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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.


Fireplace Camping

by Louise E. Sawyer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

tell us a story.” ...

Read more: Fireplace Camping


Northern Lake

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

birch and spruce trees
in the boreal forest line the shores
of the northern lake
shimmering in the sunlight

waves lap at the shoreline,

then swoosh out to create whorls

in the centre of the lake



a blue heron wades

at the shoreline

to scoop up a fish


it swoops down and

glides above the waves,

retreats to its nest



eagles wheel and dive

and soar across the sky

seeking prey



suddenly

a flock of scolding crows

chases the eagles away



two Mallard drakes start a fight

in the water, then dive,

swim, dive again



white puffs of cloud

chase each other

across the heavens



the lake

stretches towards

tree-lined shores and sky


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian poet and writer. She helped found a local Writers Guild and currently serves as its secretary. She is a long-time member of Writers’ Village University and a co-moderator of Word Weavers Poetry Group. Glennis has published twelve books of poetry, including four chapbooks. Her prose and poetry are published in various anthologies and e-zines, including forty-six poems in Village Square. She currently has two poetry books and two novels in progress. https://www.amazon.com/Glenda-Walker-Hobbs/e/B001K8Y7PK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share?author-follow=B001K8Y7PK&

*Photo was taken By Glenda Walker Hobbs.

Read more: Northern Lake

 


 

Therapy Cat

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

My aide finishes
tending to my health care.
She sits down for a moment
to relax and catch her breath.

Ebony cat leaps onto her lap,
purrs and snuggles against her;
he smiles his Cheshire grin
as she scratches his ears.

As her hand caresses his fur,
she murmurs soft words.
Her eyes twinkle above her mask
while he performs his stint as therapy cat.


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian poet and writer. She helped found a local Writers Guild and currently serves as its secretary. She is a long-time member of Writers’ Village University and a co-moderator of Word Weavers Poetry Group. Glennis has published twelve books of poetry, including four chapbooks. Her prose and poetry are published in various anthologies and e-zines, including forty-six poems in Village Square. She currently has two poetry books and two novels in progress. https://www.amazon.com/Glenda-Walker-Hobbs/e/B001K8Y7PK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share?author-follow=B001K8Y7PK&

*Photo is of Glenda Walker-Hobbs and Blake. and was taken by Harry C. Hobbs.

Read more: Therapy Cat

 


 

Nature's Quilt

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

morning’s mist stretches her white arms

and dissipates into the dawn,

orange and purple sunrise

blazes across the heavens,

white poplars with black patches

splashed on their trunks guard the creek

two trees joined at their bases

encircle each other like lovers

willow bushes crowd around the base
azure sky pokes its head through the poplars,

turns waters of the creek to turquoise

and silver, shimmering in the sunlight

which lights the world in cheerfulness



ripples in the creek race each other
as they wend their way to the lake,

cattails march along the edges of the stream

like soldiers on parade; evergreens

lift arms in silent supplication, caressed

by breezes, their branches sway to and fro



the land slopes gradually downwards to the water,

stones line the edge of the bank
a series of poplar stumps block the route

between the evergreens

as day progresses, the creek evolves into

verdant waves reflecting distorted tree images,


by nightfall, evening mist maiden

cloaks the land in a hazy green mantle,

brings a hush to this corner of the world


This is an ekphrastic poem inspired by a painting called “Misty Morning” by northern artist Ron Watt.


*Photo of Ron Watt’s painting, ‘Misty Morning’


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian poet and writer. She helped found a local Writers Guild and currently serves as its secretary. She is a long-time member of Writers’ Village University and a co-moderator of Word Weavers Poetry Group. Glennis has published twelve...

Read more: Nature's Quilt

 


 

NORVA Gallery

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

As a volunteer receptionist at NORVA,
I love to walk around, gaze at paintings.
When one of my poetry colleagues
gives a workshop on ekphrastic writing,
I study Norva art.

A dam bursts within me.
I write poetry about the paintings
which become an inspiration for me.
I wish I had a talent for art
until I realize I paint with words.


NorVA stands for Northern Visual Arts. The NorVA Centre is an art studio, a gallery, and a place for artists to learn.

https://www.norvacentre.com/


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian poet and writer. She helped found a local Writers Guild and currently serves as its secretary. She is a long-time member of Writers’ Village University and a co-moderator of Word Weavers Poetry Group. Glennis has published twelve books of poetry, including four chapbooks. Her prose and poetry are published in various anthologies and e-zines, including forty-six poems in Village Square. She currently has two poetry books and two novels in progress. https://www.amazon.com/Glenda-Walker-Hobbs/e/B001K8Y7PK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share?author-follow=B001K8Y7PK&


*Photo: Image by iSAW Company from Pixabay https://pixabay.com/photos/art-art-gallery-framed-artwork-3802145/

Read more: NORVA Gallery

 


 

A Sonnet on Writing a Sonnet

by Glenda Walker-Hobbs

My try to write a sonnet creates fear;
For me, composing rhyme has no appeal.
If I could write a sonnet for you, dear,
I’d search for words to tell you how I feel.

I could describe your eyes as summer skies.
My pen suggests a simile, blank verse,
Perhaps I might say like blueberry pie.
Oh dear, I fear, my rhyme is getting worse.

A sonneteer needs disciplined control.
A sonnet needs exacting form and shape.
I’d prefer to live at the North Pole
Or find another unique escape.

A poem with a form needs skills diverse,
As for me, I prefer to write free verse.


BIO: Glenda Walker-Hobbs (Glennis Hobbs) is a Canadian poet and writer. She helped found a local Writers Guild and currently serves as its secretary. She is a long-time member of Writers’ Village University and a co-moderator of Word Weavers Poetry Group. Glennis has published twelve books of poetry, including four chapbooks. Her prose and poetry are published in various anthologies and e-zines, including forty-six poems in Village Square. She currently has two poetry books and two novels in progress. https://www.amazon.com/Glenda-Walker-Hobbs/e/B001K8Y7PK%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share?author-follow=B001K8Y7PK&

*Illustration created by Gerardine Gail Esterday

Read more: A Sonnet on Writing a Sonnet

 


 

New Normal

by Judy Beaston

Dancing and singing
loud and long
nobody to hear me
I’m home all alone!


BIO: Judy Beaston gleans inspiration in the natural world as well as from reality’s complicated experiences. Currently settled comfortably in the Pacific Northwest, she breaks away from her computer by wandering her local neighborhood and green spaces or hanging out at a coffee house with a good book. She has been published in a number of The Writers' Mill Journal’s on https://amzn.to/3kxx81zhttps://amzn.to/3jpvakwhttps://amzn.to/2UZwEsg, and https://amzn.to/3mFSRqw


*Photo by Ron Lach from  https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-woman-dancing-on-the-couch-while-listening-to-music-8487217/

Read more: New Normal

 


 

Peace Comes Later

by Judy Beaston

Black curtain descends
though I find a gauzy strip
view a world beyond
now in disarray.

What I believed true
tossed, trashed, a smear
upon the ground, and I
weep pepper-laced tears.

I cannot make sense
where no sense remains
only betrayal, loss, shock
reverberates within.

Tomorrow, or the next day,
my steps recalibrated,
breathing calmed, dry eyes
will open an altered reality.

Grief a slow-moving river
caught, at times, in whirlpools,
sent sideways for a bit, but one day
settled into a pool of peace.


BIO: Judy Beaston gleans inspiration in the natural world as well as from reality’s complicated experiences. Currently settled comfortably in the Pacific Northwest, she breaks away from her computer by wandering her local neighborhood and green spaces or hanging out at a coffee house with a good book. She has been published in a number of The Writers' Mill Journal’s on https://amzn.to/3kxx81z, Fine Lines https://amzn.to/3jpvakw, https://amzn.to/2UZwEsg, and https://amzn.to/3mFSRqw.

*Photo was taken by Judy Beaston at Quiet River, Sunriver, Oregon.

Read more: Peace Comes Later

 


 

I Never Safely Stow My Purse in The Car

by Gerardine Gail Esterday

Or under the seat or locked in the trunk.
Nor at home or for ease by taking a smaller purse.
This one takes the lead, Chestnut brown, cowhide with a flap,
enough room for a live rabbit, or a snapping turtle,
my drawing pad, or a book with Deckle edges,
multiple pens and pencils, lost glasses and things
like dusty peppermints that fall to the bottom forever.

In heat, cold, and rain like a mailman, my bag is with me.
Slung over my left shoulder, very rarely crossing my chest
Never to be held like my mother and grandmother's purses.
Clenched tight with two hands,

I learned to keep it safe, me safe, I learned
to clench its reins lightly with one hand -so, if someone-
tried to take that purse, I wouldn't go with it
dragged under worn tires of a rusted out smoking car
held back with a choke-hold of death,
with the strength of a horse bridle strap
-all for a dollar-fifty in change and pictures of my dogs.
It slipped off my shoulder often. Heavy leather,
with that new purse smell, always –
reminding me of its presence.

When I die, bury me with it, so-
I have someplace to put my memories.


Bio: Gerardine Gail Esterday is a nomad, living for the moment in Fairview Heights, Illinois, with her four cats:  She has published poetry on Poemhunter, IWVPA, and her blog: Mywalkingpath.com. She has certifications from The Institute of...

Read more: I Never Safely Stow My Purse in The Car

 


 

Haiku for Covid

by Dub Wright

Lazy men like me
Hiding from the covid day
Mask of forest green


BIO: Dub Wright is a North Carolina novelist and short story writer. He has authored over fifty works of fiction and has contributed to regional journals and publications. He is a graduate of William Jewell College and Southern Polytechnic University. Dub previously worked in the communications industry. You can find him on Amazon.

*Original Image from:  https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hatra-Ruins-2008-3.jpg
Gerardine Baugh edited it to dark green, added a mask and a leaf design from free WordArt, then changed the shape and color.

Read more: Haiku for Covid

 


 

The Messiness of Motherhood

by Angela Hess

I muse on the messiness of motherhood. “Give me this mountain,” I told God, long before I grasped the steepness of the slope I was asking to scale. Long before the sleepless nights, raw nipples and ceaseless crying crowded out all the joy motherhood was meant to be.

The guilt of it. The guilt of not loving it. Of not loving mothering this strange creature that hurt me and refused to let me sleep. The guilt later of letting it watch too many shows to earn some peace and productivity for myself. The guilt of yelling and threatening punishment in place of kindness and understanding.

Motherhood magnifies weaknesses. Exposes them, naked, for all to see. How will we survive the weaknesses, the shuddering mountain of mistakes piling higher and higher? I pile on apologies, forever fearing it is not enough. That I am destroying the relationships most dear to me. For they are dear to me. So dear, despite the never sleeping of newborns. The endless tantruming of toddlers. The never-ending negotiations of kindergarteners.

I cling to the miracle of love in the midst of imperfection—theirs for me and mine for them—praying its strength can see us through and save us all.


BIO: Angela Hess discovered her passion for writing nonfiction when she started a blog following the birth of her first child as a creative outlet and a way to process this new stage in her life. Writing keeps her sane in this crazy stage of...

Read more: The Messiness of Motherhood

 


 

Baby Teeth

by Angela Hess

Once upon a time I wrote a poem about baby teeth. Baby teeth that held on long after it was time to let go. So long, my dentist had to force them to release their grip on my gums to make space for adult teeth to push through.

I see the parallel now, as I did then to how I held on to childhood long after it was time to let go. I held on for safety and for fear of pain—I thought to retain armor against the responsibility and loneliness of adulthood.

But loneliness found me anyway. And shirked responsibility brought more pain than shouldered responsibility ever did. Pulling out those roots of immaturity made space for the strength and self-reliance of adulthood to surface.

The pain of aching gums and empty spaces left behind with the wresting of my immature teeth was real. But the healing and growth that followed brought strength, joy, and peace in unanticipated abundance. My wrenching sacrifice transformed into a bounty of blessings. I rejoiced at the chance for maturity.


BIO: Angela Hess discovered her passion for writing nonfiction when she started a blog following the birth of her first child as a creative outlet and a way to process this new stage in her life. Writing keeps her sane in this crazy stage of mothering multiple tiny humans. Previous Publications: Village Square Literary Journal: Truth, October 2019; Of Heroes and Holiness, April 2019; A Fear of Broken...

Read more: Baby Teeth

 


 

Risking Connection

by Angela Hess

Before contact, the universe contorts with possibilities and projections, trepidations and agitations. What does he think of me? How will she react? With our penchant for pessimistic panic, it’s phenomenal we ever risk exposure. Push forward to proximity. Approach connection.

In the moment of contact, the universe collapses. Truth reveals itself, triggering relief or regret. Resolve or retreat. Informing future contact. Exposing baseless fears or confirming fearful bias.

Connections are built when contact is met with kindness. Gratitude for kindness creates kindness in return. Kindness kills contention. Creates compassion and collaboration. Creates context for cooperation.

Initiating contact anew renews our bond of years past. I have another opportunity to give to you, here in new circumstances, where I am once more a welcome outsider in your life. You open a window to your soul and invite me in. I am a trusted guest and confidante. I cherish your confidence in my fidelity. Your trust freely given strengthens my resolve for trustworthiness.

Continued communication is key to countering false beliefs. What I believe about you and you believe about me must be informed by continuous correction. Ceaseless corroboration. Eternal verification. The brain is too quick to betray us both with beliefs that serve to divide rather than unify. That pesky panic seeks to preserve us, but assuming the best of each other better serves us.


BIO: Angela Hess discovered her passion for writing nonfiction when she started a blog following the birth of her first child as a...

Read more: Risking Connection

 


 

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

 


 

-=> Click Here for More Poetry <=-

One Precious Day

by

Paul K. McWilliams

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

                                                                   

Mike Hanlon, an old childhood friend of mine, had cultivated the pot, not for kicks or profit, but expressly for relief.  He was a poor and suffering soul growing...

Read more: One Precious Day

 

 

 

SkippyGraycoat

by

Peter Mancusi

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

Read more: SkippyGraycoat

 

 

 

A Pot Full of Beans

by

Brigitte Whiting

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

Read more: A Pot Full of Beans

 

 

 

How You Can Go Wrong

by

Lisa Benwitz

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

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

Angelina’s sagging...

Read more: How You Can Go Wrong

 

 

 

The Piano

by

Nitin Mishra

The old grand piano sat in lonely corner of the room. Dust covered the piano body, and insects crept in through the keys. For the house’s inhabitants, the grand piano was merely a dead wooden sound-making device mechanically operated. No one ever tried to infuse life into the...

Read more: The Piano

 

 

 

Makers and Takers

by

Kim Bundy

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

Read more: Makers and Takers

 

 

 

The “Ely Kay”

by

Paul K. McWilliams

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

Read more: The “Ely Kay”

 

 

 

What We Long For

by

Cyril Dabydeen

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


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

Read more: What We Long For

 

 

 

Emerson

by

Paul K. McWilliams

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

Read more: Emerson

 

 

 

Blunt Trauma

by

Paul K. McWilliams

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

Read more: Blunt Trauma

 

 

 

Man in the Mirror

by

Nitin Mishra

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

Read more: Man in the Mirror

 

 

 

The Impostor

by

Mick Clark

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

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

The coffin swayed...

Read more: The Impostor

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

The Style of No Style

by

Frank Richards

I must be the Charlie Brown of writers because I’ve never been able to figure out what “style” is all about. What does that word, ‘style,’ mean? I’ve always had a problem with it. If there were such a thing as “styleblindness,” a disease like colorblindness, I’d be...

Read more: The Style of No Style

 

 

 

Corona Clean

by

Fran Schumer

The Corona virus presents new challenges. Stuck at home, and with more of us sleeping, eating and working here, and a dirtier house, I was finally going to have to figure out how to use my new vacuum cleaner. Ordered a year ago, it mostly sat in its...

Read more: Corona Clean

 

 

 

Occasional Neighbors

by

Brigitte Whiting

I understand a little bit about wild turkeys. They're on a constant hunt for food, drifting through the neighborhood scrounging what they can. But I don't know how it happens that a few will either be left behind by the flock or leave it. This past fall, I'd...

Read more: Occasional Neighbors

 

 

 

Enjoy the Ride

by

Penny Camp

Get up early. You can’t ride all day if you sleep in. Braid your hair tight — you don’t want it flapping in the wind. Make sure you don’t wear the undies with the seams down the back because after a long day of riding they will make...

Read more: Enjoy the Ride

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

Fireplace Camping

by

Louise E. Sawyer

After supper, my brother Frank and I beg Dad,
“Tell us a story in front of the fireplace.”
...

Read more: Fireplace Camping

 

 

 

My Love

by

Miriam Manglani

My love for you was tentative and tender
Now it blazes like wildfire through dry fields
Cuts through...

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...

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...

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, ...

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,
...

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...

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...

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,”
...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

Read more: The Waves

 

 

 

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,
...

Read more: Women Out To Dinner

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

A New Day Begins

by

Bob Hembree

More Details...

 

 

 

Angst

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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The Fly on the Wall

by

Bob Hembree

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Glancing Vulnerably

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Fowl Squabbling

by

Bob Hembree

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A Mid-Photo's Daydream

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Solar Reflection

by

Bob Hembree

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Being Held Up

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Reflections

by

Paula Parker

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Jack

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

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Hollister

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Evelyn

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

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Curiosity

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Rebecca

by

Gerardine Gail Esterday

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Hazel

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Working Hands

by

Paula Parker

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Maya

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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The Birds in the Flower

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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Pst... Hey

by

Alberto Rodriguez Orejuela

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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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