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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.


Late Summer

by Debbie Noland

The winner of the April 2019 Poetry Contest!

  
Summer gasps its last hot breaths,
panting on the edge of night.
Against dark curtains of the trees

the earliest leaves let go and drop,
float out like blackened paper bits
escaping from a neighbor’s fire.

Somewhere yonder near the lake
an angler wets a twilight hook
or maybe watches moonbeams glide
across a black floor, ripple-free.

Bio: Debbie Noland is a retired, Missouri college writing instructor. Her poetry collections are: Throw the Rock (2014), Touch a Cloud (2015), and Harvest the Stars (2018).  She wrote, The Legacy of Plywood U: History of State Fair Community College 1966-2002 (2002). She has published poems, essays, and short stories. Blog: Googie's Attic  FaceBook

Image by Goemedien on Pixabay
pixabay.com/photos/lake-water-brombachsee-sunset-tree-80780/ 

Read more: Late Summer


Teenage Turmoil - (Aged 16)

by Miss Natalie Sackstein.

Part of the series: #1 THREE AGES OF WOMAN

TEENAGE TURMOIL
by (Aged 16)

My mind is but a troubled sea, as ever-changing as the tide,
As inconsistent as the moon... on restless wings my fancies ride.
My life is either night or day – either black or white,
Dusk and dawn aren’t long to stay, like a grey bird bent on flight.

At times life seems to be
As futile as a funeral fire
As it fiercely destroys the desolate dead
And consumes a corpse with its ire.

Yet through a precious kindly word or wishes of good luck,
As if on heaven’s holy harps the chords of Hope are struck.
And life seems like a radiant bride who stands with Hope in hand,
Asleep to the blackness of this life, in the whirl of her white wonderland

Such magic is ephemeral, exquisite ecstasy subdued,
Awakened soon to face this life now differently construed.
Soon I hear that shrill, sharp screech of the ghostly phantom Fear,
Devilish despair displaces Hope, with a satanic sneer.

Just like a fevered temperature I find emotions raging,
No amber – either red or green; extreme – and always changing.
I’ll search to find a calm, grey dusk, I’ll seek an amber dawn,
When volatile emotions calm, maturity is born.

END

Bio: Gallerist—Founder of Natalie Knight Gallery, Hyde Park, South Africa www.knightgalleries.net 

Feature writer, playwright, art curator, editor, researcher, and cultural historian.

Barmy Days- Play produced...

Read more: Teenage Turmoil - (Aged 16)

 


 

Frustration - (Aged 28)

by Mrs. Natalie Liknaitzky

Part of the series: #2 THREE AGES OF WOMAN


FRUSTRATION
BY (Aged 28)

Creation stifled. Each new thought conceived
Is quickly strangled. Still-born.
To be a mother – and nothing else?
Nagged and pestered – no free time?

And then a brief escape.
An idea begins again.
But in the middle there’s a wail.
Insistent, demanding my attention.
It must be satisfied.
The dummy is administered.
The bleeding knee mercurochromed.
The homework done, mouths fed, bodies washed, stories told,
Then all in bed…


Once again, there is a thought
Creation stirring in my mind.
But, oh, how bladders and childish thirsts
Again destroy the concentration,
The constant flow of water in and water out
Is then attended to.
Angelic smiles in devilish eyes
Promise obedience in goodnight prayers.
Will sleep at last descend on well-scrubbed, tired faces?

As hands rest once more on the elusive keys
And the brain begins reluctantly to think
Can any phrase exasperate a mother’s ear
more than ‘Mommy, mommy, please come here’?
‘Control yourself. You’re bigger. You can kill!
Would you murder what you have created!?’
Perhaps I should rejoice – they want me still,
The time may not be far away
When I will call –
And will my needs go unfulfilled?

END.

Bio: Gallerist—Founder of Natalie Knight Gallery, Hyde Park, South Africa
www.knightgalleries.net

NATALIE KNIGHT PRODUCTIONS C.C.
Member: N.G. Liknaitzky No. CK 95/42665/23

Feature writer, playwright, art curator, editor, researcher and cultural
...

Read more: Frustration - (Aged 28)

 


 

Multipotentailite - (Aged 80)

by Natalie Knight

Part of the series: #3 THREE AGES OF WOMAN.

MULTIPOTENTAILITE
(Inspired by Lydia Davis to write a story from a word.)
BY (AGED 80)


A whole story about one word rather appalled me

But I was intrigued by a word that my had editor had called me.

It was a word I had never heard but it sounded alright.

The word she used to describe me is

Multi –potentialite.

Here is my story, successes, defeats
in iambic pentameters, limericks and beats.
Its more like a rap song, you’d hear on the streets.

A word becomes poem, a note becomes a song.
A step becomes a statement, two rights become a wrong.

The curving and swerving, changes and loss,
no fear of failure, no varnishing gloss,
The challenge has been to discover and glean
what in reality, does the word mean?

Can I explain it, in the parts that contain it?

I am tempted to Google, to help my thinking unwind
But limit myself to the words I can find
that are rushing like lighting -right here in my mind

These are the thoughts switched on in my brain
Are they limping cart horses, bogged down with key chain
or racing like champions, or a fast express train?

Don’t let these words, with no rhythm or rhyme
Be assessed or assembled by a doctor of mine
These wild streams of words from a subconscious state
May reveal far too much of my conscience or fate.


...

Read more: Multipotentailite - (Aged 80)

 


 

By Late Winter

by Brigitte Whiting


My unfinished deck waits beneath two feet of snow.
The driveway is one long strip of ice,
and the whole white yard lies trackless.


A sunlit window whispers, look closer.
A spider crawls along the outside window frame,
struts, stretches, yawns, and tucks itself back
into a knot to sleep.


This poem was written in Free Verse.

Bio: Brigitte Whiting lives in Maine and often uses settings and experiences from her backyard in her writing. She has completed the Nonfiction MFA at WVU and is working toward her MFA Certificate in Fiction. Her stories and poems have been published in Village Square.

Read more: By Late Winter

 


 

Joy Crawls Out Of Her Bag

by Louise Sawyer




In memoriam of Joy, my animal companion, who died January 9, 2018.

Joy crawls out of her sleeping bag,
Her little sleeping bag of fleece
And runs from me. She plays a gag.
She is very fast and such a tease!

Her little sleeping bag of fleece
With blue and purple flying fairies.
She is very fast and such a tease.
Are there such things as fairy cavies?

There are blue and purple fairies
On my Joy’s soft sleeping pouch.
Are there such things as fairy cavies
Who start running with a crouch?

My Joy is in her sleeping pouch.
She looks at me with cautious glee,
Beginning her run with a crouch,
She jumps out of the bag to flee.

She looks at me with cautious glee,
She runs into her sleeping bag
But she quickly jumps out to flee,
Playing a simple game of tag.

Running into her sleeping bag,
Joy, my precious guinea pig friend,
Finishes with her game of tag.
She is finally at the end.

Joy, my precious guinea pig friend,
Enjoys her wee evening massage
On my bed where she comes to an end.
I smile at my memory mirage.

Oh, if only Joy were alive,
Running from me, playing her gag.
I yearn today for a grief reprieve,
“Joy, please crawl out of your sleeping bag.”

NOTE: Cavy = a guinea pig

Written in a Pantoum form

Bio: Louise Sawyer lives on Vancouver Island and enjoys the ocean, evergreens, ...

Read more: Joy Crawls Out Of Her Bag

 


 

Cyber Sisters

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

we meet in online classes,
strangers in cyber space,
we share
a love of poetry,
a desire to learn,
to practice our craft

we gradually
share our poems, quaking
at what comments will be written,
we are vulnerable,
expose our souls,
fear hurt

we learn to trust,
become colleagues,
we share highs, lows,
moments of joy,
times of sadness

we evolve into friends,
cyber sister poets

Bio: Glennis Hobbs (Glenda Walker-Hobbs) is a Canadian writer and member of Word Weavers and Julia Cameron.
She is a long-time member of WVU. She is secretary of her local writer's group. She has published eight books of poetry and had her poetry and prose published in various anthologies.

Read more: Cyber Sisters

 


 

Winter Ballet

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs




snowflakes swirl in a dance
hurl themselves against the window
pine trees rock branches to and fro,
gently, then furiously
wind moans
dashes snow against the deck
hurtles it through the fence

inside, ginger cat
tries to catch snowflakes
jumps back
when snow thunks on glass
he scuttles behind the chair
curls up against the hot air register


This is a duel-voice poem written by the poet and Farley Winston Furball

Bio:  Glenda (Glennis) 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 writer's group. She has published seven books of poetry and had her poetry and prose published in various anthologies: GlennisPoetry

Read more: Winter Ballet

 


 

Computers and Catspeak

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs


I move the mouse
over the pad
type in password

mouse?
did I hear the word mouse?
where is it?
I`m all set for a morning of hunting

I open my Windows program

she said she was going to open the windows
ah fresh air
maybe I can sneak outside

now
where’s that file
I may need to cut and paste

cut, file
it’s time for claw clip torture
I’ll just hide under the couch

I need a cat picture
jpeg or gif

jpeg? what`s that?
where did that cat come from?
hisssssssssssss! fttttttttttttttt!
whack! take that you intruder

this file is 32 bytes
I better save it on the hard drive

bites
I’m starving
where’s my cat chow?

I’ve finished the poem
now to hit print

there’s paper coming out of that plastic box
wonder if I can catch it
stop yelling! Mom
you’re hurting my ears

I’d better get this poem mailed
so it will meet the contest deadline

what will happen if I touch this key
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT
yikes! I’m in trouble
time for another cat nap or two

Farley! Where are you?

Bio:  Glenda (Glennis) 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 writer's group. She has published seven books of poetry and had her poetry and prose published in various anthologies: GlennisPoetry

 

Read more: Computers and Catspeak

 


 

A Soldier’s Letter Home – A Found Poem

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs



Based on letters by Private George Walker, written June 12, 1918-July 17, 1918

I got your letter just about lights out last night.
I roused myself, lit a candle, read your letter.

Never run away with the idea
that a letter is too long for me.
I always enjoy your letters
feel better after them.

It will only be a day or two
and I shall have been away
from Canada a year.
It has gone quick to me.

I eagerly look forward to the time for leave,
have been over here eight months,
am the only one on the draft,
that hasn't been away from the battalion.

Others have either been sick or wounded.
I would rather stay here than have to go as a nice Blighty,
not that way for me if I can help it.

We are in a small village and
the river runs through it.

The Y started up a Bible class in this Battalion
I was there to the second meeting.
I should have been at the first one,
but was on guard so couldn't get there

We have had exercises, sports, ball games.
Tonight there is a concert party.
There is a Y library where we
can change our books.

If us fellows here were to worry
about things, we should either
commit suicide or go batty.

One of the boys who came over with us from Canada
worried so much about being in the infantry
that he was taken away to the...

Read more: A Soldier’s Letter Home – A Found Poem

 


 

Ottawa Reverie

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs



As I leaf through my manuscript of Ottawa poems, “In the Shadow of the Tower,” I decide to check the postcard album I started fifty years ago when I first moved to Ottawa. Each postcard is a milestone in my life. I remember that the first postcard is of Parliament Hill, which is the heart of the city and the nation. A tsunami of homesickness engulfs me and I decide to hop on a plane for Ottawa.

I walk towards the Parliament Buildings. They are Gothic-style structures atop the Hill, which juts out into the Ottawa River. Across the river is the city of Gatineau. The hexagon shaped library is made of a different stone. It is the only part of the original wooden buildings, which did not burn in 1916.

I stroll up the asphalt path, which leads to the Centennial Flame still burning fifty years after I saw it lit. I check for the Manitoba coat of arms, pause to throw in a loonie. At one time I would throw in a penny and dream of diamonds and my six-foot curly-haired blond boyfriend.

I climb the steps leading to the Centre Block. On a stage set in front, I saw Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II address her loyal subjects and cut the Centennial cake on July 1, 1967.

I stop beneath the four corners of the Peace Tower to have my picture taken with a scarlet, tunicked Mountie. I recall youthful ambitions to catch a red-breasted Canuck. ...

Read more: Ottawa Reverie

 


 

The Room

by rolly




I hear little drips the leaky faucet makes
amid violent silence of the passing night

how I long for that crisp laughter,
or those soft murmurs of sweet nothing
you whisper in my ears
while you caress its tiny lobes
with your soft gentle touch

this room heard your moans,
saw us engage in warm embrace,
torrid kisses. The unity of our flesh
bear witness to the ecstasy we share

This room, now your prison.

Not a single wall could mistake
your agony for ecstasy.
Not your closed eyes, clenched fist
or pale face. This is not what this room
is used to seeing.

I hear the leaky faucet
in time with the IV drip.


Written in Free Verse

Bio: Rolly is from the Philippines. He is a former Art teacher and Art Coordinator in basic education. He retired in 2018. He is an artist who paints in oil and watercolor. He uses writing’s discipline to enhance his views and perspective thereby enriching his skills as a visual artist.

Blog- turo ni tito

Poetry Blog: soft grumbles  

Facebook

Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay
pixabay.com/vectors/dripping-faucet-drip-drop-28936/ 

 

 

 

 

Read more: The Room

 


 

Speedy, My Reptilian Twin

by Lina Sophia Rossi




The house seems different, quiet and empty
despite being filled with people, cats, and dogs.
No longer swishing or pitter-patter,
the sounds of Speedy swimming are silenced.

I pass by her tank, look; there is a void.
There is a void in my heart and house space.
“Don’t remember a day without Speedy,
my red-eared slider reptilian twin.

My first birthday gift from my father;
palm tree, lily pad, kidney-shaped tank,
water and a tiny red-eared slider.
I named her Speedy since she walked so fast,

Dad fed her chopped meat and dog vitamins,
turtle flakes, pellets, greens, and live insects.
She flourished, grew and grew into an adult,
dinner plate sized reptilian beauty.

Speedy was fast to scurry across the lawn,
basking and swimming in her kiddie pool.
When I turned, in the lawn she dug a hole.
To my surprise, the hole was filled with eggs.

Once, dad put a turtle in her tank,
he thought she could use some social company.
Brother thought he had his town turtle too.
Come morn’, his turtle was dead, had no limbs.

Territorial or set in her ways,
perhaps not into socialization,
I knew her eggs were unfertilized.
When she laid eggs, we knew she was female.

Oh, how I’ll miss my reptilian twin,
I’d call her name and she’d look up at me,
with her beautiful beak and greenish eyes,
happy to see me for her meal or treat.

She started out in a plastic aquarium
then grew into a...

Read more: Speedy, My Reptilian Twin

 


 

Metaphorically Speaking

by Lina Sophia Rossi




They say life is like a bowl of cherries
sweet, juicy, tasty. Watch out for the pits.
Isn’t that what Erma Bombeck once said?
No, but: “what am I doing in the pits?”
(which contain cyanide-like amygdalin).
She’s long dead, a complicated transplant.

Instead, I was dealt the poison berries,
So similar to shiny red cherries,
Or tomato like Jerusalem Cherries,
Holly berries, mistletoe or yaw seeds.
However sliced, they are still toxic.

Death from pleasure of the ingestion,
Like the serpent in Eden, spoke to Eve,
With fruit in hand, she tempted Adam.
“Just a little bite, it tastes so right.”
What was the real forbidden fruit?

Some say grape, apple, fig, carob, estrog,
Citron, pear, wheat berry, quince or tamarind,
Or colorful psilocybin mushrooms.
Many say it was a pomegranate.
But really, it’s an extended metaphor
For anything immoral or illegal.

Don’t become the original sinner
Eating from the tree of good and evil,
Eating from the tree of knowledge.
Now eating is a plague for all sinners,
All now are gluttonous and insatiable.

Many watch their weight and waistline go up.
Others with excesses of recreations,
Be it drugs, drink or sexual desires.
Not a thought of balance or right from wrong.
Hedonistic hymn is their only song.

Some choose self-denial and self-abuse,
Engorge, then purge all they once had eaten.
Their lack of self-esteem can’t be beaten.
Actions depend on how others treat them.
Choose to wither and cut themselves to pieces.

Piglet is...

Read more: Metaphorically Speaking

 


 

Ligature Ideations

by Lina Sophia Rossi




From the doorjamb, staff had to cut her down,
now she was an amorphous, lifeless mound,
large form lying on the terrazzo floor or ground,
covered with a blue bed throw, except for toes.
Her plump, ‘bee-stung’ lips speak no other sounds.
She looked like a hairdressers’ mannequin
with a peaceful, plastic-rubberized gaze,
glassy, glazed yellow tinted eyes,
with large rusty conjunctival hemorrhages (like clouds).
Hidden in neck skinfolds, a thin blue line,
fingerprint of a twisted knotted sheet.
Happy to decorate the Christmas tree.
Able to comfort other distressed patients,
while planning a dramatic exit.
By the power of many pentagrams,
want to leave or send us all to hell.
So proud to declare your cause of death,
express one-way ticket to hell, hung self.

(Rest In Peace)


Written in Free Verse

Bio: Lina Sophia Rossi poems have been published in Village Square, Horror Writers Association’s Poetry Showcase Volumes III and IV. She has written poems in Il Voce, an Italian Literary Magazine of SUNY Stony Brook. A member of Writer’s Village University, Horror Writers Association, Romance Writers of America, RWA Kiss of Death and Savvy Authors. Website  - Facebook

 

Read more: Ligature Ideations

 


 

Never Sober, Always Arguing

by Lina Sophia Rossi




Arguing chips away at my soul.
How can I feel half, when part of a whole?
Drink yet another beer, being so bold.
When God made you, I think he broke the mold.
I miss warm, soulful times filled with laughter.
Hate to think we turned into a disaster.

If I knew, I’d avoid the disaster.
We had synchronicity of the soul,
Great talks, passionate nights filled with laughter.
Attraction of equal parts to be whole.
I hope we can enhance the old broken-down mold.
Wish for you sobriety, I’m so bold.

Your lifestyle is a “death sentence” in bold.
‘Trying to divert medical disaster.
You filled with fermentation yeast, no mold.
How estranged and far I feel from your soul.
Shriveling and shivering outside of the whole.
I sit and reminisce of our laughter.

Silence is deafening; no laughter.
The sunrise and sunshine are much too bold.
I feel so void and empty, far from whole.
As if my shadow follows, is disaster.
Feel the emptiness and wound in your soul?
Love “Il Davide”, where’s the statue’s mold?

Could wish to make a man from Michelangelo’s mold.
Never to hear footsteps of children or laughter.
Our absence of offspring has killed my soul.
Why lie about seeking parentage? Bold.
Everything you touch becomes a disaster.
More of a loner, never want to be whole.

Sabotage any chance of feeling whole.
Fulfill the never sober loner mold.
Antisocial or just love to cause disaster?
All day in a bar...

Read more: Never Sober, Always Arguing

 


 

Your Call to Say Hi, Gone to Hell

by Lina Sophia Rossi




Why call, then yell I interrupted?
To talk to you, gives me great displeasure.
My personal peace has been disrupted.
Conversation isn’t something treasured.

To talk to you, gives me great displeasure.
Why be a saboteur against our marriage?
Your soliloquy is only treasured.
The way you think and act, I’m disparaged.

Why be a saboteur against our marriage?
Synchronicity once joined our two souls.
The way you talk and act, I’m disparaged.
Is another beer or our love your goal?

Synchronicity once joined our two souls.
Adding a few words, makes you go ballistic.
Is another beer or our love your goal?
Do we have a future? Be realistic.

Adding a few words, makes you go ballistic.
My personal peace has been disrupted.
Do we have a future? Be realistic.
Why call, then yell I interrupted?


Written using the Pantoum form

Bio: Lina Sophia Rossi poems have been published in Village Square, Horror Writers Association’s Poetry Showcase Volumes III and IV. She has written poems in Il Voce, an Italian Literary Magazine of SUNY Stony Brook. A member of Writer’s Village University, Horror Writers Association, Romance Writers of America, RWA Kiss of Death and Savvy Authors. Website  - Facebook

Photo by Moose Photos from Pexels

Read more: Your Call to Say Hi, Gone to Hell

 


 

Waiting for the Rain

by Helen Rossiter



Mavis Bone with her face as crinkled as a brown paper bag sits quiet and still in the ancestor’s rocker, its green paint faded to gray and peeled, its runners warped, and she feels the hot sun’s sting on her withered arms,

and with milky eyes she looks at the sky burned high above and wonders if the showers will come, if the dry, cracked earth will swallow the rain and feed the roots of the thirsty oak that hugs her cottage with its weatherboard bleached, its shingles loose and rattling on the roof,

home to a gnarly crow and a nest of mice which are food for the crow on a day like today when the sun is too hot, the only cloud a ribbon of smoke from the far-away factory where Mavis Bone worked when she was young and her life lay ahead,

sharp as lightning.

Mavis Bone with her paper bag face and her milk-white eyes waits for the rain.

And waits.



A Prose Poem.

Bio: Helen Rossiter lives in Ottawa, Canada. Her fiction awards include winner of the Alice Munro Festival Short Story contest (2013) and the Canadian Authors Association short story award.  Helen’s story Frostbite’ was nominated for the Journey Prize by Agnes and True. Other stories have been published in literary journals. This is her first attempt at prose poetry.

Facebook Page

Image by www.pexels.com/photo/people-sand-desert-dry-40509/ 

Read more: Waiting for the Rain

 


 

Christmas Birds

by Debbie Noland



Just above the power lines
that stretch along the road, the birds
on Christmas morning swarm, and then

at some internal cue, they land
entire flock at once, and know
in each small mind their place precise

among the rest; their order clear,
transforming line to ribbon, wrapping
gifts for human eyes that glance
that moment toward a miracle.

Bio: Debbie Noland is a retired, Missouri college writing instructor. Her poetry collections are: Throw the Rock (2014), Touch a Cloud (2015), and Harvest the Stars (2018).  She wrote, The Legacy of Plywood U: History of State Fair Community College 1966-2002 (2002). She has published poems, essays, and short stories. Blog: Googie's Attic  FaceBook

 Photo by Elizabeth Tr. Armstrong from Pexels
www.pexels.com/photo/silhouette-photogra...tricity-line-680230/ 

Read more: Christmas Birds

 


 

Stragglers

by Debbie Noland



Two pelicans left in the cove
this brisk November afternoon
must surely know it’s time to leave.

The dock marina store is dark;
the carp already gone down deep.
A patch of early snow persists.

We watch the birds and they watch us,
and surely think us foolish that,
awaiting one more summer day,
we’re just now cleaning out the boat.

Bio: Debbie Noland is a retired, Missouri college writing instructor. Her poetry collections are: Throw the Rock (2014), Touch a Cloud (2015), and Harvest the Stars (2018).  She wrote, The Legacy of Plywood U: History of State Fair Community College 1966-2002 (2002). She has published poems, essays, and short stories. Blog: Googie's Attic  FaceBook

Read more: Stragglers

 


 

San Luis Valley Sunshine

by Frankie Colton




Summer sky azure
Thunderheads billow rain falls
Warm sunshine-filled days

Golden leaves falling
Fall breeze whispers winter comes
Crisp morning sunshine

Winter cold chills toes
Snowflakes gently fall, sun shines
Snow diamonds glisten

Wind howls day and night
Dust stings eyes, green shoots appear
Spring sunshine brings joy




Haiku.

Bio: Frankie Colton grew up and has retired to the beautiful San Luis Valley in southern Colorado, where she and her husband enjoy life with their pets. Frankie's essays, poetry, and photos have been published in local anthologies.  Her 55-word haiku speaks of the sun that shines in all seasons in the Valley.  She is CEO, Operations Director at Alacrity House Publishing LLC.

Image by www.pexels.com/photo/autumn-barn-colorado-colorful-221502/ 

Read more: San Luis Valley Sunshine

 


 

Bathroom Ekphrastic

by Debbie Noland



It’s dank and dark and dingy
in the old cabin bathroom.
The narrow steps stretch downward
with their cold, metal handrail.

Rust paints the sink where
water drips through summers.
The plumbing speaks a language made
of grunts and thumps and screeches.

It’s eighty-five, this cabin
with its bathroom like a dungeon.
For decades clammy concrete walls
have scoffed at decoration,

have cast off countless layers
when painted brightest yellow--
that is, ‘til fifty years ago,
when Bob brought down his oils

and painted over cracks and peels
around the ancient fixtures
a host of pinkest petals
to cry out with their beauty,

until they, too, were covered
with newer coats of yellow.
But patiently Bob’s flowers
lay underneath until,

refusing to be stifled,
they dared again to blossom,
to bathe the room in brightness
though the artist’s hand lay still.

This cabin in the north woods
holds layers of its family,
feels the textures, hears the hearts
of each new generation,

leaving them a masterpiece,
a most exquisite treasure.
Bob saw that years ago the day
he dipped his brush in pink.


"Bathroom Ekphrastic" was written last summer while visiting a friend’s family cabin in northern Minnesota.

Bio: Debbie Noland is a retired, Missouri college writing instructor. Her poetry collections are: Throw the Rock (2014), Touch a Cloud (2015), and Harvest the Stars (2018).  She wrote, The Legacy of Plywood U: History of State Fair Community College 1966-2002 (2002). She has published poems, essays, and...

Read more: Bathroom Ekphrastic

 


 

Ice-Breaking Revisited

by Christina Huizar



I met my love – my love was fair
His most chance word fascinating
His every move a mystery
I watched him with calf-eyes
As he crossed the room
And sighed when he took my hand

His kisses tasted of scotch
Left the flavor of vice on my lips
I didn't mind
I like a man with a hobby
And his words were sweet enough

Between his thighs I reached
I make no excuse

I was a woman afire
Weakened by wantonness
Deranged from desire
Swooning with salacity

Let us just say
Most anxious to feel
that most ardent proof of his love

But 'twas not to be

For I found that his love had grown cold
And was inattentive at best
Disinterested at worst
My overtures could not
Stir a fire whiskey-drenched

I would not be consoled
His cuddles availed him not
"Never happened before", indeed!
Will never happen again, for a certainty

With tears and beseeching glances
I bid my love farewell
For words are pretty and devotion dear
But platonic friends I have aplenty

***This was written as a playful Talk-Back poem, to the famous Ogden Nash poem "Reflections on Ice-Breaking.

Bio: Christina Huizar lives in Austin, Texas with her boyfriend and three cats. When she's not managing a bed and breakfast in her day job, she can usually be found rescuing stray cats and writing historical fiction.

Image: www.pexels.com/photo/adult-alcohol-alcoholic-beauty-206527/ 

Read more: Ice-Breaking Revisited

 


 

Boardwalk Stroll – A Prose Poem

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs)

My morning stroll leads me to the east end of Flinty’s Boardwalk by Del’s Cairn. A replica of Flintabattey Flonatin on his model submarine perches atop a pole. Tourists clad in summer clothes saunter along the Boardwalk. A young couple stops me and asks me to take their picture with Flinty in the background.

 

Brown granite cliffs rise out of the waters of Ross Lake. Small pine trees jut out of the rocks. Homes perch on top of the rocks like tiny dollhouses, which are reflected upside down in the water.

 

The smokestack rises 825 feet above the city like a giant concrete sentinel. The aroma of greasy French fries wafts its way from Joe’s Burger Palace. After ten minutes of walking, I plunk myself down on a concrete bench to watch the waves gently lap the shores. A train whistle pierces the silence. The morning ore train rumbles past on the tracks above the boardwalk

 

Boardwalk stroll, as I approach the East Street Apartments, the loud sounds of rushing water fill the air. I stand on the bridge and take a deep breath and exhale it. Rapids hurl themselves over rocks and dash swiftly into an inlet of the shoreline. I arrive at an open area that parallels Manitoba Avenue. Rows of poplar and pine march alongside the route.

 

I see names charred onto the boards including my husband’s and my names. This was...

Read more: Boardwalk Stroll – A Prose Poem

 


 

Adventuring — An Unrhymed Heroic Couplet

by Brigitte Whiting




I've been where no red squirr'l has gone before,
to heights and depths, despair. Until an opened door.

But how to find the feeder's spot? To have
her let me out. She looks surprised, dismayed

That I have found her out by smell and sight.
I am a squirr'l. How else to find my way?

One time, two times, three times, my brother, me
and sister romp inside. Forget our route.

We try to pass the time and tussle round
and round till hunger slows us down. I'll find

Some food another way, but where and how.
I'm not dismayed. Bound up the stairs, follow

My nose and ears. She lets me out the door,
one time, two times, three times. The last. For fall

Demands I make a nest, for winter's cold
will soon arrive. I scurry, hurry, bury seeds.

Acorns abound. Alas, I've left brother,
sister behind and wonder where they are.


Bio: Brigitte Whiting lives in Maine and often uses settings and experiences from her backyard in her writing. She earned Fiction Writing Certificates from Gotham Writers Workshop and UCLA-Ext and is working on her WVU-MFA Certificate. In addition to facilitating WVU classes, she meets weekly with two local writers' groups.

Read more: Adventuring — An Unrhymed Heroic Couplet

 


 

Ode To A Poem

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs)

you start as a blank screen
or a sheet of pristine paper,
words elude me, then
tantalize, taunt me,
what should I do?
should I let them flow
spontaneously
in lines of free verse?
should I enjamb words, pulse onwards
to the end of a stanza?

should I control your every move,
cast you into patterns of iambic
pentameter or dactylic trochee?
should I force you into concrete form:
sestina, sonnet, kyrielle,
tercets, triolets or terza rima?
your mellifluous euphony caresses
the shell of my ear
like a zephyr whispering sweet
nothings to a paramour.

your cacophonous consonants contrast
make my soul quiver,
when we conjoin
you take shape,
honed by external forces of revision
like Venus
you spring from my forehead
naked, adult,
ready to play,
your core combines with my being

you are my passion,
you are my poem




Bio: Glennis Hobbs (Glenda Walker-Hobbs) is a Canadian writer and member of the Word Weavers and Julia Cameron groups. She is a long-time member of WVU. She is the secretary of her local writer's group. She has published eight books of poetry and had her poetry and prose published in various anthologies.

Read more: Ode To A Poem

 


 

-=> Click Here for More Poetry <=-

Yearning - F2k WINNER!

by

Noel



Trish pushed her hair to the side to show off her sparkling diamond earrings. “Alvin just got these for me. I didn’t even have to drop a hint.”

Heather leaned forward for a better look. “Oh Trish, they’re beautiful. And LuAnn, did I see you drive up in a new...

Read more: Yearning - F2k WINNER!

 

 

 

Flamenco

by

Cedar White

We’re late, of course. Won last-minute tickets to a concert at the Greek, the Gipsy Kings, but now parking is impossible. Ten years of driving in LA and the traffic makes me want to move to, I don’t know, Kansas. Then my date points to a...

Read more: Flamenco

 

 

 

Marbles

by

Brigitte Whiting

 I had plans for that summer and everything changed because of the marbles. But I’m way ahead of myself.

My brothers, Jeff and Mick, hung around Farmer Tom’s place, feeding chickens and riding on the tractor with him, watching while he milked his yellow cow, Bess. I’d...

Read more: Marbles

 

 

 

Ruler of the House

by

Luann Lewis

We never should have bought this old house.  We sunk all our savings into it plus we took on a mortgage so huge that at this point I would have to pay out money just to get rid of the place.

 

I hate the sounds...

Read more: Ruler of the House

 

 

 

Abe, the Teenage Hypnotist from Planet Garfunkel

by

Albert Orejuela

You’re hearing a voice, but no one else hears a sound. It’s a deep distant whisper, soft, safe, and inviting: the words of which you can’t yet make out. The harder you listen, the softer it gets; softer and softer, deeper and deeper. The more you listen to it here, ...

Read more: Abe, the Teenage Hypnotist from Planet Garfunkel

 

 

 

A Night in Fontana

by

TJ Marshall

Brody Carlisle halted his horse on the crest of a shrub-covered hill, slapped his Stetson twice sending dust floating skyward, and after placing it back on his head, coaxed a swallow from his canteen.

To the west, the sun slid behind a scattering of tall pillar-like plateaus. Their...

Read more: A Night in Fontana

 

 

 

Full

by

Luann Lewis

Food. Globes of mashed potatoes glistening with a thin layer of gravy, plump slices of pie gushing with ruby red cherries–food wassensuous. It was sensuous before Abby even knew the meaning of the word.  Sparkling Christmas goodies enticed her as a child. She would sneak from her...

Read more: Full

 

 

 

The Decision

by

Brigitte Whiting

Stan stood on the sand, crumpled by how many people and birds running and sliding into it today. Now, it was getting dark, the last of the purple, streaky clouds turning black against a pale, gray sky.

Go or stay, just two choices.

He reached down...

Read more: The Decision

 

 

 

Swiftwater

by

Cedar White

10

Amos stood on a thick, muscular knoll on the shoulder of a dark river. He shivered, soaking wet from his silver hair to his leather shoes, and stared, disoriented, at the pines across the river. They seemed to stand with their backs to him. Amos felt...

Read more: Swiftwater

 

 

 

Minerva Shield

by

Frank Richards

In July the monsoon rains returned and with them came the little green frogs. Price Aurigena had first seen them in the summer of 1969 when he’d arrived in Korea and now, a year later, they were once again everywhere. Frogs sprang from the ground like exploding popcorn...

Read more: Minerva Shield

 

 

 

Seinfeld Moment

by

Frank Richards

I have studied martial arts all my life: Karate, Judo, Kenpo Tae Kwon Do, Aikido, and Hsing-I, but as I've gotten older, I pretty much stick to Tai Chi. I used to study Tai Chi at a park in Washington, D.C. called Glen Echo Park. It's an old...

Read more: Seinfeld Moment

 

 

 

Wedding Portrait – Life Portrait

by

Glennis Hobbs

July 20, 1942


Escorted by her eldest brother Neil, Annabell walks across the front lawn to meet Bill. her groom. She is dressed in a long gown of pink net overlying pink point d’esprit. A bandeau of artificial roses secures her pink net veil. She also...

Read more: Wedding Portrait – Life Portrait

 

 

 

Salvation

by

Teresa Crowe

S is for Scintillation. 

Their arms and elbows locked as they vied for control.  Major released her grip and dredged her beet-colored nails across his muscled chest.  Zane glanced at the four lines of ripped skin, blood dripped onto the rim of his pants.  He lunged forward, grabbed...

Read more: Salvation

 

 

 

The Explorers

by

Glennis Walker Hobbs

Black, ginger, and tortoiseshell felines zoom through the open screen door onto the deck. Black Nic pauses and surveys his domain from the top of the steps. Kittens race down the ramp and scamper into the backyard. Glory, the tortoiseshell, runs to the maple in the corner, ...

Read more: The Explorers

 

 

 

Beckett – you asked for this

by

Joy Manné

Here am I, on this grey morning, here I am again, entering this day as I entered yesterday and the day before and unless I am spared by death will enter tomorrow and the day after, endlessly growing older with the anxiety that brings, the fear of coming...

Read more: Beckett – you asked for this

 

 

 

Reconciliation

by

Brigitte Whiting

Mattie opened the front door. "I'll be back in a while, Henry," she said, then stepped onto the porch and clicked the door shut.

It opened behind her and Henry stuck out his head. "Wait, I can come with you."

She shook her head. "I need...

Read more: Reconciliation

 

 

 

Road Trip

by

David Snyder

  The eight-year-old 1958 Chevy was purring along through rural Kansas with ease. Don smiled with pride. When it hit 180,000 miles he planned to celebrate with a smoke and an ice-cold Mountain Dew from the cooler.  It was a beautiful late April day with the sunny...

Read more: Road Trip

 

 

 

Why I’m Failing My Innovative Fiction Course

by

Ed Kratz

   

This is from an assignment in the Innovative Fiction Course taught by Karen

I'm just not making it in my innovative fiction course.
What is innovative fiction you might ask? Well, if you have to ask, I'd say you're one of those rubes...

Read more: Why I’m Failing My Innovative Fiction Course

 

 

 

Dear Don...

by

Ed Kratz

   

The Don, whose real name you do not want to know, ever, has vast experience solving problems. Our organization, Don’t Try to Find Us Press, never advocates violence. We take no responsibility for violent acts committed by those misinterpreting the Don’s recommendations.
Now for...

Read more: Dear Don...

 

 

 

Todd’s Miracle

by

Leslie

Todd shivered in the dark, seated cross-legged on the linoleum. Coats and dresses draped gently over his five-year-old shoulders. He flinched as a slit of bright light flashed through the space at the bottom of the door. Seconds later the deep, rolling rumble followed. “Mommy?”

Silence.

“Mommy?” ...

Read more: Todd’s Miracle

 

 

 

Mad Hatter Town Planners

by

Margaret Fieland

   

I fell down the rabbit hole straight into the town planning committee meeting. A large basin of Sangria sat in the middle of the scratched wood table in the center of the room, and a keg rested against the back wall. Al, Stan, and Art...

Read more: Mad Hatter Town Planners

 

 

 

Dinner at Grandma's

by

Lolla Bryant

You’re at Grandma’s house again for dinner.  As always, the family is gathered together and everybody’s trying to out-talk everybody else.   You ask yourself why you continue to go through this ordeal every week, but you know why; it’s Grandma.  Also, it’s a family tradition that brings you...

Read more: Dinner at Grandma's

 

 

 

Mommy’s Little Secret

by

Leslie

At age five, Amy told her mother that the thought of swimming scared her. Not surprisingly, her mother poo-pooed the idea, and said that fear showed weakness and stupidity. From then on, Amy said she hated swimming and never admitted any fear to her mother again. I don’t...

Read more: Mommy’s Little Secret

 

 

 

New Age Centre

by

Natalie Knight

I had been in Oz for a few months when I received an emergency call to come back to South Africa. Every émigré who leaves elderly parents dreads this call.

 

But this was worse than death. Our family lawyer called me to attend a meeting...

Read more: New Age Centre

 

 

 

"I’ve Been With Willy All Day"

by

Brigitte Whiting

   

The late August sun hung hot in a bare blue sky. Matilda picked up a tattered straw bushel basket and trudged into the garden with it. The rows of beans were dusty green, the corn stalks tall, their leaves edged with yellow. She settled on...

Read more: "I’ve Been With Willy All Day"

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

Albert 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

 

 

 

An Apology

by

Brigitte Whiting

   I'm sorry that I hadn't thought of how I would take care of a puppy. It had seemed like a good idea, accept the gift of a puppy from acquaintances. She had the coloring of a coyote and was named Brindle for those tawny markings. I'd...

Read more: An Apology

 

 

 

Baby Precious

by

Louise E. Sawyer

It was Christmas Day 1950 and my sixth birthday. Under the tree was an unusually long, large box with my name on it. I was excited to open it. I couldn’t wait. When I finally did, I was amazed to look upon the most gorgeous doll I’d...

Read more: Baby Precious

 

 

 

Downsizing

by

M Clare Paris

 
I think about death quite a bit. Not morbidly, nor do I worry about what happens when one dies. Although I enjoy a spiritual life, I am also philosophical about the end of my life. If there is something else, it will be darned interesting. If there isn’t, ...

Read more: Downsizing

 

 

 

Absent But Present

by

Louise E. Sawyer


My father, Thomas George Sawyer, was absent at my birth and absent the first seven months of my life.

It was Christmas Eve 1944 at the two-story white house on Beechwood Drive-my Grannie’s house in Victoria, the capital city of British Colombia on Vancouver Island. Grannie Price, my...

Read more: Absent But Present

 

 

 

Gathering: A Contemplative Essay

by

Brigitte Whiting

I'm always looking for ideas to use in writing: for that prompt at which I first gulp and then slowly retrieve some thread of an idea, for the poem I need for the Monday morning poetry group, for an essay that's due in two days.

I've heeded...

Read more: Gathering: A Contemplative Essay

 

 

 

Seasons in a Wild Turkey Hen's Life

by

Brigitte Whiting

Last spring, a wild turkey hen incubated her eggs for twenty-eight days. When they hatched, she scrambled to keep up with them. Poults to scientific literature. Babies to her. She didn't need to teach them to scratch for bugs—they came with that instinct. Nighttimes during their first four weeks, ...

Read more: Seasons in a Wild Turkey Hen's Life

 

 

 

Lesson in Subtext

by

Joy Manné and Karen Barr

Roles

Teacher – Karen Barr

Student – Joy Manné

Teacher

WELCOME TO WEEK 8 OF SUBTEXT.

There is no word count, but the challenge is to get all ten types of subtext in as few words as possible. Here they are:

Show don’t...

Read more: Lesson in Subtext

 

 

 

Teenage Escape Plan

by

Danielle Dayney

I woke to warm, gooey air smothering me even though the ceiling fan was spinning on high. Dangling lightpulls smacked and banged the glass globe with each rotation of the blades. The base of the fan swayed and groaned, ready to jump from its screws in the drywall any second.

...

Read more: Teenage Escape Plan

 

 

 

Miracle Baby

by

Harry C. Hobbs

The mother and father watched as the sun rose on a cold morning in February 1945, wondering if their four-month-old son had lived through the night. Could miracles really happen? Perhaps this child they had wanted so badly wanted wasn’t meant to survive. His mother was a month past her...

Read more: Miracle Baby

 

 

 

Ylva the Úlfr

by

Cynthia Reed

When I flew to California in September, the golden archipelago summer, verdant below and mazarine above, still held sway. Twenty-three days and eleven thousand two hundred and forty miles later, if you’d sat here with me on the back deck this afternoon--you’d know, too--autumn now envelopes Sweden in...

Read more: Ylva the Úlfr

 

 

 

Boardwalk Stroll – A Prose Poem

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs)

My morning stroll leads me to the east end of Flinty’s Boardwalk by Del’s Cairn. A replica of ...

Read more: Boardwalk Stroll – A Prose Poem

 

 

 

Adventuring — An Unrhymed Heroic Couplet

by

Brigitte Whiting




I've been where no red squirr'l has gone before,
toheights and depths, despair. Until an opened...

Read more: Adventuring — An Unrhymed Heroic Couplet

 

 

 

Ode To A Poem

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs)

you start as a blank screen
or a sheet of pristine paper,
words elude me, then
tantalize, taunt...

Read more: Ode To A Poem

 

 

 

The People’s Princess ~An Elegy

by

Louise Sawyer

There was a day never forgotten
When the world, including me, watched from afar
the fairytale wedding of...

Read more: The People’s Princess ~An Elegy

 

 

 

Crystalized Fog ~a Pastoral Poem

by

Gerardine Gail Baugh

Of cold air hitting a warmer ground
Yesterday ended in a rising fog
Or was it the other...

Read more: Crystalized Fog ~a Pastoral Poem

 

 

 

Elegy for Judy

by

Gerardine Gail Baugh


I try to hear her voice; its sound has faded.
I see her hair, shining dark, brushing her...

Read more: Elegy for Judy

 

 

 

Becoming a Writer ~ Prose Poem

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs)

How does a person achieve success as a writer? The answer is fairly simple. One should work in...

Read more: Becoming a Writer ~ Prose Poem

 

 

 

Elegy for Dad

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs)

Easter, 1996

that year we began to plan a tea
for Dad's ninetieth birthday,
insteadhe landed...

Read more: Elegy for Dad

 

 

 

Sestina

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs)

my passion in life is to write
perhaps I should start with a poem
to rhyme or not...

Read more: Sestina

 

 

 

To RBW: An Elegy

by

Brigitte Whiting

You've been gone for a long time now,
and I think of you, reminded beneath
the autumn skies...

Read more: To RBW: An Elegy

 

 

 

Last Cigarette

by

Belinda Moutray

Under the shaky match’s sulfurous flame, the last Marlboro’s tip blazes brightly, dims and flares.

Broken, quivering...

Read more: Last Cigarette

 

 

 

Writer's Prayer

by

Margaret Fieland

Bless my paper, bless my pen,
bless my keyboard, Lord. And then,
please keep track of all those...

Read more: Writer's Prayer

 

 

 

Unmutable

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

She’s unmutable beauty in life and death.
Endearing spirit, smile warm as sunshine and everlasting.
From birth’s first...

Read more: Unmutable

 

 

 

Spiders Are My Friends

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

From the breeze, I saw the glistening web.
The big, cozy spider stared out at me.
I wonder...

Read more: Spiders Are My Friends

 

 

 

Serial Killer

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

Hide behind an actor’s mask and prybar;
Some humans are born with souls as dark as night.
Abduct, ...

Read more: Serial Killer

 

 

 

Resembled His First Love

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

All victims resembled his x -first love, Stephanie Brooks,
Long middle parted brunettes with small framed feminine good...

Read more: Resembled His First Love

 

 

 

Phrasical Subordination

by

Margaret Fieland

The main clause of the sentence names the thing you mainly do
but it can have subordinates and...

Read more: Phrasical Subordination

 

 

 

Passing Through

by

Margaret Fieland

Morning sun shimmers through gray clouds,
etches shadows on cracked sidewalk.
Empty beer cans surround broken fire hydrant.
...

Read more: Passing Through

 

 

 

Library Book Group

by

Brigitte Whiting

I don't believe in Dracula,
don't even know his story,
Count Vlad the Impaler of Romania, circa 1400s...

Read more: Library Book Group

 

 

 

If I Set A Clown On My Lawn

by

Gerardine Baugh

I doubt I am noticed, behind trees, that line of pond, in my front yard.
I turn...

Read more: If I Set A Clown On My Lawn

 

 

 

Falling in Love

by

Margaret Fieland

My mother
sank into cold lake water
bit by slow bit,
first up to her ankles,
then her...

Read more: Falling in Love

 

 

 

Ever Wonder About Ted Bundy?

by

Lina Sophia Rossi

I wonder how many others are like Ted Bundy.
He bludgeoned his victims so they couldn’t make a...

Read more: Ever Wonder About Ted Bundy?

 

 

 

Dreamscape

by

Margaret Fieland

Dreams and nightmares roll around,
fantasies I weave at night,
land of dreams I cannot share,
panoramas to...

Read more: Dreamscape

 

 

 

Blueberry Jelly

by

Gerardine Gail Baugh

Blueberry jelly
Splattered across the table,
Ingrained in the rug
Flowing patterns spattered on the wall
Sitting in...

Read more: Blueberry Jelly

 

 

 

Dandelions

by

Brigitte Whiting


We discussed dandelions in my poetry group. Some grow so tightly their stalkless stems have to be dug up with...

Read more: Dandelions

 

 

 

TAN RENGA and NÎGUIN: : Japanese poetic forms for two or more writers

by

Carol Neillon Malley, Cynthia Reed and Sharon Ammerman

INTRODUCTION
During the recent MFA314 Japanese Poetic Forms class, WVU students had an opportunity to explore six forms...

Read more: TAN RENGA and NÎGUIN: : Japanese poetic forms for two or more writers

 

 

 

Dump The Core!

by

Gerardine Baugh

A Prose Poem

It is just after ten at night. Michael changes the channel so Captain...

Read more: Dump The Core!

 

 

 

The Guinea Pig’s Obsession

by

Louise E. Sawyer


I watch Joy munching on her cat grass, head down she gobbles without stopping. Down one row and up the...

Read more: The Guinea Pig’s Obsession

 

 

 

Tomcat Under Nine Antennas

by

Gerardine Baugh

I stretch out over the back of the couch, lounging soft, boneless skin, soft fur stretched so far...

Read more: Tomcat Under Nine Antennas

 

 

 

Words Done Gone

by

F. Michael LaRosa


F. Michael LaRosa wrote this piece for MFA376. He tells us, it is a blues song in prose that laments...

Read more: Words Done Gone

 

 

 

A Dream: Must Have Been Something I Ate

by

Gerardine Baugh

A pickle meets the side of the barn. Ignoring the rats. With arms like tendrils, it sneaks its way...

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Stormy Weather

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs


Thunder rumbles, stops and starts again when lightning jags across charcoal coloured skies and splitsinto forks. Raindrops dance...

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Frenzy

by

Glenda Walker-Hobbs


Norva hosts an open mic musical fundraiser two days after Christmas so that people who are home for Christmas can...

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Wearing a Coating of Ice

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Long Way 'Til Spring

by

Brigitte Whiting

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Late Bloomer

by

Brigitte Whiting

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Kenji Snuggling

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Santa Joy

by

Louise Sawyer

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Joy and Neuron

by

Louise Sawyer

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Bullfrog and Black Butterfly Koi

by

Gevera Bert Piedmont

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Animal Paw Prints

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Milky Way Bonaire

by

Miranda Mulders

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A Dark Welcome

by

Albert Orejuela

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The Big Rock Candy Mountain

by

RJ Hembree

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Fog in the Adirondacks

by

Albert Orejuela

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Smew

by

RJ Hembree

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Roadside Attractions

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Rock Formations at Point Lobos

by

RJ Hembree

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Hot Air in the Hudson Valley

by

Albert Orejuela

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Rock and Roll

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Take a Walk on the Wild Side

by

RJ Hembree

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Tracking a Tractor

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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One More for the Road

by

RJ Hembree

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Bella in High Key

by

Albert Orejuela

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Chickory

by

Gerardine (Gail) Baugh

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Patterns in Nature

by

RJ Hembree

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Blowing Away

by

Albert Orejuela

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Morning Shot Great Blue Heron

by

RJ Hembree

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Close Up

by

RJ Hembree

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Watchful Budha

by

Gevera Bert Piedmont

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