WHISPERS REACHES THE 200,000 VIEW MILESTONE—Editor’s Thoughts—By Karen O’Leary

Dear Friends,

I am overwhelmed by the support and encouragement of each and every one of you.  We have stretched across borders with contributors from Albania, Australia, Botswana, Brazil, Canada, Canary Islands, Costa Rica, England, France, Germany, Ghana, India, Ireland, Israel, Malawi, Malta, Netherlands, New Zealand, Nigeria, Pakistan, Philippines, Portugal, Romania, Saudi Arabia, Scotland, Singapore, South Africa, Sweden, Tunisia, Turkey, Ukraine, U.A.E., United Kingdom, United States, Wales and Zimbabwe.  Our reader base reaches other countries, too.

Some of you have been on this journey since the beginning, others have joined us for moments, and some are content to read the work of so many talented artists. All of you matter and are a part of our community.  CONGRATULATIONS CONTRIBUTORS!  This milestone honor is yours.

I will be publishing thoughts from contributors some time in June.  I will leave The Ongoing Thread open until May 5 so you still have the opportunity to share your thoughts for the article I am planning.

Writers

leaves on branches…

hope for the world

Your leaves are spreading in poetry and in encouraging comments to others.  May our Whispers’ community extend our branches to reach out to many more in the months ahead.  Thank you all so much!

Blessings,

Karen

Haiku--By Kelley White--United States

April 25^th—

Spring peepers singing

in a frozen pond.

~ ~ ~

dry leaves

shake the night birches

cricket chirp

~ ~ ~

hurrying

to my mother’s bedside

harvest moon

~ ~ ~

the scarecrow’s shadow

crosses my path

autumn chill

  

~ ~ ~

Stark winter sunlight

cracks the ice outside the door–

starting the trip home

~ ~ ~

Pediatrician Kelley White worked in inner city Philadelphia and now works in rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in journals including Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA. Her most recent books are Toxic Environment (Boston Poet Press) and Two Birds in Flame (Beech River Books.) She received a 2008 Pennsylvania Council on the Arts grant.

Driving Along a Country Road--By Robert L. Hinshaw--United States

Driving Along a Country Road

When I need an uplift for my weary soul and to clear my muddled mind,

I slowly cruise along a country road to see what treasures I might find.

I leave behind the frenzied traffic on the four-lane interstate,

To enjoy bucolic vistas along a gravel road, my languid soul to sate.

I see old barns with Mail Pouch Tobacco ads now faint due to age,

And remnants of Burma Shave signs with their charming adage.

Stately homes with white picket fences grace the country road,

With roses of every hue surrounding emerald lawns all neatly mowed.

I cross a rickety wooden bridge 'neath which country boys are fishing,

And pine for long ago summer days of youth - it sure gets me to wishing!

A lady waves to me as she hangs her laundry on the clothesline to dry.

A sign on the old country store reads, 'WAVE IF YOU CAN'T STOP BY!'

Farmers on John Deere tractors wave as they tend their fields of grain.

They sure kick up lots of dust and I reckon they're hoping for some rain.

I rolled down the windows to savor the wonderful scent of new-mown hay,

And slow to let an Amish family in their buggy move along the way.

Fat cattle graze on lush meadows, each with a meandering stream.

Horses gaze at me over fences as they look askance and dream.

I loathe interstates where folks think they're in the Indy 500-mile race.

I prefer old country roads where life is enjoyed at a much slower pace.

Robert L. Hinshaw served 30 years in the Air Force retiring in 1978 in the grade of Chief Master Sergeant. He began writing poetry in 2002 at age 72 and has composed over 1100 poems.

Three Noisy Boys--By Vivian Belford--Nigeria

Three Noisy Boys

They go from quiet to noisy in seconds

Have you switch sweet nursery rhymes

To loud appalling whines and howls

They crawl, creep, hide and seek

Three noisy boys they are

If all is quiet, hope they are napping

Else see sights that leave mouth ajar

If they are thirsty, give just a little

Else slip in their make-shift puddle

For life is now joy and jolt on reprise

But amidst their cries, pleas and pranks

Tantrums thrown at will and ease                                    

Part of you melts when you hear

Three noisy boys holler out

Mummy… without a frown

Vivian Belford is a freelance writer by day and an aspiring actor by night, she started writing professionally in 2013. Some of her work has been featured in Indian periodicals, Tuck magazine and Creativity webzine. She is currently starring in her own movie "living and dying with a smile." She writes from Abuja, Nigeria.

Haiku--By Ronald Grognet--United States

wedding party picnic

second line escort--

spring equinox

______________

the wisdom of doubt

abandoned woman

not surprised

______________

treed cat--

dog struts from

under the house

______________

home from school

kitchen first

grandparents next

______________

now and again

the urge to call mom—

long dead

______________

Ronald Grognet is a retired Clinical Psychologist who practiced private individual and family therapy for thirty-five years. He lived and worked in Washington D.C., and Sarasota, FL before retiring in New Orleans to be close to his grandsons. Besides his volunteer time spent on disaster assignments for the Red Cross, he fills his time devoted to haiku poetry. His interest in poetry came as a gift in retirement. Reading an article about haiku filled with many examples, he recognized its similarity to the reflective stance of the meditation he practiced for many years. He has vigorously pursued its study for the last two years, personally experiencing its healing and enlightening qualities.

And So It Goes On--By David Williams--England

And So It Goes On

And so it goes on. The tinted sky flies so fast.

Birds screeching on Dovers hill while sheep

pacifistically graze. The lime green leaves

shimmer and wave in a sudden breath of wind.

In the lee of the valley small bodies with

elongated shadows meander through

the surf of long grass. The return of the

swallows zip-wiring across endless sky

signifies that life continues.

The limes, blues and greens pirouette

and dance, blurring into a red sun.

David Williams was born in England and has resided there all of his life. He started writing poetry at the tender age of 14. He was encouraged to enter a local school poetry contest and went on to win it. In later life, he joined many local poetry groups and writers circles, eventually becoming chairman. He has had 9 poetry books published and is collating material for two more books which will hopefully be out later this year. He holds workshops to help and encourage writers to understand the many different forms of poetry. He has won many contests and is also a recognised poetry judge.

Kid Figures--By John Zedolik--United States

Kid Figures                                                                         

The child’s answer transcends the

limits of the mathematical question,

for the fact that “the polar bear is fat

because he eats too much” beats its

difference in weight from panda and black.

The three-digit figure can hide in the shadows

of inattention and incomprehension until

the kid needs it, instead of the test’s

iron-box moment that, though it may

determine the student’s progress,

cannot match the size of that one

big bear in its un-addable whole.

For thirteen years, John Zedolik taught English and Latin in a private all-girls school, and in 2010 completed his Ph.D., in which he focused on the pragmatic comedy of the Canterbury Tales. Currently, he is an adjunct instructor at Chatham University in Pittsburgh. However, he has had many jobs in his life including archaeological field assistant, obituary writer, and television-screen-factory worker. His iPhone is now his primary poetry notebook, and he hopes his negotiation with technology in regard to this ancient art form continues to be successful.

Live with Hope and Love--By Patricia Ann Farnsworth-Simpson--Canary Islands

Live with Hope and Love

It is far better to live

Believing in hope and love
That there is a heaven for us above
That it is death
that takes us on our way
If full of love to join
Angels at play.
Living life believing
Full of hope
Gives you good reason
To love and cope
With all the ailments
Found from war and pain
To make you want
To live again
Like an Angel up in heaven above
In a climate created purely from love....

Patricia Ann Farnsworth-Simpson is a coal miner’s daughter, the only girl among 6 lads.  A young mother to a son, she became a widow before she turned 18.  Patricia, then, married her childhood sweetheart who fathered her lovely son and two wonderful daughters.  Her children encouraged her to pursue her own talents.  After 51 years of marriage, she became a widow again recently. She fills her time with poetry, helping others whenever she can.

The Ballad of Fifteen Bucks--By Ron Larson--United States

The Ballad of Fifteen Bucks

It ain’t Christian, but I did it anyway.

I went to see Madam Sophie the other day.

I did it under the light of a full moon

On the outside of town, it this little room.

Now Madam Sophie, she’s got this crystal ball,

And she said: “For fifteen bucks, I’ll tell it all.”

What she said there in the still of the night

Left me with a bit of fright.

She said, “Son, you better go to church on Sunday,

And stop foolin’ around with Susie Brown.

I see it all, right here in my crystal ball.

Now get your sinnin’ buns back to town.”

Well, when I got back, I was thinkin’ she was right,

And I must admit, I learned somethin’ that night.

She has my word, I will repent,

But that’s the fastest fifteen bucks I ever spent.

Ron Larson is a retired community college professor (Ph.D.) and has had both fiction and non-fiction published in various journals over the years. He has been writing poetry for the last two years. His poems have been accepted by such diverse magazines as The American Dissident, Big Pulp, and WestWard Quarterly.

Tanka--By Anne Curran--New Zealand

cockle shells fallen
from the dusty wind chime …
letting go
my lover’s ashes
scattered to sea
_______________

I hear the sweetness
in my lover’s voice …
and I know
I am swimming
in the shallow end
_______________

not of the generation
to make soup for winter ...
neither do I know
how to message friends
on a smartphone

_______________

Anne Curran is a Japanese verse forms poet from Hamilton, New Zealand.  Anne has been writing poetry for about ten years with the encouragement of friends and family. She draws inspiration from the world around her. She has been fortunate to enjoy the wisdom of some fine editors and fellow poets.

Where The Pomegranates Grow--By Sara Kendrick--United States

Where The Pomegranates Grow

Outside the city where lush

Lovely pomegranates grow

The spring has sprung and flowers show

Birds rear their young in tones hushed

The lady weeps in a silent

Strain, love has left a broken heart

In pain, where the pomegranates start

To bloom once again, so vibrant

Hush my love your chance to shine bright

Slipped in on a cloud silver lined

A knight so good and deeply kind

Caught your tears throughout the long night 

He sprinkles them upon the air

Pomegranate bushes sprang up

Their juice forever fills your cup

Arise love, his maiden fair

Receive his love, freed from despair

Outside the city, in rural

Terrain. a perfect scene ~mural

Where pomegranates grow with flair

Sara Kendrick married young and had a family soon after. After her last child went to school, she decided to pursue her GED. A gentlemen who worked with the GED program encouraged her to enroll in college.  She worked part time and cared for her family in addition to her studies. She graduated from Mercer University. Several years ago, after a health crisis, she started writing poetry. 

Passive--By Sheikha A.--Pakistan and U.A.E.

Passive

I rode the night on its tail. The hooks

on the shirt of my bravery coming loose.

I remembered the orbit of your arms 

that wanted to hoard my ornate 

inconspicuousness from ever meeting

a sky-farer with wings of paper

but of a brazen heart he carried

on his sleeve, his mouth like the wind

in summers that made no oaths

but knew many amusing tales of musical

birds. You kept my mind from peeling

away like skins of immature lychees, 

never coming off evenly. You built

homes where I wanted clouds.

Since you knew best about preservation,

I stayed in your jar and called it sky.

Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and U.A.E. and often finds herself in a world of oscillation that most of the times motivates her writing too. She maintains a (or tries to) blog on sheikha82.wordpress.com.  

Place Such as Far Away--By Niranjan Navalgund--India

Place Such as Far Away

from a won position
to a stalemate
the stories of almost;
wavering hands
not able to hold on
Or let go

restless mind
from past to future & beyond
this restless pendulum
the written that cannot be
unwritten
multiplied by unwritten words longing to be written
a long pause in between
Can zero ever add value to itself?
all this and more in a place
such as far away.

Niranjan Navalgund is a chess lover from India. Reading and writing are his leisure time activities. He is fond of Zen Stories and the cute creature - Panda. He blogs at www.niriwrites.wordpress.com 

The Bonfire--By Nivedita N (Divenita Er)--United States

The Bonfire 

Chintu's father died the night he turned thirteen.

He couldn't cry; he was too naive for that.

His mother kicked him out of her troubles

with her cracked heels, yet, they spent

a miserable life together.

She bought him fancy t-shirts from Shoppers Stop

but re-stitched her old salwars;

His teenage was spent on the steps

of our apartment's corridors, crying his heart out, 

listing troubles that were partly true.

He loved his mother in an unusual way.

He never massaged that back that carried

a bag pack of problems or rubbed her weary feet 

that were tired of walking alone, but he blew away

his first salary on an expensive spa. 

She was too happy to be annoyed.

The friction in their relation never died;

though it produced bags of heat.

At twenty four, when his mother died, Chintu tied them up

and sat beside this bonfire of memories.

Note--Salwar – Indian women’s wear

Nivedita N (Divenita Er), a Hyderabadi, is an unschooled student of poetry and prose. She writes to make sense of the chaotic world around through her stories and poetry. Among her other interests, she loves enjoying the world of printing, publishing and editing. She blogs at: nnivedita.com. Currently she resides in Wisconsin, soaking in the warmth of its people and the onset of Spring.

Haiku--By Archana Kapoor Nagpal--India

Haiku

first light …
filling the emptiness
of my new home

_______________

old memories …
still rests on the stem
a dragonfly’s wing
 _______________

waiting
to be taken over …
autumn mushrooms

_______________

in loneliness
reading the epitaph
in reverse

_______________

the only thing
between you and me …
a dandelion flower

_______________

Archana Kapoor Nagpal is an internationally published author of 6 books so far, and her winning stories are now part of international anthologies. She writes inspirational content for corporate newsletters, websites, blogs and print publications. Her inspirational poems touch every area of a person's life. She enjoys writing Haiku and Tanka as well. Visit her Amazon Author Profile to know more about her.

Special Feature Collaborative Poem--By jani johe webster (In Memory) with Karen O'Leary--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

By jani johe webster

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Born of Light…

we enjoy rainbows,

budding beginnings

of friendship…

little by little,

our journeys meld

and love blossoms

yet always—

*it is a gift

…this day

By Karen O’Leary

*from jani johe’s poem above

(A tribute to jani johe and Nila Webster)

Through our words, we live on...

She Sang Let There Be Peace on Earth--By Marianne Szlyk--United States

She Sang Let There Be Peace on Earth

My mother used to sing hymns
in her kitchen with gingham curtains.

A New England soprano, she aimed
for and hit all the notes

at daily Mass when the priest
strode in already off key,

his green cassock flapping,
sleeves beating time

or on Sunday when
a whistle soprano led us

higher and higher, faster and faster,
until our voices cracked.   

At church these days, the hymns
are accompanied by organ or piano.

Some even sound like Sondheim.

But when I listen to the hymns
we used to sing,

I cry,

hearing my mother’s voice.

Marianne Szlyk is the editor of The Song Is... Recently, she published her second chapbook, I Dream of Empathy, with Flutter Press. Her first, Listening to Electric Cambodia, Looking Up at Trees of Heaven, was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press. Her poems have appeared in Long Exposure, Of/with, bird's thumb, Solar Nation, Quill and Parchment, Silver Birch Press' series, Jellyfish Whispers, Napalm and Novocaine, Poppy Road Review, and other online and print venues including Kind of a Hurricane Press' anthologies.

Darts Games and Aeroplanes--By Ralph Stott--England

Darts Games and Aeroplanes

I wondered once;

The weight of this paper.

(Maybe half and *ounce)

And if folded to a taper,

It would become a dart;

To be held in the hand,

And on a convenient draught,

Would glide and then land…..

Or, perhaps it would wedge

In some unwelcome place?

(Behind a mirror; unable to budge)

Then a tumble to the ground, with such loss of grace!

At which point

Would this dart become a plane?

(By competing boys, taking a punt,

In some parlour game?)

On such a maiden flight,

Through a window it might fly;

A loop-the-loop, on its course it would flaunt.

                with just a tail, for you to spy!   

                        *13 grams

Ralph Stott was born in Kent, England in 1957. He is married and has two daughters.  He studied design at the Medway College of Design in the mid-70's. Expressing ideas through the written/visual media, has always interested him. Ralph began to dedicate more time to poetry with The Writers and Poetry Alliance, in particular the 'Stylists' forum, over the last 3 years. He has self published one book called Legends For Lunchtime; a collection of short stories and has a second book pending called The Sounding.

The stars...--By John Polselli--United States

The stars are frozen

teardrops shed by angels

who look down from Heaven;

beacons hung to help me find

my way through the endless night.

John Polselli’s poetry has been published in many literary journals and is the recipient of several Editor’s Choice Awards.  As a poet, John enjoys composing in all traditional forms including free verse as well as inventing his own.

By the Lake--By Ndongolera C. Mwangupili--Malawi

By the Lake

By the lake, as the sun is rising,
waves crash and bash the shore.
it’s a deep moan of the lake.
dark clouds race from the lake
towards the land. A kingfisher soars up.

I ponder the empty dreams
of my brother, his shames and faults.

A fisherman whistles a lamentable note.
the whistle echoes and re-echoes.
I sigh and sigh and sigh.

Ndongolera C. Mwangupili works as a Senior Inspector of Schools in Malawi. He has vast experience as a teacher of English and Bible Knowledge. Many of his short stories, poems and essays have been published in the Malawi News and Weekend Nation. His stories are anthologized in Modern Stories from Malawi and The Bachelor of Chikanda and Other Stories. His poem “The Genesis” was anthologized in The Time Traveller of Maravi: New Poetry from Malawi. His other poem “Letters to a Comrade” is published online in India on www.openroadreview.in. He believes that there is a thin line between fiction and reality. All that people write is a re-creation of what is already known to the writer and exists not only in the mind of the writer but also outside the writer, therefore, fiction is actually facts written as if they are not facts. He is married to Angella, and they have two daughters Mary Magdalena and Princess Cleopatra.

Leaving--By Greg Gregory--United States

Leaving

The space of an empty room is like the space of a cloud, 

an impression of mass, an impression of weight

that isn’t there.  It draws you into its full emptiness.

Rooms and clouds are both simple and complex, like death.

We pick paint swatches for our mood - breath of white, swan dusk,

fleece, sun wash, sail cloth, seashore, forest, darkening sky.

We leave the patina of our fingers, our touch

on walls, on surfaces, sometimes in them.

We darken newly painted wood with every touch

and leave ourselves in it, or try to. 

The dead leave our rooms to discover what they might find,

might touch, on the reverse side of all our painted colors.

They love the slow, soft pearling of window light

that shifts over surfaces, changing each color.

We move through our spaces, our rooms,

believe that we control spaces, define colors. 

We move through breath of white, swan dusk, fleece,

sun wash, sail cloth, seashore, forest, and darkening sky,

insubstantial as a room of clouds

flying to a funeral in a plane at 30,000 feet.

Greg Gregory is retired, but worked in educational media for over 30 years.  His first love has always been language and the printed word.  He has been published in the US, Canada, and England in publications including California Quarterly, Windsor Review, Poetry Nottingham, and The Aurorean. 

O tree...--By Neena Singh--India

O tree, beautiful tree in the garden!

Teach me the art of living

You have mastered so well ~

Feet planted strongly in the earth

Raising arms to the sky

Giving shade to the weary traveller

Welcome shelter to the birds that fly

Weathering life’s storms, you stand

Yielding blossoms, fruit life-long

Never tire, never retire…

Seasons come and you withstand

Summer heat and winter snow..

Green leaves so tender

Change colour and fall,

Letting go, you stand bare

Age weathers your trunk

Yet patiently you stand

No regret haunts when the nest is empty

Living you give, dying you give…

O beautiful tree, teach me the art of living.

Previously published in Whispers of the Soul - The Journey Within—Neena’s first book of poetry showcasing her passion for nature and life.

Neena Singh is the creator of ‘soul2soul’, a well-loved group on Facebook, committed to spreading peace, goodwill and light through theme-based discussions among members. She has received awards and accolades for her contribution in banking, management and social work. Neena lives with her husband, Prithpal and her golden lab, Rumi, in Chandigarh.

Haiku--By Barbara Tate--United States

family reunion

three grandchildren help

feed the cows

_______________

autumn

the internal clock

winds down

_______________

southern breeze

staking out bare trees

the robins

_______________

I talk to myself

hearing what is said

       sunday silence

_______________

Thoughts from Barbara--Haiku, Senryu, & Haibun are such a pleasure to write. I'd like to thank Francine Banwarth (ed: Frogpond), Paul Miller (ed: Modern Haiku), Bob Lucky (ed: Contemporary  Haibun Online, an'ya, Sonam Chhoki and Marianna Monaco of Cattails, Fay Aoyagi of The Heron’s Nest, and Mike Rehling for all the help and 'mini lessons'. I also want to thank Ayaz Daryl Nielsen of Bear Creek Haiku, and a special thanks to Karen O'Leary for my Whispers’ family and writing some good strong Tan Renga with me. I am truly blessed. 

Firewall--By Ananya Dhawan--India

Firewall

Familial affection

an abrupt resurrection

spoke volumes

of an overlooked 'firewall'.

When it (the fire) subtlety spread

jumping stages

and events abstruse

took hold of moments,

to me

the world was ornamental

to them

it seemed deliberately obtuse,

and forced withal.

Intricacies flooded

no one quit,

am still

the intended firewall.

Hailing from India, Ananya Dhawan is an avid reader and writes poetry and stories in her spare time, which reflects her deep fascination for Literature. She has a cheerful disposition, believes in living each moment to the fullest and shows keen interest in the sensitive side of life.

WHISPERS’ MAY ACTIVITY—THE ART OF PERSONIFICATION

Michael Escoubas, an accomplished writer, generously agreed to be the activity editor for May.  He selected personification, an element in which poets assign human characteristics to nonhuman subjects.  It adds a creative perspective to convey thoughts.

The Exercise--Write up to two poems from one to three lines that contain at least one example of personification.  Titles are welcome. Let the syllable count range from 7 to 10. Underscore your personification.

What a wonderful response! I would like to thank Michael for his efforts to bring so many writers together.  I am grateful to all the poets that contributed to this column.  If you missed the deadline, you can add poems in the comments section.

                                       --Karen O’Leary, Whispers’ Editor

---------------------------

The Toast

Patiently awaiting warmth
Drinking in the sweet butter
While lying in the bright sun

By Sara Kendrick—United States

The Spring Leaves

Shuddering while being stroked
By the northwesterly winds
Dressed in spring's thin pale green

By Sara Kendrick—United States

---------------------------

Mt. Fuji

Clouds drift by

Fuji-san peeks

through her veil.

By Thomas Canull—United States

---------------------------

Sidewalk Rails

Guardians of momentum

holding back those who dare to rush

and protecting them from wayward steps.

By Langley Shazor—United States

---------------------------

Portrait Gallery 1

Yes, admiration we do adore

silent hedonism can be a bore.

By Brian Strand—England

Portrait Gallery 2

Up close into my face they peer

often my expression can bring a tear.

By Brian Strand—England

---------------------------

Katydids

Katydids sing from their own hymnal

in three part harmony.

By Barbara Tate—United States

Tattle Tale

Listening to what’s said,

Grandma’s myna bird

tells family secrets.

By Barbara Tate—United States

---------------------------

When Lovers Meet

Two tiny birds flirt on the edge of a stone 

bird-bath - they dip and drink in unison

A flower floats - his love offering.

By Suzanne Delaney—United States

---------------------------

Mother Bird

Her nest is traditional with modern twists,

Passion fruit tendrils- fluff from our car covers.

With Saint- like patience- her wings give shelter.

By Suzanne Delaney—United States

---------------------------

Wind

The wind startled her

by kissing a rosy cheek

with the finesse of a lover.

By Sunil Sharma--India

Roses

roses dance softly, 

faces flushed, bent at waists

like the tiny ballerinas during the break.

By Sunil Sharma--India

---------------------------

A Story

Under the old bridge

the boulders narrate

the abandoned journey.

By Pravat Kumar Padhy--India

Talking Time

Morning breeze

all the flowers start 

talking to each other.

By Pravat Kumar Padhy--India

---------------------------

Butterflies

two butterflies are flying

dancing in a ballet

a perfect duet

By David Fox—United States

---------------------------

On A Breezy Day

Flirty washing lines sashay up and down

and freely give away their clean clothes.

By Annie Jenkin--England

Noisy Neighbours

The gutters do nothing but mutter 

with the constant chatter by the French Windows

So the walls interrupt the discussion

By Annie Jenkin--England

---------------------------

Deadline

Angry clock, busy red second hand,

Don't show your mocking face here!

Placid blank walls -- gifts of infinite time.

By David Leslie—United States

Long Check Out Line At Whole Foods

Organic Potato chips

smirk with clerk and pale kale chip patrons

but they crack wise when safely home.

By David Leslie—United States

---------------------------

Love

Mountain hearts beat

For rising new lives.

By Michele Leslie—United States

Meekness

Trees peel off hats of leaves, toss

Them to the sky’s feet. Under

Ground’s leaves, tiny seeds cuddle, protected.

By Michele Leslie—United States

---------------------------

Fresco

Stained glass window --

shadows on the temple floor

paint a fresco

By Raamesh Gowri Raghavan--India

Drops

As little drops tame

the blazing sun, the thirsting

earth spins wild with joy.

By Raamesh Gowri Raghavan--India

---------------------------

Boiling

Your teakettle taunts, whistling

“Pour me out! Then you can relax.”

By Kelley Jean White—United States

  

Temptress

Long workday;

the bed beckons invitingly.

By Kelley Jean White—United States

---------------------------

Maiden Flight…

a yellow rose opens

and launches a butterfly

By Karen O'Leary—United States

---------------------------

Sunshine

As I opened the blinds

I sent a smile to the wind

then I see the sun smiling back at me.

By Maricris Cabrera—Philippines

Crabs in the Basket

Crabs racing up the basket

each pulling down to the base

biting both hands and feet.

By Maricris Cabrera—Philippines

---------------------------

Snags

In sheer meanness the bramble reached

Out snagging my soft sheer silky shirt,

Precious present my pretty one made.

By David Palmer—United States

Comparison

Proud rhododendron stood tall

Lording it over the rose

Pity they both fade so soon.

By David Palmer—United States

---------------------------

Pretty Cloud

She fluffs out her dappled skirt.

The crowd below admires her beauty,

snapping scrolls of pictures on their cell phones.

Elizabeth Howard—United States

 Weathervane

The cock is tired of turning with the wind.

He vows he'll neither whirl nor saunter

until the wind gives him a vacation. 

Elizabeth Howard—United States

---------------------------

In Fashion

Wearing yellow sun hats

daffodils ransack

the back yard.

Mary Jo Balestreri—United States

After Hours Duet

A lone sax plays

while dust dances

on the wooden floor.

Mary Jo Balestreri—United States

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The Wood

Diminishing sun.

The dandelion heads,

Pointed our way home.

Ralph Stott—England

Scarecrow

We felt the

Eyeless scrutiny

Of a pumpkin head.

Ralph Stott—England

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First Light

Holding the first light

a monarch butterfly

smiles at me.

By Archana Kapoor Nagpal—India

Tears

Next to your grave

this first snow 

wipe off my tears.

By Archana Kapoor Nagpal—India  

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Cactus Flower

Rising up out of the grave

of dull colored rocks

comes a smiling cactus flower.

By Michael Escoubas

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