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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.


Honeybee

by Miriam Manglani

You set a marvelous example.
Working your tiny stinger off
in your short five-week lifespan.
 
Smearing the sun’s gold
on the walls of your safe of wax.
Sweetening our lives by the jar.
 
Pollinating flowers and plants,
our lives with fruits and vegetables,
getting a buzz from drinking nectar.
 
We should bow down to your
muted black and yellow coat.
Your extra eyes for navigating life.
Your large translucent wings
dancing in the sun.  
 
Yet, we run away screaming
when you buzz close by.
Danger often lurks
in what is most precious.

BIO:  Miriam Manglani lives in Cambridge Massachusetts with her husband and three children. She has a degree in English from Brandeis University. Her poems have been published in Sparks of Calliope, Red Eft Review, One Art, Glacial Hills Review, and Paterson Literary Review. “They’ve Come” was a finalist for the Beals Prize for Poetry. Her poetry chapbook, Ordinary Wonders, is published by Prolific Press.


** The watercolor is by Florence Manglani, a self-taught multi-media artist. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.  After years of concentrating on motherhood and a career as a bilingual School Psychologist, she has returned to painting.  She works with watercolors, pastels, oils, and acrylics, focusing on botanicals and landscapes.
https://www.florencemanglani.com/

Read more: Honeybee


Nature’s Symphony

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I hike - along the trail by the lake;
gravel crunches under my feet.
I soon reach the wooded area.
The path is wet and muddy;
my feet squish as I move
over decaying leaves and grass.
I come to an open area,
which skirts the lake.
The waves swish in
towards the shore.
Then swoosh out.
A tiny stream gurgles
on its way to the lake.
An eagle soars overhead.
Screeches as it dives
to catch its prey.
Suddenly, the sky darkens.
The wind howls a dirge.
Branches rock violently.
Boughs crash to the ground.
Thunder rumbles
like a chorus of bass drums.
Lightning jags and crackles
across the sky.
Rain drums along the trail.
I shiver, cringe
at the sounds of the storm
I scurry towards home.


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A member of The Manitoba Writers’ Guild (MWG), 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. She has published in anthologies, e-zines, and Village Square. She published fourteen books of poetry and seven chapbooks. You can find her poetry at gwalkerhobbs.angelfire.com and on Amazon.

*Photo by Harry C. Hobbs. All rights belong to the photographer.

Read more: Nature’s Symphony

 


 

Lost Dreams

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

parents dead,
house to be cleared,
decisions to be made,
what to take, what to leave,
I walked from room to room.
selecting, picking up, rejecting
in the living room
I came across Mom’s sailboats,
two two-foot-high vessels
with white canvas sails
balanced on either end of a
horizontal bar,
Dad mounted them
on a vertical pole
when the wind blew,
they rotated around
and around, reversed direction,
whirled again
the ships were my vessels,
my teddy bear and I
were pretend sailors on them,
travelling about the globe
in my imagination
Dad took the ships down
when he moved his trailer
onto their site,
never got around
to putting them back
I tried to be logical,
reminded myself
I had no place for them,
left them there,
did the auctioneer sell them?
I never knew because
the house was declared
structurally unsound,
had to be demolished

my teddy bear sits on my bookcase,
but the sailboats exist only in my dreams


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A member of The Manitoba Writers’ Guild (MWG), 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. She has published in anthologies, e-zines, and Village Square. She published fourteen books of poetry and seven chapbooks. You can find her poetry at gwalkerhobbs.angelfire.com and on Amazon.

*Picture of Woofie taken by Harry C. Hobbs, then edited using...

Read more: Lost Dreams

 


 

How a Poem Happens

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

in the beginning
our imagination
is a vast landscape
of virgin snow or sand,
our senses imprint
their tracks upon
the untouched land,
form patterns of thought
which leads to ideas
arranged as words,
structured or nonstructured,
in special forms,
the imagination works,
that’s how a poem begins

BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A member of The Manitoba Writers’ Guild (MWG), 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. She has published in anthologies, e-zines, and Village Square. She published fourteen books of poetry and seven chapbooks. You can find her poetry at gwalkerhobbs.angelfire.com and on Amazon.

*Picture created with: photofunia.com/effects/snow_writing

Read more: How a Poem Happens

 


 

Conspiracy

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

"Dedicated to the memory of Yanni and Blake.
Sadly, we have lost them both."

Blake takes over Yanni’s
perch on the penguin
pillow on the couch,
Yanni gives him a disgusted look,
jumps onto the cushion
on the recliner chair,
he feigns sleep,
Blake jumps up
beside his brother,
licks Yanni’s face,
then bites him,
Yanni protests
then returns
to his favourite
penguin pillow perch


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A member of The Manitoba Writers’ Guild (MWG), 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. She has published in anthologies, e-zines, and Village Square. She published fourteen books of poetry and seven chapbooks. You can find her poetry at gwalkerhobbs.angelfire.com and on Amazon.

*Photo By Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) titled Blake and Yanni; all rights belong to the author

Read more: Conspiracy

 


 

Empty Mines, Can You Hear Me?

by Gerardine Gail Esterday

From my bedroom window,
I see a silk fish.
Hanging limp and silent against a rotting fence.
Once, Silvanus against the elements
Now, pushing and crawling over your slices.
Once, you prayed with the sky.
With Your lines of communication
set deep in the earth,
until….
For their want of money, space, and what lies beneath,
they came
You set up fear vibrations,
waves of warnings rumbling deep underground.
Screaming saws sliced you into six by six by five-eighths pieces.
Now, you stand like a mannequin, holding up your hand
Wearing someone else's clothes.
Here I sit at my window
Watching…
a windcatcher in front of me,
with all those man-made mines
empty beneath me,
filling with half-truths and cables;
undulating alongside sewer pipes
will my life be jacked to yours in a moment of vibration?
Will I slip into your roots and be on hold forever?
The wind whispers, causing the fish to flap against dead wood.


BIO: Gerardine Gail (Baugh) Esterday is a nomad living in Fairview Heights, Illinois, with her cats. Managing Editor in Poetry for villagesquareliterary.com. She has published poetry on Poemhunter, IWVPA, and her blog: Mywalkingpath.com, and has two chapbooks published: Packing Up The Past, Local Gems Press, 2021; My Skin, Local Gems Press, 2020; and her poetry book, My Walking Path.

*Photo by Gerardine Gail Esterday All rights belong to the photographer

Read more: Empty Mines, Can You Hear Me?

 


 

Homograph Poem

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

even though writers
are close to pens,
their thoughts may close
like sheep in a pen,
this may last all the month of May,
a computer invites one to type,
poetry may be the chosen genre type,
get the lead out and lead the way,
maybe you’ll write a novel novel


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A member of The Manitoba Writers’ Guild (MWG), 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. She has published in anthologies, e-zines, and Village Square. She published fourteen books of poetry and seven chapbooks. You can find her poetry at gwalkerhobbs.angelfire.com and on Amazon.

*Image created with Microsoft design

Read more: Homograph Poem

 


 

It's Always the Kitchen’s Fault

by Gerardine Gail Esterday

It was always the kitchen’s fault.
When I couldn’t keep it perfectly clean.
When the counter space was lacking.
When the toaster seemed to crowd out the mixer.
When cats took over the windowsills.
Or the cabinets just didn’t hold enough of everything.
Drawers stuck.
Doors wouldn’t stay closed.
Fingerprints stood out everywhere
Not one set of dishes ever stayed intact.
So, chips abounded and spoons went missing,
like socks in a washer, and then-
the ants, those ants just ran amuck.
Suddenly, doors stopped being slammed.
Dishes were washed and put away.
Very rarely did a dish get chipped,
and that kitchen was silent.
Children grew up.
The toaster stopped moving around.
Stressors ceased.
Now, the kitchen is too quiet.
Too clean …
Even the ants got bored and moved on.
We all know, it’s always the kitchen's fault.


BIO: Gerardine Gail (Baugh) Esterday is a nomad living in Fairview Heights, Illinois, with her cats. Managing Editor in Poetry for villagesquareliterary.com. She has published poetry on Poemhunter, IWVPA, and her blog: Mywalkingpath.com, and has two chapbooks published: Packing Up The Past, Local Gems Press, 2021; My Skin, Local Gems Press, 2020; and her poetry book, My Walking Path.

*Photo by Gerardine Gail Esterday All rights belong to the photographer

Read more: It's Always the Kitchen’s Fault

 


 

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

 


 

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

 


 

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

 


 

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 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

 


 

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

 


 

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

 


 

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

 


 

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

 


 

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

 


 

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

 


 

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?

 


 

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

 


 

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

 


 

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

 


 

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

 


 

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

 


 

-=> Click Here for More Poetry <=-

Tachinomiya

by

Julie Bissell

We were exhausted by Tokyo. Exhausted from the excitement of having finally arrived, from steering through the crowds and having our ears rattled by the strident chatter all around us, jetlagged, sand-bagged by the sauna heat of the city’s streets. Exhausted above all by the people of Tokyo. ...

Read more: Tachinomiya

 

 

 

Walter’s Last Model

by

Willy J

It was 3:25 when Walter walked into Bongart's Cleaners on Eighth Street. He approached the counter and dinged the silver bell. By the time he got the claim ticket from his wallet, Sally came out from the back room through the curtained doorway.

Though Sally was middle aged...

Read more: Walter’s Last Model

 

 

 

We Can Be Friends

by

Brigitte Whiting

“Hey, fatso,” someone shouts, awakening Petticoat, the hippopotamus, from her snooze.  She shakes her great head and bares her teeth and tusks. “I wouldn’t do that,” she says. “I'm unpredictable, you know, when I'm frightened.” She squints her tiny eyes looking for the culprit.

“Here, here!” A small...

Read more: We Can Be Friends

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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”

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Makers and Takers

 

 

 

Paper Wasps

by

Brigitte Whiting

I'm sorry, but you’ll need to go. I'm afraid to step out on the deck now after the morning before yesterday when you swarmed out of your nest and hung like a large black shadow, angry looks on your faces. We could have lived together, me on my...

Read more: Paper Wasps

 

 

 

Leaving You

by

Miriam Manglani

It was a morning in December of 2006 when we left you there. You could still walk then with help; someone had to hold your shaky right hand and wrap the other arm around your waist to steady your wobbly body. I helped you put on your white...

Read more: Leaving You

 

 

 

RICK'S CAFÉ

by

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...

Read more: RICK'S CAFÉ

 

 

 

On HelenR and Writers’ Village University

by

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...

Read more: On HelenR and Writers’ Village University

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Bibliosmia

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Monarch Butterflies

 

 

 

For Meno

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

Dedicated to my sister Marilyn Anne Walker Potoski

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

Read more: For Meno

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Overheard

 

 

 

A Haibun

by

Louise E. Sawyer

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

Read more: A Haibun

 

 

 

The Guardian

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

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

Read more: The Guardian

 

 

 

Stranded

by

David Yerex Williamson

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

Read more: Stranded

 

 

 

Kisikisotowaw Awasisak

by

David Yerex Williamson

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

Read more: Kisikisotowaw Awasisak

 

 

 

Septembering

by

David Yerex Williamson

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

Read more: Septembering

 

 

 

The Living

by

David Yerex Williamson

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

Read more: The Living

 

 

 

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...

Read more: March 1st at Lochside Drive

 

 

 

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...

Read more: Sonnet for Yanni

 

 

 

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
...

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...

Read more: The Hundred Stairs

 

 

 

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...

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

 

 

 

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...

Read more: The Cat Days of Summer

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

You Talkin' to Me?

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Kitten Wonder Full

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

Off the Pier

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

More Details...

 

 

 

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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