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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.


Women Out To Dinner

by Luann Lewis

Women step out to dinner.
Just women. Just “the girls.”
Out they go,
in perfume,
fluffy neck scarves,
lipstick, blush.

Out they go,
with purses
stuffed with Kleenex
and more lipstick,
and more blush.

Out they go,
giggling like girls -
talking fast, talking intensely,
talking like girls,
but looking like women.

Out they go,
in skirts and blouses,
pants and tunics, heels and flats,
earrings and necklaces.

Out they go,
in groups and duos,
meeting in entryways,
with laughter and chatter.

Out they go,
with hugs and compliments,
led through restaurants
by ladies in black dresses.


Women step out to dinner,
studying menus, discussing options,
wrinkling noses, shaking heads.

Women step out to dinner,
shunning calories, excusing calories,
welcoming calories, anticipating gluttony.

Women step out to dinner.
Just women. Just “the girls.”
Chuckling guiltily, selecting gleefully.

Women step out to dinner.
Clinking glasses, celebrating women,
celebrating life, laughing with gusto,
sounding like girls.

Women,
devious women, voices lowered.
Dissect an appetizer, dissect a friend.

Women,
discreet women, shaking heads,
pursing lips, share potato skins,
skin a spouse.

Women, tasting dinners,
sighing, “divine!” suddenly quiet,
(only briefly) blissfully eating.

Women step out to dinner.
Napkins wrinkled, split desserts,
swirls of whipped cream,
shaves of chocolate, steaming coffee.
Happy, “Ahhhhs.”

Women step out to dinner.
Swearing loyalty, hugging softly,
going to cars, getting sleepy,
driving home and talking to women…

about the other women
who stepped out to dinner.


BIO:Luann Lewis is a Chicago native who has spent...

Read more: Women Out To Dinner


My Love

by Miriam Manglani

My love for you was tentative and tender
Now it blazes like wildfire through dry fields
Cuts through me before I can surrender
Like relentless sun burning on battlefields

I want you like flowers hunger for rain
Like the exploding sun wants to fade
into the sky and spill over the plains
Like wild, roaming animals hunt for shade

Our lust merges into one big bonfire
Like snowflakes melting in a warm hand
Two swans weaving their necks in desire
Waves cresting, crashing, and foaming on sand

You are my soft, glowing moon in the night
And I am darkness that seeks your moonlight


BIO: Miriam Manglani, a native of Boston, is pursuing a three-year Fiction MFA certificate at WVU. She is a member of the Word Weavers poetry group and the Kidz Korner Group. Miriam has three children and she works as a Technical Training Manager.

Read more: My Love

 


 

The Never-Was-But-Could-Have-Been

by Miriam Manglani

I never doubted that he loved me
even after he died from dementia —
There were tight hugs scented with aftershave,
stubble rubs prickled my skin,
and there were gifts of toys, puzzles, and bikes.

But it was his attention
that I never stopped wanting,
out of reach like a prized toy
in a locked box on the top shelf.

Not even he had the key.

His words were few.
Balls lobbed clumsily at their target
Falling short.
Directed at, but not to me,
my young mind struggled to connect
to talk about
the weather, Aesop’s fables, or obscure riddles
I didn’t understand,
like a TV on the wrong frequency.

Classical music blared in his car —
Chopin, Beethoven, Bach,
while I sang 80s pop
to myself.

He had infinite patience for his patients
but not for me
who could never move fast enough
or “stop doing the crazies!”

I wondered about a “normal”
father-daughter relationship
just like I wondered about sex.

The never-was-but-could-have-been
wakes and aches at the sight
of a father and daughter together
like a bad knee in the rain.
It’s an old familiar, comforting pain
that longs for the father I never had
and misses the one I lost.


BIO: Miriam Manglani, a native of Boston, is pursuing a three-year Fiction MFA at WVU. She is also a member of the Word Weavers group and the Kidz Korner Group. She has three children and works as a Technical Training Manager.

Read more: The Never-Was-But-Could-Have-Been

 


 

Farley vs Apricot

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

Apricot the Beanie cat
perches atop the bookcase,
guards the books,
taunts the ginger kitten down below

Farley’s topaz eyes gleam
as he stretches upwards to his full length,
zaps a paw at the toy, misses,
sits back on his haunches

Farley crouches like a coiled panther,
springs to the top of the bookcase,
grabs Apricot in his jaws,
leaps to the floor

displacing books with a crash,
Farley pounces on the
stuffed toy, whacks it with a paw,
drags it under the couch

human mom investigates crash,
rescues Apricot, scolds Farley
who gives her a “who me?” look,
jumps into her lap to purr


BIO: Glennis Hobbs (Glenda Walker-Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A member of Word Weavers and Julia Cameron groups, she is a long-time member of WVU. She is secretary of her local writers group. She has published eight books of poetry and had her poetry and prose published in various anthologies. She is currently working on two novels and two books of poetry.

Read more: Farley vs Apricot

 


 

Define Self Truth

by Gerardine Gail (Esterday) Baugh

How blind are we with
wishes that bite; with
memories that burn;
that we choose, to be
trapped, teetering on
lies that blend in truths?

How silent are we with
sanitize sightings; with
memories weirded out;
that we chose, mere to be
silent, seesawing on
unheard lies, speaking truths?

How kitschy have we come with
kiosk of trivia; with
memories trapped to kowtow;
choice sheep; cushy job, to be
automatons teaching on
inaptness, dazzled in truths?

How distinct our in-side selves with
out-side shells, for and against; with
netting, if you look like someone;
trapped to define; accept, to be
unparagoned, your flavor on
credence, delimited self truths?


BIO: Gerardine Gail (Esterday) Baugh has published poetry on Poemhunter, IWVPA, Short stories on Staticmovement.com, Einstein’s Pocket Watch, and on her Blog. She has certifications from The Institute of Children’s Literature and The Long Ridge Writers Group and Elgin Community College. Gerardine has a poetry book, My Walking Path: A Blending of Words on an Uneven Ground at Amazon.

Read more: Define Self Truth

 


 

Invisible Lines

by Miriam Manglani

When I first saw their formless
bodies on screen,
worlds unfurled
in their grainy black and white images,
like shapes in a Kaleidoscope.

Invisible lines grew
bonding me to each.
My connections to them strengthened.
Tenuous fibers
were fed by rhythmic sounds of drums
played underwater
that filled every corner of the sterile exam room.

I pushed limbs that bulged.
I sang to them in the shower.
I recorded videos of them moving inside my belly.
I imagined them reading my mind,
tasting rock hard sour nectarines,
and vanilla ice cream I craved.

I waddled,
head held high,
big belly bulging,
beguiling attention…

Birth’s aftermath altered connections,
I missed their squirms and punches.
I missed them living in me.
The invisible lines now whispers.

I watched Avner fall asleep as he melted
into me with his warmth.
I looked at his sleepy face,
at his eyes shaped like almonds
with their long, curly lashes
that interlocked like clamshells
at his nose that exhaled soft air.
I stroked his little fingers
with their translucent nails,
touched his thin lips
with drops of milk in their creases.

I looked at Asher in his bassinet.
His lashes, black wings ready to fly.
His dark eyes, black holes against
his milky white complexion
drawing in our shared line.

The invisible lines turned to ropes.
They tugged on my insides,
they wrapped around me,
warming and pulling me
into our babies’ newfound worlds.


BIO: Miriam Manglani, a native of Boston, is pursuing...

Read more: Invisible Lines

 


 

She Bikes for the First Time

by Miriam Manglani

“Keep peddling!” I call.
Not prepared to watch her fall.
I hold the bike steady
and let it go when she’s ready.
She turns her own wheels
when I’m used to being at her heels.
Is it always this hard to let go?
To watch kids grow?
I jump up and cheer
but inside I have this fear
that she won’t need me anymore
to pedal the bike of life and soar.


BIO: Miriam Manglani, a native of Boston, is pursuing a three-year Fiction MFA certificate at WVU. She is a member of the Word Weavers poetry group and the Kidz Korner Group. Miriam has three children and she works as a Technical Training Manager.

Read more: She Bikes for the First Time

 


 

The Stranger

by Miriam Manglani

You were always quiet but
grew quieter.
Unable to retrieve basic words like “cat”.
There were other small signs —
you used your left hand to open the fridge
because your right one had started to tremble.
You parked the station wagon forward
in the garage when you usually backed it in.

The general diagnosis of “Primary Progressive Aphasia” led to
“Frontotemporal Dementia”.

Another way of saying your brain was dying slowly…

How ironic for someone who would sometimes say
I had “rocks in my head” when I made a foolish decision
who built a life for himself as a renowned doctor
who could solve the most challenging puzzles
and play a fierce game of chess.

Death worked you hard.

You lost the ability to converse
before clinging to a few basic words.
“No” and “yes” were your life rafts.
But even they left you
drowning…

in thick frustration that blazed red through your face
and singed the air around you.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror,
unable to recognize it, scared of the stranger,
who stared back with the dull eyes of a dead fish.

You didn’t recognize me or others
and lost the ability to walk
swearing in your native Arabic at your dead legs.

Two years later, pneumonia gripped your lungs
and your breathing stopped,
but you had died several deaths before,
each one never grieved.

***

I miss the stranger I called daddy.
The one I never knew.
The one who stared...

Read more: The Stranger

 


 

Remembering Char

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

Last night
I saw Daniel O’Donnell’s concert advertised,
looked forward to watching it.
I phoned our “fan club,”
then started to call you.

I remembered the times
I had phoned you, and
said “Daniel’s on.”
Even though the concerts
might be repeats,
we still loved to watch them.

I miss phoning to tell you
about my writing, illness, a joke,
discovery of leaves on the family tree.
You updated me about Birtle and family news.

Every time I reach for the phone,
I feel your loss once again.
I miss you.

Perhaps you have met the One
to whom Daniel dedicates his concerts.
Maybe you are watching from above,
enjoying Daniel’s concert.


BIO: Glennis Hobbs (Glenda Walker-Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A member of Word Weavers and Julia Cameron groups, she is a long-time member of WVU. She is secretary of her local writers group. She has published eight books of poetry and had her poetry and prose published in various anthologies. She is currently working on two novels and two books of poetry.

Read more: Remembering Char

 


 

Stop Look Listen

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

poems originate
in the wink
of an eye

the flash
of a phrase
spoken in soft voices

the dazzle
of sunlight
dancing on water

the succulent swirl
of a tongue
round chocolate marzipan

the placement of a kettle
on top of a fridge
to heat water

stop
look and listen
a poem will emerge


BIO: Glennis Hobbs (Glenda Walker-Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A member of Word Weavers and Julia Cameron groups, she is a long-time member of WVU. She is secretary of her local writers group. She has published eight books of poetry and had her poetry and prose published in various anthologies. She is currently working on two novels and two books of poetry.

Read more: Stop Look Listen

 


 

Romancing Richard

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

Richard and I
meet in the YWCA cafeteria

when I inquire about his book on Hitler,
we introduce ourselves,
he buys me coffee

I fantasize about his snappy black eyes,
curly black hair,
his deep voice sends shivers
up and down my spine

he invites me to a dance at the Legion,
whirls me all over the floor,
makes me feel like a princess until

I gaze romantically downwards
twelve inches into his eyes

he orders two beers for fifty cents
I sip it slowly, try not to gag

I wait till he goes to the john,
dump my beer in the plants along the window,
alas he orders refills

I contemplate giving up Richard
rather than drink beer

when he grabs a fleshy portion of my anatomy,
I bloody his nose, pour my beer over his head.
quickly dash back to the safety of the Y residence

my romance with Richard has concluded


BIO: Glennis Hobbs (Glenda Walker-Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A member of Word Weavers and Julia Cameron groups, she is a long-time member of WVU. She is secretary of her local writers’ group. She has published eight books of poetry and had her poetry and prose published in various anthologies. She is currently working on two novels and two books of poetry.

Read more: Romancing Richard

 


 

The Dollies

by Holly Miller

Where have all the dollies gone, babes and Barbies too?
The last time I saw them was while playing with you.
Overnight it seems, our lives turned upside down,
Like Barbie’s wardrobe when we searched for a certain gown.
Some days she was organized, hangers all facing the same way,
But I doubt it was the case on that fateful day.
Or was it a year? Such a fog of pain and sorrow,
Who knew a broken family would be in our ‘morrow.

We first played with baby dolls, then on to Barbies and Kens,
From diapers and bottles to women and men.
Big sister made clothes for dolls young and old,
For little sister and I to protect against the cold.
Some dolls received haircuts, to improve on their looks,
No doubt hoping to achieve what we’d seen in books.
An old plaid car bed, mom used for us babies,
Was put to good use for our baby dolls daily.

One day big sister and I moved out with our father,
While little sister and big brother stayed with our mother.
Did we take our dolls, or were they left behind?
No recollection of them since comes to mind.
How I wish the innocence we lost was restored,
To be part of an intact family once more.
Alas we were separated, broken and shattered
Our home and the toys all became scattered.

But where have all the dollies gone?
Alas, only their memories continue on.


BIO:Holly...

Read more: The Dollies

 


 

Reading Deprivation Week

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

week 4 of my creative writing course
is designated as Reading Deprivation week,
reading is taboo

it is intended to be
a chance to explore creativity,
to discover my inner self

being exiled
because of Covid-19 pandemic
is horrific in itself but

reading deprivation
is a sojourn in the Sahara,
with no water at the oasis

it is being
banished
from words

it is a world
with no light,
no sound

it is staring
at rows of books
in the bookcases

it is trying not to think about
the cache of freebies
downloaded to the Kindle

it is hours of watching
endless crime shows,
or ad-saturated documentaries

it is a world
with no ideas,
only exile


BIO: Glennis Hobbs (Glenda Walker-Hobbs) is a Canadian writer. A member of Word Weavers and Julia Cameron groups, she is a long-time member of WVU. She is secretary of her local writers group. She has published eight books of poetry and had her poetry and prose published in various anthologies. She is currently working on two novels and two books of poetry.

Read more: Reading Deprivation Week

 


 

The Waves

by Louise E. Sawyer

Little baby waves,
you call me to your home
where you softly swish
up on the beach
nudging and hugging
stones, shells, and sand.
I’m one with you
as I smile and gaze
out over the expanse
of your ocean home.


I look at the off-shore islands
and dream of my fairy tale.
I see the unicorn flying Shellina
through the clouds
over the ocean
to the trees
on the little verdant island
maybe a new country
calling me to begin again.


I stand meditating
with my friends, the waves.
I’m so happy to be with you again.
I missed you so much
when that big mobster
stole your place
storming tall peaks of white foam
onto the logs, rolling them over
attempting to jump over the wall.


BIO: Louise E. Sawyer is a Canadian senior living near the Salish Sea. In 2020 she moved a block away, and a few months later, she wrote “The Seashore Journey,” a small poetry chapbook. She is completing the Nonfiction MFA Certificate, but her first love is poetry...and her guinea pig, Midnight. Louise designs puzzles and memes for Village Square.

Read more: The Waves

 


 

With Emily on the Death Carriage

by Nitin Mishra

After a hard day of labor
As I was hurrying my way back home.
A black Carriage stopped abruptly just in front.
And I hated it and I am sure it hated me too.

He disembarked from the Carriage giving me a hostile stare,
Forwarded his hand as if to shake.
Reluctantly as I was forwarding my timid and shivering hands,
A gentle lady-sounding voice whispered from the Carriage-
Do not be alarmed cause he is a good man.

We have been travelling for quite a time now
My sweet adobe and family have left my mind now.
We have passed many schools and many twin fields.
Listening to the poetry of Emily.*

* This poem is an imitation of Emily Dickinson’s ‘Because I could not stop for death.’


BIO: Nitin Mishra, originally from Nepal, is currently living in Apex, North Carolina. He writes short stories and poetry. You can find his novel, The Last Wind, on Amazon.

Read more: With Emily on the Death Carriage

 


 

2020 Time of Haiku

by Gerardine Gail Esterday

DNA's protein coat-
Stripped me of maskless days, now
I eat popcorn alone


Are you kidding me!
No mask no problem-for you,
I say, “Back away.”


People used to see-
me frown. Now, they read my thoughts
across my face mask.


Claustrophobic lines-
masked burglar six feet from you
trolling TP science.


Kitty needs her shots-
Vet visit feels like fast food,
reversed with PPE.


Bio: Gerardine Gail Esterday is from Illinois.  She has published poetry on Poemhunter, IWVPA and on her Blog My Walking Path She has a piece in the Whitman Collaborative Project. She has certifications from The Institute of Children’s Literature and The Long Ridge Writers Group. She is working on her MFA at WVU. She has a second book of poetry My Skin on Amazon.

Read more: 2020 Time of Haiku

 


 

The Nature of Time

by Sitharaam Jayakumar

Time flows from infinity to infinity,
with no beginning or end in sight,
unlike men and women who live life,
from birth to death and then die.

Time waits for no one,
time is like a woman in a hurry,
running ahead like a crazed lady,
to meet her lover at journey’s end.

If wasted, time is like a lady scorned,
for time will never give you a second chance,
to catch up with what is lost,
time that is gone is gone forever.

Time holds many secrets,
both in the past and in the future,
we can only peep into either,
we know not what actually happened or what will happen in the future.

Sometimes I wonder to myself,
am I wrong in thinking that time is in motion?
maybe she is just standing still,
and it is men and women who are on the run.

Men and women who are born from the womb,
maybe traveling along a thread of time,
deluding themselves all the while,
it is time that is moving and not them.

What we see in the span of a lifetime,
maybe a small stretch of a screen that is time,
with drawings and stories written on it,
a screen that has neither a beginning nor an end.

Maybe we are moving along with our eyes on this screen,
not realizing that what we are seeing maybe a dream,
sometimes what we see is beautiful and pleasing,
sometimes it is a nightmare that...

Read more: The Nature of Time

 


 

Some Heart-felt Emotions about My Motherland

by Sitharaam Jayakumar

Oh! My motherland, my heart and soul,
as I watch dark clouds hover in your skies,
my eyes fill to the brim,
with tears of a red hue.

You gave me shelter,
you fed me and clothed me.
Today, as you sink into an abyss,
I stand and watch, helpless and hopeless.

Give me courage, oh mother,
to fight for you and to defend you,
from enemies within,
and enemies outside.

Give my countrymen the vision to see
where the path we have embarked leads to.
Rip the curtains off their eyes,
and show them the true face of reality.

Tomorrow is another day.
We will continue our fight.
Once more we will wake up to glorious sunshine,
I await that wonderful day.


BIO: Sitharaam Jayakumar is an IT professional. He has a Blog Jai's Jottings. He writes poetry, fiction, and non-fiction articles on politics, sports, music, and computer software. Sitharaam has published two thriller novellas on Amazon India, Eighty Hours to Save Karen and The Krishnapur Kidnappings. His poems have been published in 'Melody of Springs'. And on a website called Delhi Poetry Slam. He lives in Kochi, India with his wife and thirteen-year-old daughter.
 

Read more: Some Heart-felt Emotions about My Motherland

 


 

A Dream, A Fantasy, Flying into The Unknown

by Sitharaam Jayakumar

I am once again a youth in my teens,
dreaming of flying high up into the clouds.
I think to myself, maybe if I jump high up into the air,
I will not come crashing back down to the ground.

I put thoughts into action and take a leap, up into the sky.
To my surprise, I fly up and away instead of coming down.
I move up and up, further away from the terra firma.
Leaving my near and dear ones down below on the ground.

I move some distance up towards the sky.
I look down and everything appears to be tiny.
I think of the billions of people I have left below,
busy going about the business of their lives.

I look at the numerous buildings that appear to be tiny dots.
I can see vehicles, men, women, children, and animals,
all appearing to be moving like tiny ants.
Oh! so lost, busy, and wrapped up in their lives.

I look down in awestruck wonder,
and think of the trillions of men and women,
who have lived and died over the centuries on Mother Earth,
the wars that have been fought and the blood that has been shed.

I think of the billions of heroes, martyrs, villains, and beauties,
who have lived in this planet I am flying above,
the thousands of religions and the millions of leaders,
who have fought over land, hate, jealousy and love.

I think of the great scientists who have...

Read more: A Dream, A Fantasy, Flying into The Unknown

 


 

Missing Miss Pickle

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I miss the way
you sat on your stool
by the kitchen window,
meowing goodbye when I left,
hello when I came home

I miss the way
you staked a claim
to every box or bag
that came your way
or jumped into the furnace or washer

I miss the way
you ran from living room to bedroom
nagging me to be with you,
settling down to knead the afghan
while I wrote poems about you

I miss the way
you curled up on the back of my chair
suddenly waking with a “meow, meow, meow”
as though you wanted
to tell me about your dream

I miss the way
you took flying leaps at Yanni,
bowled him over while he squawked,
then scampered down the basement stairs
with him in hot pursuit

I miss the way
you jumped on top of cupboards,
scattered ornaments in your wake
or knocked just one more pile of paper,
helped with daily redecoration

I miss the way
you batted Q-tips in the bathtub,
played hockey in the hall
with ping pong balls,
then chased them down the stairs

I miss the way
you silently slipped
across my pillow;
meowed until you woke me
to demand your treats

Miss Pickle,
most of all
I miss you


The photo is owned and taken by the poet Glenda Walker-Hobbs.

BIO: Glenda (Glennis) Walker-Hobbs, a Canadian, is a long-time member of WVU, Word Weavers group, and Julia Cameron group. Secretary of her local...

Read more: Missing Miss Pickle

 


 

Surprised by Joy

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I stare outside my window
as snowflakes swirl,
cover my garden
with another white blanket

my Vancouver Island friend has moved
to a townhouse of wood and glass,
the sea shimmers silver blue,
her garden blooms
with yellow daffodils,

their blossoms a hint of hope
in a time of despair


BIO: Glenda (Glennis) Walker-Hobbs, a Canadian, is a long-time member of WVU, Word Weavers group, and Julia Cameron group. Secretary of her local writer’s group, she has published seven books of poetry and has published poetry and prose in various anthologies and Village Square. She is working on poetry books about COVID times as well as a cat book. She is working on her poetry MFA at WVU. Glennis’s Poetry Page

Read more: Surprised by Joy

 


 

Definition of a Poem

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

A poem is a spark sprung to life.
A poem is a magic inspiration.
A poem is a trail of ink across white paper.
A poem is words typed on a screen.
A poem is a crystallization of thought.
A poem is a form that drives you crazy.

A poem is a moment frozen in time.
A poem is the soul of history.
A poem is a troubadour across the ages.
A poem is a companion shared by poets.
A poem is the inner voice of the poet.

A poem is dark chocolate savoured.
A poem is a kitten that catches snowflakes.
A poem is a yellow rose with drops of dew.
A poem is a caress from a summer zephyr.
A poem is the soul of the pan flute.

A poem is a challenge.
A poem is temptation to play with words.
A poem is a way of life for the poet.



BIO: Glenda (Glennis) Walker-Hobbs, a Canadian, is a long-time member of WVU, Word Weavers group, and Julia Cameron group. Secretary of her local writer’s group, she has published seven books of poetry and has published poetry and prose in various anthologies and Village Square. She is working on poetry books about COVID times as well as a cat book. She is working on her poetry MFA at WVU. Glennis’s poetry page

Read more: Definition of a Poem

 


 

Lessons from History

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

reading about the 1918 Spanish flu
shows mistakes made by history:
parades, train trips, troopships,
overcrowded hospitals
pandemics spread by soldiers
returning from the battlefields of Europe

decimated by flu,
80% of German soldiers struck down
becomes a factor in ending the war,
healthy persons in mornings
may be dead by nightfall
from blue pneumonia
or suffocation,
drowned in their own lung fluid

bodies stacked in funeral homes,
entire families found dead,
results of pandemic
geographic decisions
made about Middle East,
have political ramifications
a century later
national health systems
leading to Medicare

is the legacy
that we have learned from history
to wash our hands,
practice social distancing?

will it work?


BIO: Glenda (Glennis) Walker-Hobbs, a Canadian, is a long-time member of WVU, Word Weavers group, and Julia Cameron group. Secretary of her local writer’s group, she has published seven books of poetry and has published poetry and prose in various anthologies and Village Square. She is working on poetry books about COVID times as well as a cat book. She is working on her poetry MFA at WVU. Glennis’s poetry page

Read more: Lessons from History

 


 

I Go Picking Seashells

by Sitharaam Jayakumar

I look at the deep blue sea,
stretching endlessly before me,
as I sit on the sands, alone, very alone,
pondering over the vicissitudes of life.

It has just been a day,
since I had buried my soul mate,
of forty-five odd years,
and grief was choking every pore of my body.

It would be so easy to walk into the sea
and do away with myself and my grief.
It would be easy to drown for I had never learned how to swim,
I rose; my mind made up to take the plunge.

At that moment, I catch sight of two young souls
with rags covering their malnourished bodies.
They were giggling and laughing,
and delightedly picking up shells from the sands.

I stop for a minute as I move towards the sea,
and instead, walk over to the two little cherubs.
I catch their eye and ask them what it is,
that is making them so happy.

The younger of the two pulls out a small bag,
and opens it carefully and lets me peep inside,
I see a multitude of multi-coloured shells,
in a variety of glorious rainbow hues.

I look at the two children in sudden wonder.
A thought pierces my heart like a vicious arrow.
In rags and with no food in their bellies,
these children can still find joy in picking seashells.

And here I am a grown-up,
unable to withstand my grief,
planning to walk into the glorious sea,
and add...

Read more: I Go Picking Seashells

 


 

Moments of Silence

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

sometimes social isolation  
is a requirement
to write a poem
 
in times of self-quarantine,
loneliness hovers over me
like a coffin cover
 
according to the calendar,
spring has arrived
but snow blankets the ground
 
hiding driveway and paths,
white vistas as far as the eye can see
instead of tulips and daffodils,
 
I am held prisoner  
by weather,
by social distancing
 
the only escape is through my pen,
suddenly isolation
becomes the solution


Photo by Marcos Paulo Prado on Unsplash


BIO: Glenda (Glennis) Walker-Hobbs, a Canadian, is a long-time member of WVU, Word Weavers group, and Julia Cameron group. Secretary of her local writer’s group, she has published seven books of poetry and has published poetry and prose in various anthologies and Village Square. She is working on poetry books about COVID times as well as a cat book. She is working on her poetry MFA at WVU. Glennis’s poetry page

Read more: Moments of Silence

 


 

The Lockdown Cyber Trip

by Louise E. Sawyer

I.  New York City

Around the world, we few gals hunkered down
around our computers, tablets, and phones,
not knowing what to expect, hoping for
a magical trip during the pandemic.
 
Facebook Event nurtured our imagination.
We flew to New York City to tour
the Empire State Building at night to view
the lights, a romantic scene via video.
 
We slept in the Roosevelt Hotel, roamed
the Garden, caught a concert at the Music
Hall, and climbed The Statue of Liberty.
We munched on scrumptious burgers and fries.

 
II. Nova Scotia

We boarded our Norwegian cruise ship
to sail the seas to Nova Scotia,
and along the way, we picked up more
passengers, creating a Facebook Group.
 
Willow hosted us in her Nova Scotia
home, showing us whimsical wood carvings,
a teapot collection, her precious dog
Marley and two cats Leila and Kaylee.
 
Crostini of homemade sourdough baguette:
tuna spread with tiny sprigs of lemon thyme;
ricotta, basil pesto, chilli flakes;
pea pesto with sliced tiny tomatoes;
 
mushroom pesto with lemon zest;
ricotta, fennel sous vide with orange zest.
Then I was introduced to tiramisu
Cheesecake *—remember Sleepless in Seattle?

Willow showed us the Bernart Maze Museum
with concrete sculptures, big spider greeted
us at the entrance. We loved the tile     
mosaic bench with music keyboard.
 
We were off to see Ovens Park, history
of gold mining. We walked the trail to view
the incredible caves entrances,
rainbow colours...

Read more: The Lockdown Cyber Trip

 


 

-=> Click Here for More Poetry <=-

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

 

 

 

21 Days of Lockdown

by

Donna Abraham Tijo

Day 1:
When Coronavirus Comes Calling
A five-year-old declares, 'I wish to always have my favourite pancake in my world.'

Day 2:
An E-mail of Hope
He sent the e-mail to the school reserving seats for his daughter for the fall session. It’s in the new city they...

Read more: 21 Days of Lockdown

 

 

 

Sugar Daddy Dreams

by

Enza Vynn-Cara

Burnt toast, avocado, honey, two poached eggs laced with turmeric and garlic, and a new vitamin concoction that makes my stomach churn, and still, I guzzle half of it down with gusto, as if it’s our first Godfather Cocktail at Carlo’s Bar.

Why, you ask?

Because...

Read more: Sugar Daddy Dreams

 

 

 

The Visitor

by

Brigitte Whiting

Madeleine saw the visitor in her Sunday school class, a man her age, maybe fortyish —she considered herself a youthful fifty —with a deep dimple in the middle of his chin. He wore no wedding ring. He introduced himself as having just moved to Cannington, and was the...

Read more: The Visitor

 

 

 

Chickens

by

Brigitte Whiting

First, there was dust everywhere, but now, far worse, there were chickens everywhere. They were pecking through the yard, leaving puffs of dust. They were roosting in the pine trees. And they clucked from morning to night. The five roosters vied for which was loudest and shrillest. Amanda...

Read more: Chickens

 

 

 

Desiree

by

Joe Cappello

I buried him in the backyard one night after a rainstorm. The soil I removed from the hole was thick and sticky and clung stubbornly to the surface of my shovel.

I connected the hose to the backyard spigot and used it to clean off the shovel. Then...

Read more: Desiree

 

 

 

The Anointing of Mary Ballard

by

Joe Cappello

The young lady entered the laboratory with her eyes cast down reverently, as though entering a church. When she reached the gurney, she pulled a chair close to it and placed the things she was carrying on a nearby table. She removed the sheet covering the body and...

Read more: The Anointing of Mary Ballard

 

 

 

Beginning at the End

by

Joe Cappello

I am in a meeting at our England location in a typical rectangular conference room walled off from the real world of work taking place outside. Suddenly, I am a spirit floating above my colleagues, as though I had died only seconds earlier and am waiting to be...

Read more: Beginning at the End

 

 

 

Hope Held My Heart

by

Chel Talleyrand

We were isolated that summer from the rest of the world. The excessive rains had pounded the fields into mosquito-infested pools, destroying our harvests of corn and beans. We heard it was worse in the cities. As food supplies depleted, guns decided distribution. Friends and families banded together...

Read more: Hope Held My Heart

 

 

 

My Carousal of Life

by

Chel Talleyrand

As a little girl, I had this recurring dream that would cause me to wake up in a cold sweat. A grand celebration was going on in a great hall, where my mother and father sat on gold thrones at the end of the room overseeing their subjects...

Read more: My Carousal of Life

 

 

 

The Tattoo

by

Donna Abraham Tijo

Red Bull is engraving the Eye of God on your chest. “It’s a private tattoo over my soul and conscience,” you murmur. “I’m an atheist, bro,” you continue, thinking of the Chotta Bheem rakhi on your wrist eons back in time. I will be brave like Bheem someday, ...

Read more: The Tattoo

 

 

 

Booklovers’ Paradise

by

Donna Abraham Tijo


‘I am a writer, but I wish I could write like that,’ said Durga, seated at the head of the rustic green, rectangular table. There were nineteen women on the sides, who turned to look. Then, some picked up their beverages and sipped them. In the background, a...

Read more: Booklovers’ Paradise

 

 

 

My Car, My Friend

by

Leona Pence

Tony Spencer applied the first coat of wax to his prized possession, a 1973 Pontiac Grand Prix. Oh, sure, it had flaws, like a smashed door and a dragging muffler, but the interior was a beaut. It had bright-red bucket seats with a gleaming silver gear mount between...

Read more: My Car, My Friend

 

 

 

Brother Bastion

by

Linda Murray

The rain that had pelted the high mountain jungle all morning stopped abruptly, and the sun gradually dissolved the lingering clouds. Insects hummed again, birds burst forth in joyous song and flowers lifted their dripping heads, spreading their petals wide to receive the sun’s bright blessing. The People, ...

Read more: Brother Bastion

 

 

 

Standard Police Report

by

Frank Richards

Standard Police Report - Inventory of Possessions - Portbou, Catalonia, Republic of Spain

27 Sep. 1940

Location: Hotel De Francia


Noted contents of subject’s hotel room as follows:


- a large steamer trunk containing books in various foreign languages, for example, Les Fleurs du mal, ...

Read more: Standard Police Report

 

 

 

Starburst

by

Brigitte Whiting

We sat, you and I, alongside the lake, watching the sky spread above us in an immense starburst, the Milky Way threaded through its center, seeming to beckon us to follow it.

"A reverse inkblot," you said.

I thought, no, no, nothing as mundane as that, but all...

Read more: Starburst

 

 

 

There Are No More Pets in My House

by

Enza Vynn-Cara

 

There is death in my house.

“It's gone to a better place,” she says. "Now flush it down the toilet and wash your hands. Breakfast is ready."

Like that, she cans Juju, our goldfish. She did the same with Didi, Ma’s parrot, ...

Read more: There Are No More Pets in My House

 

 

 

Revenge of the Fishy

by

Leona Pence & Tom Whitehead

 

 

 

Tom Whitehead: (In the deep husky Marlboro movie guys voice) HEEEEEEEEEEEER FISHY, FISHY, FISHY!

It was an early Saturday morning. He thought it was just another day of fishing, then all of a sudden out of nowhere he...

Read more: Revenge of the Fishy

 

 

 

Temp-Tation

by

Leona Pence

 

 

David Porter watched his wife and two sons as they played on the monkey bars at the park. He smiled in contentment as peals of laughter rang out. Two short weeks ago, he’d been in danger of losing his family.

...

Read more: Temp-Tation

 

 

 

Free Range Souls

by

Enza Vynn-Cara

Samael and Malachi, two brothers working for different bosses, sit on the fence dangling their booted feet each on their side of the divide. One pair of boots is caked in white droppings; the other scrubbed clean. It’s like a dare. Trespassing? Not quite. ...

Read more: Free Range Souls

 

 

 

Einaudi

by

Luann Lewis



An elderly woman shuffled up the sidewalk and took a seat on the bench across the way from me. I watched her slow steps and noticed her feet stuck in matted slippers and her swollen discolored ankles. Breathing a sigh of relief, I felt grateful...

Read more: Einaudi

 

 

 

Campfire

by

Brigitte Whiting


We sat around a campfire in the backyard that evening, our parents and us four kids, aged four to fifteen. Dan, the oldest at nineteen, was in the Army serving somewhere that Mother didn't want to tell us. "You don't need to worry," she said. "I'll...

Read more: Campfire

 

 

 

Jack and the Beanstalk

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

The global wealth distribution has been heavily off balance, the scales of capitalism have plunged so far into disproportion they will fall before they will be fair again.  Jack and his widowed mother have economically crammed a century of mourning into an egregious year but failed...

Read more: Jack and the Beanstalk

 

 

 

Lost and Found

by

Brigitte Whiting

Smelled: a gamey odor downstairs in the basement. Searched for its source but couldn’t find it.

Found: one dead mouse with reddish-brown legs and a white underbelly in the basement bathroom. A deer mouse. Picked it up with tongs, took it outdoors, and tossed...

Read more: Lost and Found

 

 

 

One Hundred Yards

by

McCord Chapman

 

 

A deep sigh came just as Jason was pulling off the highway onto Route 11. He was close and could feel his back tingling as if his whole spine had suddenly fallen asleep. This happened every time he headed into a small town, no...

Read more: One Hundred Yards

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

A Red Squirrel's Narrative

by

Brigitte Whiting

This past summer and fall upturned me. The birdfeeder, usually so generous, abdicated her job, and I had to scrounge for food during the long wet season. My mother told me it was unusual to have such a rainy August and October. She would know. I was born...

Read more: A Red Squirrel's Narrative

 

 

 

Talk-Back, Dear Lia, on FnF

by

Joy Manné

This essay is part of a Talk-Back series – I owe that title to Karen. A Talk-Back is my response to a chapter in a WVU textbook, my communication with its author.

This Talk-Back is a response to the exercise in Lia Purpura’s chapter, ‘On Miniatures,’ (Flas...

Read more: Talk-Back, Dear Lia, on FnF

 

 

 

Reunion

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

“Why the F--- Do I want to see a F—ing alligator jump up to eat a F—ing chicken hanging on a clothesline?”

 

The last time I hung out with my Uncle Dan is when I dragged him to Gatorland to do something touristic. ...

Read more: Reunion

 

 

 

A Fear of Broken Things

by

Angela Hess

“Does he look at you?”

 

My cousin’s innocent question triggers a flashing red warning light in my brain. My baby doesn’t look at me. I assumed he was too young still, but my cousin’s baby is only four days older than mine, and they are...

Read more: A Fear of Broken Things

 

 

 

Wild Roses Growing in the Ditch

by

Louise E. Sawyer


It is a joy to hold a lovely scene, a delightful moment, in memory.
~Marjolein Bastin

Frank was four and I was five and getting ready to start school when Dad and Mom moved us into a new house on Glasgow Avenue—a three-bedroom home that wasn't quite finished—in...

Read more: Wild Roses Growing in the Ditch

 

 

 

Hazardous Happenings

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

At some point, everything comes to an apex.  Status quo can only persist for so long before the natural balance of the universe calls for consumption, and then it all comes down to a choice.  That’s it, a lone decision that ultimately leads down a pathway to a higher level...

Read more: Hazardous Happenings

 

 

 

Dealing with Rejection

by

Carolann Malley


Sending your writing out into the world can be scary whether you write poetry, fiction, or nonfiction. But, at some point, if you are a serious writer, you will do it. Getting a rejection letter back can be more devastating than asking a girl out as a teenager and...

Read more: Dealing with Rejection

 

 

 

Backyard Neighbors

by

Brigitte Whiting


I took an hour to walk outdoors in my yard, first to clip dead honeysuckle branches, pluck dandelions, and then to fill the birdbaths and feeders. And to ponder what to write about one of my backyard neighbors, the gray squirrel, Sciurus Carolineses. Its name is derived from the...

Read more: Backyard Neighbors

 

 

 

Betrayal

by

Angela Hess


My four-year-old son has a friend over. I overhear my son’s friend tell my two-year-old daughter, “Gracie, you can’t come in here.” Then my son’s voice: “It’s okay, she can play with us. Here, Gracie,” he says, presumably handing her one of the toys they are playing with. My mama...

Read more: Betrayal

 

 

 

The Weight of Emotions

by

Angela Hess

  I can hear my parents’ raised voices upstairs. They are fighting again. I turn on the sink faucet, letting the sound of the running water drown out their voices. I thrust my hands in the nearly scalding hot water and methodically scrub each dish in the sink...

Read more: The Weight of Emotions

 

 

 

With Emily on the Death Carriage

by

Nitin Mishra

After a hard day of labor
As I was hurrying my way back home.
A black Carriage stopped...

Read more: With Emily on the Death Carriage

 

 

 

2020 Time of Haiku

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

DNA's protein coat-
Stripped me of maskless days, now
I eat popcorn alone


Are you kidding me!
No...

Read more: 2020 Time of Haiku

 

 

 

The Nature of Time

by

Sitharaam Jayakumar

Time flows from infinity to infinity,
with no beginning or end in sight,
unlike men and women who...

Read more: The Nature of Time

 

 

 

Some Heart-felt Emotions about My Motherland

by

Sitharaam Jayakumar

Oh! My motherland, my heart and soul,
as I watch dark clouds hover in your skies,
my eyes...

Read more: Some Heart-felt Emotions about My Motherland

 

 

 

A Dream, A Fantasy, Flying into The Unknown

by

Sitharaam Jayakumar

I am once again a youth in my teens,
dreaming of flying high up into the clouds.
I...

Read more: A Dream, A Fantasy, Flying into The Unknown

 

 

 

Missing Miss Pickle

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I miss the way
you sat on your stool
by the kitchen window,
meowing goodbye when I left,
...

Read more: Missing Miss Pickle

 

 

 

Surprised by Joy

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I stare outside my window
as snowflakes swirl,
cover my garden
with another white blanket

my Vancouver Island...

Read more: Surprised by Joy

 

 

 

Definition of a Poem

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

A poem is a spark sprung to life.
A poem is a magic inspiration.
A poem is a...

Read more: Definition of a Poem

 

 

 

Lessons from History

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

reading about the 1918 Spanish flu
shows mistakes made by history:
parades, train trips, troopships,
overcrowded hospitals
pandemics...

Read more: Lessons from History

 

 

 

I Go Picking Seashells

by

Sitharaam Jayakumar

I look at the deep blue sea,
stretching endlessly before me,
as I sit on the sands, alone, ...

Read more: I Go Picking Seashells

 

 

 

Moments of Silence

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

sometimes social isolation  
is a requirement
to write a poem
 
in times of self-quarantine,
loneliness hovers...

Read more: Moments of Silence

 

 

 

The Lockdown Cyber Trip

by

Louise E. Sawyer

I.  New York City

Around the world, we few gals hunkered down
around our computers, tablets, and phones,
...

Read more: The Lockdown Cyber Trip

 

 

 

On the Farm

by

Maryann (Max) Maxson

Greene’s’ farmhouse
took on smells of hay and silage
cow and sheep scents brought in
on men’s overalls and
...

Read more: On the Farm

 

 

 

The Estate

by

KG Newman

One day after I die I’ll have a shiny dedication plate nailed to a bench
along a trail...

Read more: The Estate

 

 

 

Thankful

by

Samantha Vincent

I can taste you in my coffee,
So I no longer drink it black.
I can feel your...

Read more: Thankful

 

 

 

Our Neighbourhood Playground

by

Louise E. Sawyer

We neighbourhood children gravitate
in the late afternoon to the large empty lot
at the corner of Scotia...

Read more: Our Neighbourhood Playground

 

 

 

Immediate Action Required

by

KG Newman

It’s 100 seconds to midnight
with nuclear arms re-normalized and
climate change addressed by fine speeches,
while on...

Read more: Immediate Action Required

 

 

 

About It

by

KG Newman

For years I tried to remember the moment
as less heartbreaking, somehow —
the day a dad realizes...

Read more: About It

 

 

 

American Refugees

by

KG Newman

At the foreign arboretum
we zigzag among species
which may or may not
be poisonous to our love
...

Read more: American Refugees

 

 

 

Monday/Wednesday/Friday And Every Other Weekend

by

KG Newman

Half the week you live a very full life. The other half you pretend not to care, swallow...

Read more: Monday/Wednesday/Friday And Every Other Weekend

 

 

 

Sadness

by

Michael Scanlon

Oh, what I'd give for a peaceful soul;
my mind at rest I'd want no more,
content amid...

Read more: Sadness

 

 

 

First Impressions – Walter

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

today I meet Walter
for the first time

I know my brother-in-law
only through pictures,
from his mother’s...

Read more: First Impressions – Walter

 

 

 

Abandoned House

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

lichen covered, grey
boards, paint free,
the old house sits
surrounded by poplar trees,
and overgrown grass

doors, ...

Read more: Abandoned House

 

 

 

Good Intentions

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

I sat down to do my work today,
but a visitor came calling
and distracted me

I meant...

Read more: Good Intentions

 

 

 

How to Define a Cat

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs

(with input from Farley, Yanni, Glory and Blake)

A cat is a stylist who licks your locks.
A cat is...

Read more: How to Define a Cat

 

 

 

I Am Old Now

by

Chel Talleyrand

I am old now.
I drag myself to greet my day now filled with the fog of medicines...

Read more: I Am Old Now

 

 

 

The Wind Excites Me

by

Chel Talleyrand

The wind excites me.
It speaks of adventures
I dare not journey.

It visits me
to speak to...

Read more: The Wind Excites Me

 

 

 

listen to the wind words

by

Maryann (Max) Maxson

we learned to lie
in the garden
behind the mask
discarded innocence
aware now of space between

bride...

Read more: listen to the wind words

 

 

 

Commandment VIII Hiawatha/Geronimo/Sitting Bull

by

Maryann (Max) Maxson

I will be the people’s tears

I cry for justice
freedom
respect denied

I cry for lies
told...

Read more: Commandment VIII Hiawatha/Geronimo/Sitting Bull

 

 

 

Submontane Home

by

Maryann (Max) Maxson

I followed the familiar trail
through maple and pine
along old logging ruts
crossing Plank Road at the...

Read more: Submontane Home

 

 

 

Awake

by

Maryann (Max) Maxson

the day I under

stood

the birds echoing chirps to the squirrels
chittering to the trees and to...

Read more: Awake

 

 

 

Think

by

Gerardine Gail Baugh

You cannot take someone else's land,
because you stripped and overpopulated your own.

You cannot spew poison in...

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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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The World in Her Hands

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Oak

by

Craig Gettman

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Flower

by

Craig Gettman

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Berries

by

Craig Gettman

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Winding Road

by

Craig Gettman

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Sunset - April 2020

by

Craig Gettman

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Portrait of Her

by

Vincenzina Caratozzolo

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Beach at Dusk

by

Vincenzina Caratozzolo

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Lonesome Horses

by

Vincenzina Caratozzolo

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Get Out the Penitentiary

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Tulips or Three?

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Rock and Roll

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Garden of Hearts

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Evil Eye-pad

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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