Poetry

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.

Fireplace Camping

by Louise E. Sawyer

After supper, my brother Frank and I beg Dad,
“Tell us a story in front of the fireplace.”
We settle down to camp on the couch.

Dad gathers together wood chips, kindling sticks,
a little paper; lays them “just so” in the grate,
lights the makings with a match—a baby blaze.

We stare, mesmerized. It becomes a crackling blaze.
“We need camp food to cook, don’t we, Dad?”
“Okay, I’ll get us potatoes to roast in the grate.”

We beg Mom, “Marshmallows for the fireplace.”
“Here is a bag. Don’t eat them all.” We’ll need sticks.
We settle down with a grin on the couch.

Dad finds three branches and sits with us on the couch.
He uses his pocket knife while he watches the blaze.
Soon he has carved three sharp spears from the sticks.

He hands each of us a spear, and we say, “Thanks, Dad!”
I point my stick with marshmallow into the fireplace,
lean forward to watch it sizzle in the blazing grate.

Dad takes a poker, stirs ashes in the grate
Then he sits back with a sigh on the couch,
watching the smoke go up the chimney of the fireplace.

Dad buries potatoes in ashes made by the blaze.
Smiling, he settles back on the couch. “Dad,
see the golden-brown marshmallow on my stick.

It isn’t burnt. It didn’t fall off my stick.”
I poke my stick at the fireplace grate,
watch the sticky residue become charcoal. “Dad,

tell us a story.” ...

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

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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...

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/

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...

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.

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 pig companion Midnight.

I stroke him and stare outside the window
where robins fly between branches,
sun peeks through pine trees.

I also sleep peacefully at night on my daybed,
enjoying the weighted blanket,
which comforts me like a hug.

The blanket relieves the pain in my hips,
making me feel that the miracle of ease
gives me a glimpse of heaven on earth.

Eternity will be full of peace, joy, and love.
I won’t need hope then, but I hold onto it now,
as the blanket hugs me on the daybed.

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 The Seashore Journey, Local Gems Press, 2020; and Creativity Streams Through Mountains and Valleys, Local Gems Press, 2021. The manuscript is ready for Wild Roses Blooming in the Ditch.

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.

3.
Dreams speak to us without lips.

4.
Good dreamers make good lovers.

5.
Love devours our souls if it isn't set free.

6.
We are born with dream seeds that can bloom into gardens.

7.
The moon is a womb pregnant with dreams.

8.
The world needs to wake to more daydreamers.

9.
You can see a sea of dreams in the eyes of your lover.

10.
Learn to love to dream and dream to love.

Bio: Miriam Manglani lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts with her husband and three children. She works full-time as a Technical Training Manager. Her poetry has been published in Village Square, Poetry Quarterly, Rushing Thru the Dark, Vita Brevis, and Cerasus Magazine. Checkout Miriam’s published writing by visiting her website.

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 within me,
Creative Spirit beneath me,
Creative Spirit above me,
Creative Spirit at my right,
Creative Spirit at my left,

Creative Spirit when I lie down,
Creative Spirit when I sit down,
Creative Spirit when I arise.

Creative Spirit
in the heart of every
reader of my book.

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 The Seashore Journey, Local Gems Press, 2020; and Creativity Streams Through Mountains and Valleys, Local Gems Press, 2021. The manuscript is ready for Wild Roses Blooming in the Ditch.

***Image created by Gerardine Gail EsterdayCreative Spirit with me,
Creative Spirit before me,

The Sweater

by Malkeet Kaur

As I rummage through the clothes,
I spot it, the well-worn white sweater
that now had aging spots on it,
Abandoned, unneeded, unlike before,

Instinctively, I sniff it,
Perhaps, a trace still remains,
Once a precious talisman
used as a blanket whenever she was away.

The sleeves, her loving arms
Wrapped around my small frame,
The collar just below my nose,
where the scent was strongest.
Insomnia took flight into the night.
The open front enveloped my torso,
front, and back. Buttons bit, but I didn’t mind.
It was, after all, my talisman

I rub my face on this precious piece of fabric
My nose twitching at the smell of age,
It’s been eight long years,
Long enough for the ‘mummy scent’ to fade.

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.

The Holly Tree

by Nolo Segundo

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

For thirty years
I’ve watched that tree grow,
doubling in size after
we cut down a big oak
to make way for a patio,
thus, freeing the holly tree
of its growth-inhibiting shade,
and letting the sun
pull it slowly upwards
into its own magnificence.

BIO: Nolo Segundo's publishing career started five years ago at seventy-years-old. He has been published in sixty-three online and in print literary magazines and anthologies, in the U.S., U.K., Canada, Romania, and India: The Hungry Chimera, Torrid Literature Journal, NDQ, Literary Heist, and recently was nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2022. He has two books of poetry published by Cyberwit.net: The Enormity of Existence [2020] and Of Ether and Earth [2021].

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
the hotter air dips down to
drag away the summer
the second storm crosses paths
with the first breaking wind
that tumbles trees and lifts
a canopy off the lawn
away from the hanging witch
and straw bales all set for partyers to lean on
when their drinks make the ground sway,
this moment.
that red canvas
snaps and bellows,
I swear I hear laughing
as it gets caught on kudzu and brittle old trees.
I am still waiting on that email as a ghost rips itself loose
flying into the storm.
homeless cats hide behind garage doors.
a six-inch gap left open, so they have a place
to run to and run they do, chased by whirlwinds
of leaves, dirt, and empty aluminum cans
ripped from dark plastic bags piled like a wall.
they who built the tower of bags said they’d wait.
for a few cents more on a dollar, for now-
they keep them as homes to spiders
and places for dogs to bury dead things-
along with the wind and scraping branches,
empty cans rattle along the gravel road.
I check the email hasn’t come through.
the storm is busy knocking out electricity,
along with my ability to check for warnings on my cell.
my worry goes dark like my computer screen.

BioMy Walking Path: Gerardine Gail (Baugh) Esterday is a nomad living for...

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.

Straight ahead is the ocean view,
where waves roll away from the offshore islands
to the sandy beach, decorated
with driftwood and shells.

A little dog leads his owner to the best
sniffing spots before he dashes into the water
to swim towards his stick. He clamps his mouth
on it and proudly returns it to his owner,
dropping it at the girl’s feet.

I turn my walker around and start to wander
back up the driveway, examining the edges
for edible weeds.

Then I focus on the Wild Yard to my right.
Snowdrops flourish amongst new clumps
of wild grass, nudged by weeds.

Oh, hey, there is a dandelion plant
near the edge of the driveway. It’s small
but it’s growing several leaves,
just what I need!

Looking up, I notice that my neighbour
curiously eyes me. I bend down to pluck
a short dandelion leaf, so tender
during this springtime.

I poke the leaf into the purple carrier
where a mouth clamps shut on it.
A few seconds later, I check the carrier
and all I see is a contented black Guinea pig,
curled up In his sleeping bag.

We arrive back at the house, where Midnight,
the Guinea pig, happily enters his cage home
for an afternoon nap, while I squeeze three drops
of Dandelion liquid herbal extract under...

Ocean Mood

by Malkeet Kaur

The roaring, crashing surf summon us.
Soft and damp ecru sand lies beneath our bare soles.
The sun-baked grit clings stubbornly to our feet and ankles.
We skip and hop into the foamy ripples
where the tide tickles our toes.

We raise our faces to relish the soft caress of the sea breeze.
Majestic swells slide towards the shore,
digging deep within its mysterious depths,
swirling, then sweeping forward
To lay its bounty at our sandy feet.

Just days ago, the sea was tumultuous, so angry,
Swashing back and forth in countless directions,
The water smashed against the rock,
Then sucked back into the ocean,
Froth and bubbles rise to the top while

Flotsam tossed and turned, forming tiny whirlpools.
Now, so peaceful, the gentle whisper of the ocean,
Humming like the yogic Ujjayi breathing,
Leisurely settling its erstwhile agitation and stress aside,
Bringing balance to its depths

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.

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 antennae.

I turn the water on full force.
Drown the bug.
It struggles to swim,
spins and swirls in circles,
Then,
Down,
Down,
Down,
The drain it goes.

A day later…it can’t be!
It’s in the sink again.
The stubborn bug survived.
Maybe it ate some pipe mold.
Maybe it met some friends
who helped it stay afloat.

I try to drown the bug again.
A lot of water this time.
Full force!
This will do the job!

It struggles to swim,
spins and swirls in circles,

Then,
Down,
Down,
Down,
the drain it goes.

A day later…it just can’t be!
I take the poor bug out
of its porcelain death trap,
amazed it survived
all my attempted murders,
the poor little beetle.
Its antennae is still perky,
its black, hard body
still shiny like a medal.

I smile proudly at the bug,
cradle it in a sheet of paper
and set it gently down
on the ground outside.

I watch it crawl away
with its head held high.
I picture it smiling
and hear the song
“I will survive”
play over and over
again in my head.

Bio: Miriam Manglani lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts with her husband and three children. She works full-time as a Technical Training Manager. Her poetry has been published in Village Square, Poetry Quarterly, Rushing Thru the Dark, Vita Brevis...

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 Lynn in
the upper left corner,
black, orange, white, and brown
coloured tortoiseshell cat,
her frozen ragged ears shaped by vet,
found under a mailbox while ravens circled,
one person-cat, distaste for women,
leisure time spent in her maple tree,
lover and sampler of food,
nonstop purrer, best friend
if someone had meat
dextrous with her paws,
stole a piece of bacon from BLT subs
opened carton of Tim Bits

III
you can see
Miss Pickle, the black cat
in the upper right-hand corner,
a dark velvet coat with
wistful jade green eyes,
she sat on the stool on the kitchen counter,
meowed when I left the house,
meowed when I returned,
she fussed for treats
when I pretended to be asleep,
she meowed and pulled my hair,
she napped on the couch,
woke up and told a story
about her dream, went back to sleep,
alas, she disappeared one night,
never to return

IV
you can see
Yanni, a black and white tuxedo cat
in the bottom left-hand corner,
he chose us at the kennel,
we name him Yanni
after the Greek version of John
he loves to chat, first in line for chow,
sometimes samples human food,
squawks when picked up,
shies away from petting,
he sleeps on top of the couch,
rolls over and falls on the cushions,
in summer he helps to garden,
then flops on...

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 will do when I really want to see God.

But it must be done right, this seeing, this apprehension of the
Lord of the Universe, Lord of All the Worlds, both seen and
unseen….

First, I feel how firm the orange is, rolling it in my hands,
the hands of an artist, the hands of a poet, and now the stiff
and cracked hands of an old man--
then I slice it in half and look at its flesh, its brightness,
its moistness, its color--
if the insides beckon, urging my mouth to bite,
I first cut each half into half and then slowly, carefully--
as all rituals demand-- I put one of the cut pieces between
my longing lips and gradually, with a sort of grace, bite
into the flesh of the sacrificial fruit.

I feel the juice flow down my throat and recall the taste of
every orange I ever had, even in my childhood—or so it
seems, with this little miracle of eating an orange.

As I finish absorbing, still slowly and gracefully, its flesh,
the last bit of what had been one of the myriad wonders
of the world, I look at the ragged pieces of orange peel
and I see poetry-- or God-- it’s really the same thing,
isn’t it?

BIO:Nolo Segundo's publishing career started five years ago at seventy-years-old. He has been published...

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 scampers on his morning run.
When he sees the dog next door, he hisses.

Zephyrs caress my cheeks with soft kisses.
My daily morning journaling is done.
When he sees the dog next door, he hisses.
Bombay cat’s speed is second to none.

My daily morning journaling is done.
Bombay cat scampers on his morning run.
Bombay cat’s speed is second to none.
I sit on my deck and enjoy summer sun.

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/

*** Photo is a collage using the poet's Cats: Nicolas, Glory, Farley, and Pickle, and using a background from Image by Tommy pixel from Pixabay.

Your Broken Heart

by Miriam Manglani

I found your heart’s hinge —
I knew it could open!
Inside, I saw all of its broken pieces —
arteries clogged with loneliness and pain,
valves frozen shut with reservation,
pockets of sadness settled in its empty chambers.
I fixed the broken pieces,
filled its emptiness,
and drove out its sadness and pain.
When I was done,
I heard it beat loudly with abandon
and knew I wasn’t the only fool
in love.

Bio: Miriam Manglani lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts with her husband and three children. She works full-time as a Technical Training Manager. Her poetry has been published in Village Square; Poetry Quarterly; Rushing Thru the Dark; Vita Brevis; and Cerasus Magazine. Check out Miriam’s published writing by visiting her website

** Image by Public Affairs from Pixabay
https://bit.ly/3hIGq9U