Saturday, April 30, 2016

Editor's Thoughts/Our Family--By Karen O'Leary--United States

Dear Whispers’ Family,

Each one of you is a unique part of the puzzle.  Closing our third year in January, I am so grateful for the friendships born from the journey and treasure the talented contributors that share their words for our growing community.  

It such a joy to share in your honors, stories and see your poetry blossom.  Whispers’ words extend beyond borders. Our writing family is making a difference.  Thank you all for your pieces.


Karen O’Leary
Whisper’s Editor


Our Family

into--------      one
mosaic so-   snug
                    of many
                    creative pieces

(Note—the words one and snug fit in both stanzas of this Fibonacci)

Nightingale--By Rick Parise--United States


Where twilight songs search of beauty
like syllables broke apart
I count each step to find your heart
where velvet words resonate
and azure moonlight softly hangs
in brushed hues of melody…

Rick Parise, known as “A Pondering Poet”, is from the beautiful land of Salem, Oregon.  The main focus of his poetry is to take the reader to a meaningful, personal time in their lives, to a place where spirits are touched and memories unwind. He hopes you enjoy his work. To Contact Rick please email him at  

Friday, April 29, 2016

the day...By--jani johe webster--(In Memory-May 2013)--United States

the day awakens
all lemon-colored
ready for adventure

tiny drops of dew
glimmer in the light
flowers yawn themselves open

it is a gift
this day


From Nila Webster, jani johe’s daughter--This poem was one my mother's first poems, written long before I was born.  The imagery and pace add a special sparkle to her message.  As a poet, she was continually tuned into the exquisite beauty of this life.  The last lines, "it is a gift / this day" have become a special credo for me, a lifeline to hope. 

Where I have come from--By Edilson Afonso Ferreira--Brazil

Where I have come from

I am proud of the youth of my generation.
I came from a past that only must be seen
in its black and white.
Current bright colors cannot even approach
warmth of singular and peculiar bygone era. 
Just we who lived and loved in it are enough  
and qualified witnesses to so amazing a past.
Time of the candid, simple and naive living,   
with fewer choices, as only black telephones 
and only white fridges.  
Moreover, time to encounter enduring lovers,
that endure life’s disillusions, jointly reaching,    
so many years ahead,
these colorful unsettled contemporaneous days.

Edilson Afonso Ferreira is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than Portuguese, in order to reach more people. Has been published in online or printed venues like Cyclamens and Swords, Right Hand Pointing, Boston Poetry Magazine, The Lake, The Stare’s Nest, The Provo Canyon, Amomancies, Subterranean Blue, The Gambler, Whispers, Every Day Poems, Indiana Voice Journal and some others. Short listed in four American Poetry Contests, lives in a small town with wife, three sons and a granddaughter and began writing after retirement as a Bank Manager. He is collecting his works for a forthcoming book.   

Reflections: A Mid-Summer’s Night Treat--By Maurice J. Reynolds--United States

Reflections: A Mid-Summer’s Night Treat

A mid-summer’s night treat, so sweet,
just me, the open sky, the stars, and wild
flowers reacting to a soft breeze, stimulating
my mind, to unwind….just a tease of summer
days spent in my grandfather’s arms, heart-to-
heart talks with my father accented by my
mother’s charm….a mid-summer’s night
treat, remembering playing freely with friends
without the fear of harm, delightful moments in
the garden with granny; quality time galore….
reflections I so adore on this mid-summer
night, what a treat, so sweet.

Maurice J. Reynolds is a freelance writer who has had material published in various publications.  He is the owner of To God be the Glory! Publications, a literary ministry that produces the poetry publication Creative Inspirations.  More information can be found at:: 

Thursday, April 28, 2016

Lindey Boo--By Michael Todd--United States

Lindey Boo

You're always the light of my morning dawn.
Without you, surely the sun would not rise.
Your smile inspires the lyrics of my song;
All I hold dear, what I see in your eyes.

You're ever my heart's reason for beating.
You are my calling; I know that is true.
Make the most of precious moments, fleeting;
Let's stay together, always, me with you.

You're my life and my heart's inspiration;
Wherever you lead, I will follow there.
I was once lost. You are my salvation;
Not another like you, none can compare.

Lindey Boo, I love you, always and then,
I'll just turn around and love you again.

Michael Todd aka Myke Todd has been writing and posting stories and poetry on social networking sites since 2006. He can currently be found at his dedicated poetry site...  

I Miss You--By Annie Jenkin--England

I Miss You

It's as Spring makes its new start - I miss you
The yellow of Daffodils and Primroses
Budding trees, heathers and bushes
And the morning sun now blushes
It's then I feel alive, to share such promise of hope and joy.

On warm Summer evenings - I miss you
Drowsy bees pollen searching
The Ox-eyed daisies slowly closing
Sat alone, I sip cool wine, thinking
It's then I'm happy, to enjoy life's gifts and pleasure.

When Autumn silently creep's in - I miss you
Raindrops are illuminated by street light
Footsteps of strangers echo in the night
I hear the sea inside its shroud of mist
It's then I miss, your eyes glowing with love for me.

On long dark evenings of Winter - I miss you
When the house is buffeted by wind
The highs of Christmas now dimmed
An absorbing book comes to an end
It's then I miss, making memories to treasure.

Annie Jenkin lives in Plymouth, England. Having not written poetry for many years, Annie has returned to poetry writing with enthusiasm. Her writing explores several subject areas that are insightful, humorous but can also be sensitive.

Growing up Without a Mother--By Robert Hewett Sr.--United States

Growing up Without a Mother

My mother moved away when I was three years old
I don’t recall much about when she was there,
except the fire that destroyed our house. 
My father was a good man, 
He did his best to care for us four boys.
Mother was enamored with a much faster life.
Only later did I realize the debt I owe her.
She was there when I needed her the most.
You see, I was born very premature, weighing
only a pound and a half per the Country Doc.
He said that I would not live through the night.
His advice, “give him a quarter of an aspirin
and let him die in peace.”
She gave me the aspirin and I slept through the night.,
The next morning, she gave me a whole aspirin.
That worked even better, I slept for six weeks.
Mother fed me from a nose dropper.
She made an incubator out of a shoe box.
I lived and come July I will have lived                                                                                          
Eighty-three years on borrowed time.

Robert Hewett Sr. was born in 1933 on a Texas cotton farm. He moved to Oklahoma City at Age 14 and entered the U. S Army from there in 1953. Robert has been writing poetry and short stories for his family and himself since his teen years, but is just now publishing his collection of works. His hobbies include writing poetry and stories; clock and watch collections; gardening and growing flowers and shrubs from cuttings. Most of his poetry tells a story, a gift from his father who was a master story teller. He has received numerous awards for his work in his professional life and for his writing. You can find some of his writings at ""

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Wind Songs--By Connie Marcum Wong--United States

Wind Songs

Romance me with your flirty breeze,
Susurrate songs in leafy trees.

March winds you clash with tidal flows,
Keep waves in hindered highs and lows.

Your power paves a mockery
Of gentleness I long to see.

Won't you return our springtime bliss
Caressing cheeks with tender kiss?

Don't make meek martyrs of the trees
When you uproot them as you please.

To train tornados torrid path
In tempest tears you display wrath,

When all along I know you hold
A sacred spirit of the bold.

So beguile me with tender touch
With wind songs that I love so much,

And I will be your maiden fair;
You may finger my golden hair.

On through autumn our love will grow,
With wayward windy hearts aglow.

Connie Marcum Wong has been the Web Mistress of a private poetry forum Poetry for Thought since October 1999. Her poetry has been in many publications, anthologies, magazines, and e-zines over the years. She published her first poetry chapbook, Island Creations in 2005. In 2007, Heart Blossoms was published. In January 2010, an anthology, A Poetry Bridge to All Nations, was published by Lulu Enterprises, Inc.  Connie created the 'Constanza' poetry form in 2007 and Con-Verse form in 2010. She has resided with her husband in Hawaii since 1980.

The Sages Say to Trust--By A. Michele Leslie--United States

The Sages Say to Trust

The Sages say to trust
for God is near.
But on the tree the leaves are gone—all fallen.
And as I lift my head and with my fingers comb my hair
I hear a voice: “Despair! Despair!”

“I will not,” I interject.
And on a branch a little bird sings merrily.

How can I a moment saddened be
when a bird such as she
sings for me?

A. Michele Leslie is a poet and playwright who lives in Sauk Rapids, Minnesota with her husband, David, and two cats.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

The Edge of Midnite--By Keith O. J. Hunt--Canada

The Edge of Midnite

(A poetic glimpse into the metaphysical
world of ' The twilight Zone ')

The edge of midnite,
   not quite day or night,
   not quite death or life ---
What realms do I wander your curtained halls?

No mere mortal can shed the rust from your bones ---
   and solve thy mystery;
   a thing that should not be,
   nestled between life and dreams,
   so brief it whimpers in the dark and is gone....

Yet, you are there, and return,
   something faceless;
   no dance nor melody could live to breathe one breath;

You will live a thousand years more ----
   tell me ---- darkling lord:

What shall bring your death?

Keith O. J. Hunt is a Classic-Romantic poet who generally prefers the older styles which he finds the greatest way to express his thoughts. He loves people, nature, spirituality and all things beautiful. Keith lives in Ottawa, Canada and has been writing poetry for 15 yrs.

In Tandem--By Alice Couch--United States

In Tandem                                                                        

Two black blurs                                                          
chase their tails,                                                          
each other,      
a wiffle ball,                                                               
my poet’s pen.

They whirl away,
twin balls of fur,
safety in numbers,
my poet’s pen,
a hostage.

Alice Couch is a retired nurse’s aide who spends her days playing with her dogs, Nibby and Squeakie, while writing poetry for her three children, four grandchildren, seven great-grandchildren, and four great great-grandchildren.  One of her stories published in Living with Children. She studied yoga and Buddhism and has a gift for blending the rational approach of the Western mind with the deep spiritual wisdom of the east in her poetry. She was named Noblesville’s Senior Poet Laureate in 2012.

The Golden Path--By Mary A. Couch--United States

The Golden Path

Tomorrow’s path
Hidden down the road
Entwined with today
Goals unmet or ended
Others to begin
Life moments
Dangling leaves
Entrances and exits
New and old mingled
Paved or rocky road
Always another mile
The end now in sight
How did it move again?

Mary A. Couch resides in Noblesville, Indiana, and works as an Admin Assistant for Taylored Systems, Inc. a local telecommunication company. She is the Premier Poet for the Indiana State Federation of Poetry Clubs, and she learned poetry from her mother and two grandmothers who were writers, artists and storytellers. She has been published in a variety of venues.

Monday, April 25, 2016

Patterns--By Shloka Shankar--India


Acknowledge them.
The ones that criss-cross,
others that have a distinct scent
like ripe oranges in a fruit basket,
some in muted sepia tones,
and the irrational one that lines your innards. 
Wrench them out with tweezers,
or something more handy.
Brush them under the carpet for a few days
and allow them to haunt you.
Stare at them till your eyes start watering
like repressed memories surfacing in a dark room.
Divide them into compartments
and straight-jacket your feelings
by drawing up a spreadsheet.
Award yourself points after this exercise.
If need be, take a deep breath,
rinse, and repeat.

Shloka Shankar is a freelance writer from Bangalore, India. She loves experimenting with all forms of the written word, and has found her niche in Japanese short-forms such as haiku, tanka, and haibun, as well as found/remixed poetry. She is also the founding editor of the literary & arts journal, Sonic Boom. You can read more of her work here

Voices--By Constance Escobar--United States


I remember our friends talking as we were walking
Hoping to know each other more and step by step
We always talked as we walked along the shore.

Moment by moment enjoying the view
the ocean so beautifully blue.
Then one day the voices faded away
And all I could here was you.

Constance Escobar is a writer of everything and anything that strikes her fancy. From wedding books to historical fiction and from Poetry to Romance. She writes as she is inspired and has work published in the Ink Slingers' Anthology 2014 & 2015.

Sunday, April 24, 2016

Commas--By Raamesh Gowri Raghavan--India


Somewhere between the truth,
And our world of comforting lies,
Is the world we seek to live in;
Happiness is what we call it,
Though a stagnating lack
of worry would do as well,
Maybe it's a race we're running
Against our own aging selves
Chasing a childhood memory
Always a step ahead of us:
A visible phantasm, a mirage
Concocted from our own imagined pasts
With guilt conveniently buried
In the shroud of forgetfulness
And yet - there's always a yet -
There is a listlessness, ennui,
That we never got what we wanted
And the regret, unmessianic,
Of not knowing what that was
Till the commas of life stop abruptly.

Raamesh Gowri Raghavan moonlights as an award-winning copywriter by day and daylights as an award-wanting poet by night. He thinks he is funny, but his friends vehemently disagree.

Contentment--By Joyce I. Johnson--United States


I've not sailed down Niagara Falls
Nor climbed Mt. Everest's heights.
I haven't crossed the Sahara,
Nor danced under city lights.

I'm just a little country girl,
Without the yen to roam.
This lovely, bounteous valley
Will always be my home.

In spring, the fields of flowers
Call visitors from afar;
Big busses bring some tourists
And others come by car.

Before daffodils and tulips
Have quite faded away,
A big expanse of iris
Will brighten up my day.

I'm a few hours from the mountains,
A like time from the sea.
I do not need to travel,
The world's right here with me.

Joyce I. Johnson lives in the beautiful Skagit Valley of Washington State. She owns a small farm and rents her land to a bulb grower. She is surrounded by beauty in the spring from the tulips and daffodils that inspire much of her poetry. Joyce celebrated her 97th birthday in July of 2015.

Saturday, April 23, 2016

Blue Mist--By Marlene Million--United States

Blue Mist

Night summons a misty-blue realm,
and magic is limitless, boundless
in vast universe. Azure deep, dreams wax,
wane during night's crescent moon.

Mind's aglow in reverie amid tapestry
of dreams.  Ancient myths, superstition
and mystical traditions flow in shades
of blue like sky's perfect hue.

In whirl of renewal, dreamer journeys
on wings beyond caverns of light, soaring
in essence of new insight, free, joyous,
winding through night's shining stars.

Marlene Million is a retired insurance secretary from her husband's business and grandmother of four. She has published two chapbooks and belongs to several writers’ groups. She had a poem on display at Indianapolis Arts Garden the month of February, 2013 and has been published in a variety of venues.

Tanka--By Ali Znaidi--Tunisia

you oftentimes speak
of bad spelling…
I imagine
a worm wiggling
in the sand

her eyebrow
hair by hair…
the moon crescent draws

Ali Znaidi (b.1977) lives in Redeyef, Tunisia. He is the author of several chapbooks, including Experimental Ruminations (Fowlpox Press, 2012), Moon’s Cloth Embroidered with Poems (Origami Poems Project, 2012), Bye, Donna Summer! (Fowlpox Press, 2014), Taste of the Edge (Kind of a Hurricane Press, 2014), and Mathemaku x5 (Spacecraft Press, 2015). For more details, you can visit his blog at – and follow him on Twitter @AliZnaidi.

Friday, April 22, 2016

Polaroid--By Langley Shazor--United States


Steady and rhythmic is the downpour.
Disrupted only by the sound of keys.
The sweet smell of rain filters through the back door.
Splashing against the pavement, it keeps perfect time.

A dim light illuminates the mechanized prose creator.
Scents of oil, rubber, and paper.
Tap, tap, tapping away as thought becomes word.
With every bell toll, the creation rises as though materialized from space itself.

Gently bent spine accenting the curve of another.
The cool of the evening yielding itself only to blanket covered legs.
Scintillating perfume; the final ingredient.
Comfortably perched as knowledge is passed on.

One giving; one receiving.
Art in movement; beauty in silence
And occasionally, a glimpse and a smile.
Understanding that transcends verbalization.

A cacophony of sensory stimulation.
Individually chaotic; yet synchronicity abounds.
Singular, panoramic, warm, comforting.
Snapshot of the perfect evening.

Langley Shazor was raised in a small city in southwest Virginia. As an adult he has a deep appreciation for culture, arts, wellness, history, philosophy, science, and religions. An avid reader, he is an advocate for education; breaking down stereotypes, creating social awareness, enlightenment, human rights, and helping those less fortunate are his life's passions. Writing is not only personally therapeutic, but a medium for which he has the opportunity to impart positivity on those from all walks of life.

walking...By David Austin--United States

walking      walking
humpback guy in rags
limping with purpose
going somewhere
to a nowhere place

David Austin is professional violinist and teacher, who communicates through poetry. He has played with the Cincinnati Symphony, taught at Colorado College and various public schools. He is a published author, who has been writing poetry and novels for over 40 years. His pride and joy is a shelter in which he feeds and cares for animals.  David is a member of Poetry Soup.

Thursday, April 21, 2016

How Strange--By Yvonne Sparkes--England

How Strange
How strange, a fall of snow, can bring you peace,
Now all is quiet and  noise is at last deceased.
Aesthetic to the eye this virgin snow,
On fallen leaves and the drifting flow.

Each tree adorned with gowns of white,
So beautiful and a comely sight.
The birds flit by, intruders to the scene,
My very own ethereal dream.

Frozen tears, jewels formed on high.
Pristine snowflakes meet my eager eyes.
I`m standing still to capture all I see,
To drink in this beauty, there in front of me.

So much joy the seasons give the heart,
When one begins, another must depart,
But all this beauty, ever lives with time,
And finds its home, within my feeble rhyme.

Born on Feb. 27, 1940 in Barkingside, Essex, England, Yvonne Sparkes, immigrated to New York in April, 1948 with her parents.  She now resides in Chelmsford, Essex and has two sons.  She has a book published by Cyberwit called Captured Images. A writer for many years, Yvonne has been published in Israel, Germany, France, Australia, America, and Britain.  She has read her poetry in public at Church and Knockout Competitions. Her hobbies are travel, the arts, reading, hiking, taking her Scottish Terrier for walks, and spending time with family and friends.

Two Short Poems--By Cindy Hutchings--United States

Two Short Poems


As sap through a tree
my soul rises and falls


I speak your name
and mine

Cindy Hutchings is a member of Northwest Renaissance & Striped Water Poets in Auburn, WA, USA. She graduated from the University of Washington with a BA in English and Women Studies. She writes with passion about nature, events, and social causes. Her poetry is shared online at and Cindy’s first poetry chapbook, Tree Talk, was published by MoonPath Press in 2015.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016


A. Michele Leslie, an accomplished writer and editor, generously offered to be the activity editor for April.  She selected a challenging activity, which was both and interesting and an enjoyable one for me. I really appreciate all the hard work she put into this column.

Activity Directions--Select 7-12 poems by an author you admire.  From each of these poems, select one word that you think would be appropriate for the poem you want to write. Using one of these words in each line of your poem, write a 7-12 line poem on any subject.

I would like to thank Michele for her efforts to bring this wonderful activity for our readers to enjoy.  Her analysis of the poems is at the end of this column, which enriches the experience. Thank you, Elizabeth, Raamesh, Kelley and Ralph for sharing your talent for this activity.  Congratulations on your publication!

                                       --Karen O’Leary, Whispers’ Editor


A Day Written in Blue

What a precious blue day it was,
the snowbank melting at last,
blackwater collecting in puddles. 
After a blue boy fell into a puddle,
he sat on a mossy hillock to dry
and to eat honey he found in a hive. 
He tossed stones at a blue donkey
that was ploughing the garden.  
The donkey chased him through catbriers
to a silky blue hammock
where he could look at the blue stars
in the dappled sky. 

Mary Oliver’s poems: “The Summer Day,” “The Swan,” “At Blackwater Pond,” “The Kingfisher,” “Moccasin Flowers,” “The Moths,” “Hummingbird Pauses at the Trumpet Vine,” “The Lark,” “Egrets,” “White Night,” “Last Night the Rain Spoke to Me,” “Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard”

By Elizabeth Howard



Memories are often miasmal, putrescent;
squad-drill of old complaints marching by
that you soon wish were etherised, euthanised

lest, despondently, you are forced to grapple
with those; the nocturnal sounds of a forest
you wished you didn’t set foot in; a gambit indeed

that you played thinking it fashionable at the instant
and now regretted... indeed with appetites for regret;
meditating on them there is no shunya, nor do they

let you be forgetful of them, vicious in the pursuit,
and no, they don’t digress either to dwell on joy,
no sir, they're silhouettes that follow, to the grave mud.

Poems from T. S. Eliot, from and  “The Hippopotamus”, “Hysteria”, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”, “Morning at the Window”, “Rhapsody on a Windy Night”, “Sweeney Among the Nightingales”, “Aunt Helen”, “The Boston Evening Transcript”, “Burbank With a Baedeker: Bleistein With a Cigar”, “The Burial of the Dead”, “Conversation Galante”, and “A Cooking Egg.”

By Raamesh Gowri Raghavan


Golden Glow

In the charcoal embers
of illness, satin gifts arrive.
Words sewn into a quilt,
knotted with blessings
and loving wishes.
Sorrows melt as I read
friendships’ blossoms
and feel their rainbows.

Underlined words are from haiku in dandelion seeds by Arvinder Kaur, pages 18-27.

By Karen O’Leary


Owl, lost

Your face watched me, your eyes of a lonely girl turning away
side after side, looking over one shoulder then the other
to draw me from the basin within the tree that hid your children.

When you left the branch it swayed so little I wondered if I had seen you at all,
then your gaze locked mine from another part of the forest
tearing my gaze again from the dark eyes of your young ones.

Now your tree seems empty, its opening a mouth twisted in a laugh,
the autumn leaves covering that mouth like the palms of a hundred hands.
No young ones, no bones or ruffled snags of fur fallen beneath your ledge.

Nothing but sanddust and darkness.
I want to see you. I want to hear you calling in the night. That silken whisper.
Even if it is not me you call. Even if it is me, and the night grows short.

I learned of Shakila Azizzada from the website which has been featuring a poet in translation along with daily ‘prompts’ for poems during national poetry month. It was a double challenge of sorts! Reading the beautiful poems of this poet and then turning a few words into my own little effort. I do hope that the style of the poems reflects her style just a little. . .I intend to read more of her work and find inspiration! The poems were translated by Mimi Khalvati & Zuzanna Olszerska

By Kelley White


The Churchwarden
(St James’, Cooling Kent)

All around, death imbued him to his bones:
From his mother’s headstone
And in the gloaming, his sisters, resting side by side.
What phantom, sails this windswept marshland,
Through distant landscapes, and shifting sand?
There! a convict ship moors, full of those with troubled souls.
Within the deepening sounds of evensong,
And under crimson skies, he still tends and longs;
But death has claimed him:
By the whispers of angels, when they sing,
There to abide by his side, these stone feathers as wings.

Wilfred Owen 1893-1918 “Bones”, “Miners”, “Mothers”, “The Letter Gloaming”, “The Unreturning Phantom”, “Six O’clock in Princess Street Landscapes”, The One Remains
Troubled”, “Asleep Deepening”, “The Show Crimson”, “Conscious Death”, “The Next War
Whispers”, “All Sounds Have Been of Music Feathers” and “To the Bitter Sweet-heart”
(Charles Dickens used St James’ church, for a passage in Great Expectations, when young ‘Pip’ met the convict Magwich.)

By Ralph Stott


Although I only received five poems for this activities exercise, they were, each of them, substantial, and, I thought, well-written (whether by craft or inspiration I cannot always tell).

One of the themes of the poems (the poems influenced by T.S. Eliot, Shakila Azizzada, and Wilfred Owens), was a kind of deathlike despondency. In the poem “Forgetting,” the vocabulary sprung from “miasmal” and “nocturnal” to “silhouettes that follow, to the grave mud.” The ambience was, then, maintained very well by a varied and select vocabulary. As the author indicates, “there is no” digression for joy. Not being able to forget unpleasant memories is also part of what Eliot is about.

The poem, “Owl, lost,” also exerts a kind of despondent ambience, with an added intensity of emotion, and a concluding death metaphor, which is most effective. In “The Churchwarden,” a sense of mystery exists because we cannot tell, really, whether the main character in the poem is actually dead, or if, rather, he is just obsessive about the graveyard. This mystery is even more effective because of the precise nature of the words the author chose to use—for example, what could be more tangible than a headstone? Crimson skies? Stone feathers?

The last two poems done of this exercise are more on a happy note. “Golden Glow” is the perfect title for Karen’s “satin gifts” in the “charcoal embers of illness.” The reader can almost see the sorrows melt from the page as the poem concludes with “blossoms” and “rainbows.” Elizabeth Howard’s poem continues with an allusion to melting, and “the blue stars/in the dappled sky” bring to mind the Biblical reference to the apple of God’s eye. We can conclude that these poems, skillfully wrought, using some of the same vocabulary as the better known poets from whom they chose their vocabulary, tended to purvey a similar ambience, while, each of them, developing into a very original work of art.

                                   --A. Michele Leslie, Whispers’ April Activity Editor

Reflections--By George Ellison--England


Looking out across the wine dark sea
I watch the full moon rise before me
Reflections rippling in the moon glow
Then I reflect on all I have come to know

All these many years we’ve evolved non-stop 
From simpler times to where we’re fit to drop
So now I reflect in this quiet solitude
On this bench by the sea deciding what to do

Such beauty there is for us to behold
If we can just slow down, put life on hold
Take time out to survey the wonderful view
Reflect on the way you go, what you see and then do

We have but one life to live to the full
Our daily exertions I know they forever pull
But take a step back decide on your directions
Then in all good time you’ll have time for reflections

George L. Ellison is a writer of poetry and short stories. He has published three books called Poetic Reminiscences, Weaving Words and Reflections. George lives with his wife and dogs in Chester-Le-Street, County Durham in England. He is a member of The Writers and Poetry Alliance and owner of Poetry and short story ink.  George has a Facebook Author page and is currently working on various projects as well as learning to play the saxophone at the Sage Gateshead!

Forest Preacher--By Jim Teeters--United States

Forest Preacher

As I walk early this morning
the high half-moon
nibbles away at the few remaining stars
or is it the other way around?

A Steller's Jay preaches a raucous sermon
of heavenly promises
for those who repent and
turn from their selfish ways

Dark trees raise their lacy hands
to signal full agreement

The serpentine trail
twists off and I follow
suddenly aware of my hands
pushed deep into jacket pockets

Jim Teeters has published poetry in several anthologies. He conducts poetry workshops for children and adults and is active in poetry readings in the Seattle area through the Striped Water Poets. He is the author of six poetry collections and the book, Teach with Style, (ASTD Press July 2013). Jim is a retired social worker living in Kent, Washington.

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Making Do and Mending--By David J. Kelly--Ireland

Making Do and Mending

Here I am, without you,
on a journey of my own,
held together by the patches
that your loving hands have sewn.
Still bearing the expressions
that you’d frequently repair,
still enjoying the endurance
of those memories of care.

David J. Kelly is an animal ecologist based in Dublin, Ireland. While his day job revolves around science writing, his light poetry and Japanese verse forms (haiku, tanka, haibun and haiga) have been published in a number of journals and anthologies. He aspires to publish a book of poetry one day, when he has enough suitable material. David is a member of The British Haiku Society and Haiku Ireland.

Lovely Luminescence--By Arthur Turfa--United States

Lovely Luminescence

Striding along the shore
moving in thalassic beauty,
her splendor resembles
oceans whence she came.

Her smile catches the sun
reflecting radiance
the horizon round
bringing landscape and sea aglow.

Sun-drenched hair cascades
down over shoulders
touching necklace
of amber stones linked in golden strands.

All that one can do is to simply bask
In that splendor and linger
In lovely luminescence.

Arthur Turfa is a transplanted Pennsylvanian who enjoys living in the Midlands of South Carolina. These places and others are reflected in his book, Places and Times, eLectio Publishing, 2015. His bivocationl career path has given him a wealth of experience which makes for a rich blend of poetry. Currently a moderator in three Google+ poetry communities, he is working on a second book.

Monday, April 18, 2016

Springtime--By Phyllis Babcock--Canada


The mist dissipates no longer shades of white
 As sun breaks through with lemon light
Shadows begin to blur and shimmer
As a new day overtakes the dawn
The drab colorless landscape regains color
Another season awakens from its slumber
Bringing forth new growth of spring
After the harshness of winter
Nature continues to flourish
It's balance highly maintained.

Phyllis Babcock was born in Saskatchewan, Canada in 1951 and currently resides in Regina with her husband. She has been blessed with two wonderful sons and daughter-in-laws. She has two grandsons and two granddaughters. She started writing poetry in 2004 and joined Poetry Soup site in 2006. She has been published in two anthologies, On Butterfly Wings and Snippets. Her work has also appeared on and in a local seniors’ newspaper. She feels writing has been a wonderful journey, meeting many new poets and writers along the way.

Motherhood--By Jennifer Criss--United States


Feel free to get a new glass
for every drink of water and leave it
half full in the room you left
with the lights on

By all means, leave your dirty socks
in the middle of the floor
and your shoes in the kitchen
where the dishes remain untouched

I’d be happy to wash those jeans
six times when you’ve only worn them once
because you leave them on the floor
to be wrinkled and stomped upon

Please, let me cook four different meals
because no one can agree
on the same thing
then leave it untouched on your plate

It’s no trouble, being your mother
day in and day out, morning to night
I want to kiss that face and then scream
into a pillow at the top of my lungs.

Jennifer Criss graduated from Ball State University with a minor in Creative Writing, a lifelong passion.  She is currently collaborating on an anthology for older adults and helps lead a writing support group. Jennifer writes mostly short stories but has discovered a love for writing poetry.  Her poetry has been published in Poebita Magazine. She now works at Ball State, is a busy mother of two girls and her pen keeps moving. She is an editorial assistant with Indiana Voice Journal.

list of denials--By j. lewis--United States

list of denials

i never loved you, not in any way that would last
for less than this life and into the next

you cannot depend on me for anything beyond the basics
as we've discussed so many times-
"having food and raiment, let us be content therewith"
just call everything else i give gravy, frosting, excess

i don't enjoy being around you much
for anything other than the hiking, kayaking, picture taking,
movies, shopping, impromptu dates, quiet snuggling, and other things.
or the food. oh, the food.

i simply don’t want to marry you, at least not again in this life
because that would involve separating the entity known as 'us'
dividing the conjoined twins that you and i have become
just to re-attach the two parts. that would make no sense
no sense at all

if you should ever tell someone, anyone, everyone
about this little list, i will deny that i meant
any of it as jest. it's best you leave it alone

j. lewis is an internationally published poet, musician, and nurse practitioner. When he is not otherwise occupied, he is often on a kayak, exploring and photographing the waterways near his home in California.

Sunday, April 17, 2016

From My View…--By Martha Magenta--England

From My View…

The face of love is an open flower
that greets the morning sun.
It is the wind that chases leaves
around in circles just for fun.

The face of love is the shining moon
in the dark blue, star-flecked sky.
It is sun-kissed leaves in spring,
and the fledgling learning to fly.

The face of love is rain on the earth,
the stillness of lakes, a subtle breeze
like a butterfly's wing;
the song of blackbirds in the trees.

The face of love is the long lost child;
the heart that yearns for years,
to hold, to care, to love the face
remembered now through gentle tears.

Martha Magenta is a poet who resides in England. Her poems focus on a wide variety of topics and issues including: love, loss, inner discovery, spirituality, Buddhism, and meditation, environment abuse, and violence against women. Recently, she has begun to write haiku. A number of her poems and haiku have been published in online journals. Her other activities include: organic gardening, herbalism, and aromatherapy.