

Read more: Your Broken Heart

 

 

 

Made Whole by Others

by

Miriam Manglani

Some people fill deep holes in us
the space that’s left when our loved ones leave
they plug...

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Autumn Villanelle

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

leaves don orange, crimson and yellow gowns
as they prepare for Cinderella’s autumn ball,
soon the leaves will...

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Sunny Day Epiphany

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

Umberto, my Golden Retriever is sad,
Sparkie and Sal, his companions, have died

I wanted to adopt a...

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All The Dead I Know

by

Nolo Segundo

Let’s start with Eric—a nerdy-looking kid before
nerds were invented, and only 18 when he crashed
his funny...

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The Dinosaur Will Get a Makeover

by

Miriam Manglani

She talks of makeovers with friends,
using contour sticks and beauty blenders,
making “Tiktoks” with dance moves
called...

Read more: The Dinosaur Will Get a Makeover

 

 

 

Ocean City

by

Nolo Segundo

I saw it then as my own little Shangri-la,
for I was very small and knew nothing
of...

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Flores Para Los Muertos

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Post Modern Totem

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Raccoon Delight

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Constructing a Crew

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Moth in the Mirror

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Cat's in the Cradle

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

A New Day Begins

by

Bob Hembree

More Details...

 

 

 

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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Hazel

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Working Hands

by

Paula Parker

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Maya

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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The Birds in the Flower

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Pst... Hey

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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