Saturday, March 31, 2018

Your Editor's Thoughts--By Karen O'Leary--United States

Dear Whispers’ Family,

What a pleasure to publish some unique experiences this month. Sharing history for our journal, we link past, present and future.  As we travel with others, we enrich our lives in an encouraging and gentle vision that I hope is the hallmark of Whispers.

Our interactive journal is made possible by my co-editors Inge Wesdijk and Jack Horne. I am so grateful to them and all our contributors for bringing unique voices that give our readers a variety of poetry and information each month. 

It is a pleasure to introduce twelve new writers to Whispers this month
                                    Luke Samra, United States
                                    Valentina Cano, United States
                                    John Grey, United States      
                                    Bruce Mundhenke, United States     
                                    Ed Higgins, United States  
                                    Ruth C. Rehberg, United States
                                    Lloyd Wayne Russell, United States
                                    Mysti S. Milwee, United States
                                    Nell Dalton, United States
                                    Carl Scharwath, United States
                                    Lee Robertson, United States    
                                    Peter Magliocco, United States       

Please stop by and welcome and encourage them to continue to be a part of our online journal/poetry community.

Writing is an interactive experience, so we hone our writing skills to make it possible to reach out to our international audience.  I hope you stop by and share some thoughts.  If you have any suggestions for an enriching experience, please contact me at  Wishing all of you the best!


Karen O’Leary
Whispers’ Editor

Realization--By Anna-Marie Docherty--Wales


Iris is unique
controlling Pupils ways
Discerning light reaching Retina
through her aperture displays
Window on the world
perceiving what's revealed
Relaying back to the mind
Seeing what’s concealed
To organise identify and interpret
how in given environment it will fit

Anna-Marie Docherty lives in Pembrokeshire, Wales, UK and is often inspired by nature and the world around her. Having been writing poetry now for 4 - 5 years, her works have developed in structure and form as well as using free verse in her writing as she walks this endless art form and creativity.

Triumphant--By Maurice J. Reynolds--United States


relentless pain,
sleepless nights,
feelings of dread,
voices inside my head
speak to one another,
my body seems to
coincide; repetition
magnifies the intensity,
pain censors working
overtime, pushing for
surrender; yet, there
will be no surrender,
not where hope resides;
in a place locked away
inside my heart, where
the King of Kings and
Lord of Lords still rule,
leading me to victory;
triumphant over all pain,
sickness, and disease.

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:

Friday, March 30, 2018

April's Plaything (Rispetto)--By Emile Pinet--Canada

April's Plaything (Rispetto)

Yesterday, I saw my first robin of spring
and it instantly brought a smile to my heart.
Today, I heard that red breasted robin sing
a happy tune, as winter doldrums depart.
Tomorrow, showers will be April's plaything
giving nature a refreshing drink to start.
For as our wobbly world spins on its axis
it unlocks seasons and gives my heart access.

Emile Pinet was born in Bathurst, New Brunswick, Canada. Many of his poems reflect the uniqueness of nature, which he loves, and his poetic observations of life in general. Emile has been writing poems since he was about 35 years old (now 67). He decided to write down his ideas and express himself through his poetry.

Winter in the Smokies--By Tom Davis--United States

Winter in the Smokies

A bone-numbing chill
Flows from the mountains
And into the valleys

Where sycamores stand


Their brown bark shed
Like sunburned skin

Their limbs stretch skyward
Like fingers of a skeleton


Snow will come
Blanketing all 
In stunning white

Tom Davis lives in Webster, NC and his work has been published in numerous venues. He authored several books which can be found at Tom has recently completed his memoir, The Most Fun I Ever Had With My Clothes On: A March from Private to Colonel. Tom is the publisher for Old Mountain Press since 1992.

Frisky--By Inge Wesdijk--The Netherlands


A mild breeze
is tickling our skin
The cherishing warmth
of the sun breaks Winter's
grip, spreads gaiety by
a carpet of fragrant flowers
The little lambs agree,
frolicking in fresh
green meadows

Inge Wesdijk is a Dutch writer, poetess, and photographic artist who works under the pseudonym Daginne Aignend. She likes hard rock music and fantasy books. She is a vegetarian and spends a lot of time with her animals.

Thursday, March 29, 2018

Special Feature Collaborative Poem--By ayaz daryl nielsen and Peggy Dugan French—United States

home again

By ayaz daryl nielsen and Peggy Dugan French

thrumming our melodies
the earth sings her tune in harmony with us 
we can hear the winged prophecy
calling us to dream
as compassion’s witnesses
hope rises as formless
being, being healthy,
being home again
just, to

Luminous--By Michael Griffith--United States

(For Sharon)

You are a star --
Shining in the darkness around you,
helping the true things in life show.

You are a star --
Glowing with a flame that will not die,
warming the hearts of those you know.

You are a star --
Shimmering like a magical gem,
giving hope wherever you go,

You are a star --
Rising on the horizon of life,
working hard to make your dreams grow.

Michael Griffith began writing poetry to help his mind and spirit heal as his body recovered from a life-changing injury. Recent work appears online and in print in such outlets as The Blue Nib, Nostalgia Digest, The Wild Word and Poetry24. He resides near Princeton, NJ. 

Dams of Emotion--By Vincent Van Ross--India

Dams of Emotion

When we are overwhelmed
By a situation
Whether it is
A sorrowful event
Or, a joyous occasion
When we are at a loss
For words
When our voice
Gets choked
And, we are unable
To express our feelings
Tears do the job
By gushing out
Of our eyes
Breaching the dams
Of emotion
That hold them
In their safe custody

Vincent Van Ross is a journalist and an editor based in New Delhi in India. He writes on national and international politics, defense, environment, travel, spirituality and scores of other topics. Apart from this, he dabbles in a little bit of poetry, fiction, non-fiction and humorous writings. He is also a renowned photographer and art critic. His poems are littered in anthologies and journals across the world.

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

tanka--By Anne Curran--New Zealand

I feel something
akin to tenderness
when caring for this house ... 
It never tires being together
with an old friend

the girl in hockey uniform
takes her father's hand
when shopping ...
a simple act
on an ordinary day

Anne Curran writes in Hamilton New Zealand where she resides with her pet car Misty and extended family of parents, brothers and sisters. She loves art, going to see films, and walks.

The strings should be connected again--By Swapan Kumar Rakshit--India

The strings should be connected again

Somewhere the link has been broken.
So the hearty applause from this end
Don’t reach there; or the words spoken
There, are very difficult to comprehend.
But, my tireless heart still wants to throb,
And, my eyes are eager for frequent gaze.
I want to harness energy form another orb
And, I want to envision an unwritten page
I want to hear murmurs and the drum beats,
I want to be acquainted with futurists’ caveats,
And to hear the footsteps on unknown streets,
Or to know the language of the autocrats.
So the strings should be connected again,
With the greatest care and with the fullest amain.

Swapan Kumar Rakshit is an Indian poet. He lives at Aurobindanagar (North), Bankura, India. He wants to be acquainted with the universal creative minds through his poems and wants to come into contact with that creative force.

(Note by Inge Wesdijk—Whispers’ Poetry Editor: amain an olden day (16th century) word--fullest, with full force)

Tuesday, March 27, 2018

Special Feature—Kennings—By Waterfront Writers—United Kingdom

Kennings—By Waterfront Writers—United Kingdom

Even if you've never heard of Kennings, you've probably used them, with 'four-eyes' or 'book-worm'.  Kennings are usually two nouns that can be used to represent a person, thing or place, such as 'pen-pusher' for an office worker. Anglo-Saxon, Celt and Norse poetry often used Kennings. For example, the sea could be called 'whale-road' or a sword could be 'blood-icicle’. In fact, Kennings are named after the Nordic kenna eitt viĆ° ('to express one thing in terms of another'). They often used alliteration, assonance, or rhyme to add colour to these. My good friends at the Plymouth-based Waterfront Writers introduced me to Kennings. and I have come up with some examples for 'writer'. I hope you’ll enjoy these too!

                                            Jack Horne—England

Book Writers
Busy Thinkers
Cheer Writers
Collective Thinkers
Comfort Givers
Dream Builders
Dream Purveyors
History Makers
Ink Innovators
Language Drivers
Letter magicians
Mind Benders
Paper Fillers
Pen Pushers
People Scryers
People Watchers
Print Proposers
Prose Pilgrims
Prose Propagators
Reality Changers
Reality Scribblers
Story Sculptors
Story Scribblers
Story Tellers
Tale Tellers
Thought Collectors
Thought Provokers
Tongue Smiths
Verse Warblers
Word Conjurers
Word Herders
Word Performers
Word Purveyors
Word Shepherds
Word Spinners
Word Warblers
Word Weavers
Word Whisperers

These Kennings were a group exercise, with contributions from:

Carol Butson
Sarah Boulton-Way
Sarah Tindall
Joyce Matthews
John Butson
Dick Benson-Gyles
Thea Bruten
Don Weal
Annie Jenkin
Nick Spargo
Jan Stalker

Waterfront Writers are one of Plymouth’s oldest creative writing groups, starting more than twenty-one years ago at the Barbican Theatre. After three years associated with the theatre the group move location a number of times, growing and changing, until arriving at its present location, Swarthmore Hall.  As this building was founded by Quakers, the group decided that it would adopt a “family friendly” approach to all its work.  To this end members’ work does not contain profanity, bad language, blatant sexual content or extreme violence.

Despite these apparent restrictions, the group has achieved considerable success with performances in both the theatre and at street festivals, readings in libraries, community support activities and open mic events.  The group has also had a number of anthologies published, the latest of which, Waves of Sound, is still available on Amazon (search Waterfront Writers Plymouth).  Individually, members of the group are frequently published both in print and online, several have had books published, including non-fiction, novels and verse.

                                    Nick Spargo, Chairperson, Waterfront Writers

Flight--By Greg Gregory--United States


The soft sandstones
of these deserts,
their soft names whispered - 
Mojave, Sonora -
delicate bird bones left there,
bones delicate as a song or
soft desert names, become
hollow, like flutes, like bones
filled with air, containing sky.

They gradually erode, go back 
into soft dust
softly, softly on the earth
until the desert
breathes flight into them
once again, in evening, in twilight
they disappear into air, into a poem
in a soft southern wind.

Greg Gregory has been published in the US, Canada, and the UK in publications including California Quarterly, The Aurorean, and Avocet.  Born in Washington, DC, Greg lived 14 years in the San Francisco Bay area.  Greg currently lives and writes in Sacramento, California with his wife, Rita.

Monday, March 26, 2018

She Won't Need It Anymore--By Helen Dowd--Canada

She Won't Need It Anymore

It is when I look around me, and I see my sister’s things.
Oh what pain wells up within me!  How my soul with anguish wrings!
When my eyes fall on her sweater hanging limp behind the door,
It is then the cruel truth hits me: She won’t need it anymore

Helen Dowd enjoys spending time at her computer, along side her husband of 60 years, writing poetry, story poems, stories about pets and life in general, as well as inspirational and Bible stories. She has one book published. Her stories and poems have been published in several Anthologies. Helen hosts an inspirational online publication, 

Vision Reflecting--By Diane Webster--United States

Vision Reflecting

Spring sunshine thaws
around the pond’s edge
like a surgeon removing
a cloudy cataract
leaving pure vision
reflecting on the surface.

Diane Webster's goal is to remain open to poetry ideas in everyday life or nature or an overheard phrase. Many nights she falls asleep juggling images to fit into a poem. Her work has appeared in Philadelphia PoetsIllya's HoneyRiver Poets Journal and other literary magazines.

Saturday, March 24, 2018

Palm Sunday--By Peter Magliocco--United States

Palm Sunday

The depth spring made
In our hands raining

To bear old clouds away
Closes over valleys

(Clasping you tonight
Upon shaded trails)

Leading skywards
Where sunlight squirms

Between rocks of ages
Hikers traverse anew

A timeless waiting
Beyond dawn's end

To Seed flowing trees
In palms of earth

Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, NV, and has several poems at various online and print publications.

Ghost in the Mist--By Lee Robertson--United States

Ghost in the Mist

The longings of one's heart
All but dissipated
Passionate and pale 
Encounters of the soul replaced
Within the confines
Of a near transparent shade
A grey ghost in the mist
Left alone in the dark
An imaginary blue shadow
As the dead lie in their grave
Their desires kept silent
Whilst the life inside the heart
withers, statuesque and opaque
The soul emptied of breaths stain
In a vapor fades, a wandering spirit

Lee Robertson, 52, lives in Nashville, Tennessee, USA. A USAF Veteran, truck driver, stonemason, aspiring artist/poet. He has 2 children, Gatlin, 26, and Danielle, 23. He has been posting his poetry on G+ for 3 years. He enjoys the beach, live music, drawing, painting, and his family.

Friday, March 23, 2018

March Activity Feature--Word Bank--Hosted By--Jack Horne--Whispers’ Activity Feature Editor

Our editorial team was excited to see where the Word Bank activity would take you all. I enjoyed each and every single one! Thanks to everyone who took part. I hope you will enjoy this as much as I did!


To use the following words (variations of the words like streamed, streaming, etc. are acceptable)—


to present a poem that is relevant for a global community.

                                      --Jack Horne—Whispers’ Activity Feature Editor


Family Outing in Spring

Bright flowers line the banks they walk
As their shaggy dog splashes in the stream.
Jumping out he runs back and shakes himself,
Water droplets fly, glinting in the sun,
To children’s laughter.

Nick Spargo, United Kingdom


A Child's Play

Streaming through the large living room window
the bright sunshine lit up her laughter.
She mischievously tantalized
the dog; tickling his nose
with a picked red flower.
One eye awakened;
mouth snapped at flies
his peace.

Charlene McCutcheon, United States


A Moment in Time

Walking my dog by the river
where water flows spritely, teasing
the beaming sun and wild flowers.
A contagious mood; my heart skips.
I listen to nature's laughter.

Paul Callus, Malta


Growing Awareness

past the stream
a little dog
to smell the flowers...
in the light
of the sun
he could hear
the children's laughter.

Pat Geyer, United States


Any Day

It's on any day
my heart pumping
my breath a stream of life
sunshine peaks through
trees on newborn flower petals
it’s the dogs in Cusco, Peru
no leash laws just freedom
makes me laugh, and cry
for some are near starving
new day, new visions

Jim Teeters, United States


Serving (DoubleTriodyne)

Under earth's sun serving man or dogs or both
Can be in loving laughter or heart felt love oath
Serving's a flowing stream to masterful growth

Every human being's a blooming paper flower
Using free growth to blossom hour after hour
Serving fellow mankind, growing in love power 

Yancy Lee Dalton, United States


Chasing the Winter Wind

Streams of laughter
dog the trail of the north wind,
sunny laughter chasing winter
into hibernation.  Southern breezes
lay claim to the earth--
          waiting the birds’ song,
          the tender grasses,
          newborn flowers.
Sunny laughter chases the winter wind.

Barbara Tate, United States


Laughter is Good Medicine

Sun awakens the new day
amber waves stream thru
trees dancing in the breeze
breathe in those earthy scents
do not bend to daily pressures
do not live in a dog eat dog world
laughter is good medicine
take time to smell flowers
feel the sun upon your face
greet the arrival of each new day.

Phyllis Babcock, Canada


Thoughts Out on the Porch Interrupted

As a yellow sun rises, casting
Gold upon pear’s white flowers
And the dog whines at the door a lasting
Sad refrain, one with magical powers
Spring birds’ call can entertain for hours
Sounds and beauty of this season tower

The stream’s laughter bubbles and dances fast
After rain's cold waters feed springs
Somehow joys of the season can’t last
Though right now doves' voices sing

Sara Kendrick, United States


Sunrays lighten the water
spring flowers colour the grass
childrens' laughter from near,
playing hide-and-seek
and a dog chases wild ducks resting
at the river banks

Gert Knop, Germany


Awakening world

A faint Spring sun tries to cheer
some shy flowers, a few primroses
and daffodils growing by the stream,
to expose their colorful beauty.
Our dog's encouragement exists
by sticking his nose into the early buds
with a wholehearted sneeze as a result.
Being together, cheerful laughter
while enjoying each other's company
in an awakening world

Inge Wesdijk, The Netherlands



Tears streaming down her face
Placing flowers on her daughter's grave
Recalling vividly a day of bright sunlight
When Suzanne put a chain of daisies
Around her little dog's neck
Laughing to her mother as she called out
Mummy, aren't I a clever girl.

Isha Wagner, New Zealand


90 ° and Rising…

No air conditioning,
in ’65: running through
our sprinkler, laughing
with neighborhood kids
on sunny afternoons.

Years later, Mom and I
sit, sharing the beauty
of her flowers and dogwoods,
immersed in memories,
streaming from our hearts.

Karen O'Leary, United States


Walking with Petunia
I take my dog for a walk.
Her name is Petunia.
We veer off the path
to smell the flowers.
We cross the stream,
stopping to watch  
sunrays puddle and flow. 
When Petunia chases a butterfly,  
she tumbles head over tail,
and I burst into laughter.   

Elizabeth Howard, United States 


Dog in Spring

We plait flowers, pussy willow and primrose, in the dog's collar.
He shakes his head in disgust but then relents, accepting
his shame is our offering to the gods of spring.
we baptise him in our laughter. The weak spring sun
strokes his ears, scratches him in that joyful place under his chin.
Sharply cold with snow melt, the shallow stream clatters over rocks
The dog sees his opportunity to rid himself of indignity
and plunges into the sunlit water. The current rips away
the unwelcome adornment. His soundless laughter joins our own.
Flowers, sun, dog, stream, laughter. A prayer to lead us from darkness.

Sarah Tindall, United Kingdom


I have a dear friend who is a wheelchair gardener,
she has a variety of beautiful and colourful flowers,
which she tends to herself. It was a warm sunny day
when I called to take her dog Tobias out for his walk
to the park. He will head straight for the stream and
jump in to chase the ducks, on getting out he will
shake himself vigorously getting me wet in the process.
My friend will be waiting for our return with tea and cakes,
and we will share much laughter, when I relate the
story of his antics chasing the ducks.

Jan Stalker, United Kingdom



Alongside the serene river stream;
I lie calm as my little dog hops by.
As morning Sun shines bright;
flowers bloom in most vibrant colours.
Giggling to the tune of soothing wind;
joyous butterflies subtly flutter.

While I recall those rosy days of youth,
and cherish echoes of once irresistible laughter.

Dr. Upma A. Sharma, India

Encore--By Richard Carl Subber--United States


Evening is long, not dreary
but drained, a dissipation,
I am weary
and I linger here
to wait for drowsing,
   wait for silence
   to fill my ears.

I have enough of wary hope
to understand, again, tonight,
   that tomorrow is an open door,
      that I will wake to wanton singing,
     careless hope,
      impulsive lifting up
      of eyes and arms,
         dashing at dawn
         to do another day.

Richard Carl Subber is a poet, freelance copy editor, and writing mentor. Rick has two chapbooks on Amazon: Writing Rainbows: Poems for Grown-Ups, and Seeing far: Selected poems. His poems appeared in The Four Elements: Effects and Influences, an anthology by Poets Collective; in the Aurorean, and elsewhere.

haiku--By Carl Scharwath--United States

orange crescent moon
holds memories of the night
her silver cup

early daybreak rain
nestled birds still in shadows
awaiting their song

Carl Scharwath has appeared globally with 100+ journals selecting his poetry, short stories, essays or art photography. Two poetry books Journey to Become Forgotten'(Kind of a Hurricane Press) and Abandoned (ScarsTv) have been published. Carl is the art editor for Minute Magazine, a dedicated runner and 2nddegree black-belt in Taekwondo.

Thursday, March 22, 2018

Immersion--By Karen O'Leary--United States


and dwell,
mingling mute,
in the world’s beauty.
The cumulus clouds wave over
the field until the tide changes, and the moon’s light shines.

*(Poetry Form--Fibonacci)

Karen O’Leary is a writer and editor from West Fargo, ND.  She has published poetry, short stories, and articles in a variety of venues including, Frogpond, A Hundred Gourds, bear creek haiku, Shemom, Creative Inspirations and NeverEnding Story. Karen is our Whispers’ editor. She enjoys sharing the gift of words.

Silent White--By Linda Hurdwell--United States

Silent White

Softly falls, wet, icy lace
Slipping down with silent grace
Spilling onto earth with white
Turning all the dark to light.

Sparkling shapes drop to the ground
Gently building a silver mound
A hill of white, silent, serene
Changing the bare and empty scene.

Softly falls wet, icy lace
Tumbling down with charming grace
Shimmering into a frozen day
Alas, this ethereal state can't stay.

Linda Hurdwell is a retired lady who lives in Ascot, Berkshire, England.

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Special Feature--Nell Dalton--(In Memory--Born April 15, 1921--Died November 19, 2012)--United States

It is always honor writers from the past as their words have an opportunity to touch writers of the present and future.  I would like to thank Yancy Dalton for sharing his mother’s words with us.                                           Sincerely, Karen O’Leary--Editor

Montezuma Canyon

Montezuma, I had forgotten
How beautiful you could be
In spring, when things are greening up
This is the place for me.

Some find their thrills in distant lands
And some even fly to the moon
But I hear the ‘call of the canyon’
In April, May and June.

Seeking ruins of the Anasazi
and their ancient habitats
I've roamed around on all your hills
And all your sagebrush flats.

I know you were a happy home
To those of ancient lore,
But none before or after me
Could love you any more.

Though I must say goodbye someday
Long after I am dead,
A lonely ghost will walk your hills
In search of an arrowhead.
From Yancy Dalton--Nell Dalton, my mother, grew up in Wentworth Missouri on a farm. Mother moved west when she married my dad.  She wrote poetry as a hobby.  She was hired by the San Juan Record, writing "Nell's Newsy Notes", covering all the news about the town’s people.  A lot of her poetry came out in the San Juan Record.  She also wrote senior news for them later. They held a banquet in her honor and gave her a gift after she retired.  Record noted that a lot of babies were welcomed to Monticello, with a hand-written poem from my mother. Dad was a rancher, providing opportunities for my mother’s poetry in magazines like, The Record Stockman.  I was at her bedside when she left us.  We all loved her very much.