Day and Night
by Jack Horne and Jean Calkins
Summer sun burns the Blue Ridge.
Under the canopy of leaves,
forest denizens seek shade,
take a deserved nap.
Twilight is the safe time for feeding.
Silence broken by
cries of predators and prey
in the woods at night.
I am the only human
and feel at one.
Friday, March 28, 2014
When Disaster Strikes--By Mary Kent--United States
When Disaster Strikes
How do we deal with a sudden loss?
With mixed emotions weighing down our heart's,
We scream, we cry, we wonder why!
How could this happen? Please Lord oh why?
Please give me strength to carry on and keep
the faith that makes me strong!
You have a reason for this I know!
One should not question,
But, it is hard to let go!
So take my hand and walk with me
to give me strength
to help set them free.
Mary Kent resides in the Pacific Northwest, a successful business woman. She is a wife and mother, blessed with a wonderful family. Mary is ever inspired and enriched by life and nature. She is dedicated to writing in her journal of poetry. She writes from her heart and soul, pleased to share her words with us.
How do we deal with a sudden loss?
With mixed emotions weighing down our heart's,
We scream, we cry, we wonder why!
How could this happen? Please Lord oh why?
Please give me strength to carry on and keep
the faith that makes me strong!
You have a reason for this I know!
One should not question,
But, it is hard to let go!
So take my hand and walk with me
to give me strength
to help set them free.
Mary Kent resides in the Pacific Northwest, a successful business woman. She is a wife and mother, blessed with a wonderful family. Mary is ever inspired and enriched by life and nature. She is dedicated to writing in her journal of poetry. She writes from her heart and soul, pleased to share her words with us.
The Face of the Beloved--A Ghazal of Mirza Ghalib (Translated by Sunil Uniyal)--India
The Face of the Beloved - A Ghazal of Mirza Ghalib
(Translated by Sunil Uniyal) ~
The face of the Beloved is a candle eternally glowing
The fire of His rose is life-water giving
To the literary masters, death means silence-
The candle flame highlights this in their gathering
The end of their story is hinted by its flame
The candle reminds us of those no more living
The longing of the moth comes to nought, O flame,
The candle's remorse is seen in your quivering
The thought of the Beloved makes the soul dance
As if the breeze of glory has a candle fluttering
Sunil Uniyal ( born 1953-) is a poet and translator based in New Delhi, India. He has been writing haiku and poems for over thirty years and many of these have appeared in e-journals like Muse India, Kritya, AHA Poetry, Poetica Magazine, Sketch Book, Notes From the Gean, A Hundred Gourds and Haiku Dreaming Australia. His work in translation includes, The Target is Behind the Sky -Fifty Poems of Kabir, brought out by the Low Price Publications, Delhi in February 2012.
(Translated by Sunil Uniyal) ~
The face of the Beloved is a candle eternally glowing
The fire of His rose is life-water giving
To the literary masters, death means silence-
The candle flame highlights this in their gathering
The end of their story is hinted by its flame
The candle reminds us of those no more living
The longing of the moth comes to nought, O flame,
The candle's remorse is seen in your quivering
The thought of the Beloved makes the soul dance
As if the breeze of glory has a candle fluttering
Sunil Uniyal ( born 1953-) is a poet and translator based in New Delhi, India. He has been writing haiku and poems for over thirty years and many of these have appeared in e-journals like Muse India, Kritya, AHA Poetry, Poetica Magazine, Sketch Book, Notes From the Gean, A Hundred Gourds and Haiku Dreaming Australia. His work in translation includes, The Target is Behind the Sky -Fifty Poems of Kabir, brought out by the Low Price Publications, Delhi in February 2012.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Olivia and Emma--By Kristina Hooper--United States
Olivia and Emma
We did not want to leave so soon,
but Jesus called our name;
“Olivia and Emma, come,”
and then the angels came.
They gently took us by the hand,
they wiped away each tear;
They softly raised our bodies up,
erasing every fear.
God greeted us with open arms,
He placed us in His palm;
And oh, such beauty filled our souls,
His touch, a soothing balm.
Though grief assails, remember we
have seen His mighty throne;
we hear the angels praise and sing,
and we are not alone.
Kristina resides in Ormond Beach, Fl with her husband and three pets. She enjoys writing and spending time with her husband.
We did not want to leave so soon,
but Jesus called our name;
“Olivia and Emma, come,”
and then the angels came.
They gently took us by the hand,
they wiped away each tear;
They softly raised our bodies up,
erasing every fear.
God greeted us with open arms,
He placed us in His palm;
And oh, such beauty filled our souls,
His touch, a soothing balm.
Though grief assails, remember we
have seen His mighty throne;
we hear the angels praise and sing,
and we are not alone.
Kristina resides in Ormond Beach, Fl with her husband and three pets. She enjoys writing and spending time with her husband.
Jesus Christ--By Andrew Ntchindi Jere--Malawi
Jesus Christ
He carries me in his hands as his torch
to light the world with a touch,
also as a bait in his hook, for winning souls
and fishing them from the life of fouls.
With heavily feathered wings,
he covers me from the piercing cold
and parasite’s killings
as I travel on this infinite road.
Like a Kangaroo he pockets me inside his pouch,
I rest in it as my most comfortable couch,
with my head outside, I watch as he teaches me to be Christian fit
before I take his examples on my own feet.
He lights the below of the grass on which I crawl,
like it’s a space-coloured glass I clearly see below
the deadly traps at charge,
and safely I cross with a God-built bridge.
His is the only one with wings
that can fly me into my dream city, Paradise;
every Christian’s dream, where everyone beautifully sings
and forever lives there (as a righteousness prize).
Andrew Ntchindi Jere is a youthful Malawian poet. His poems have been extensively published in his country’s leading local newspapers, magazines and online publications. His poem, “The Charcoal Maker” was nominated in the 2013 Wisdom Dede Kamkondo Poetry Competition; the most prestigious Malawian poetry competition. He is a first year student at Mzuzu University, Malawi. He believes that God is his source of creativity.
He carries me in his hands as his torch
to light the world with a touch,
also as a bait in his hook, for winning souls
and fishing them from the life of fouls.
With heavily feathered wings,
he covers me from the piercing cold
and parasite’s killings
as I travel on this infinite road.
Like a Kangaroo he pockets me inside his pouch,
I rest in it as my most comfortable couch,
with my head outside, I watch as he teaches me to be Christian fit
before I take his examples on my own feet.
He lights the below of the grass on which I crawl,
like it’s a space-coloured glass I clearly see below
the deadly traps at charge,
and safely I cross with a God-built bridge.
His is the only one with wings
that can fly me into my dream city, Paradise;
every Christian’s dream, where everyone beautifully sings
and forever lives there (as a righteousness prize).
Andrew Ntchindi Jere is a youthful Malawian poet. His poems have been extensively published in his country’s leading local newspapers, magazines and online publications. His poem, “The Charcoal Maker” was nominated in the 2013 Wisdom Dede Kamkondo Poetry Competition; the most prestigious Malawian poetry competition. He is a first year student at Mzuzu University, Malawi. He believes that God is his source of creativity.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
When I See the Mountains--By Elizabeth Howard--United States
When I See the Mountains
I will lift up my eyes to the hills,
from whence cometh my help
Psalms 121:1
Sunrise over the ocean, we sit
on the balcony praising the glory
until the heat rises. Sand fleas,
sunburns, jellyfish, boisterous
crowds, a misery, this August.
Even the children are weary.
We head home early, miles
and miles of interstate,
the only view pine trees.
When we round a bend and see
mountains, misery flows away,
peace settles in my marrow.
I am home again,
my spirit comforted.
Elizabeth Howard lives in Crossville, Tennessee. She writes poetry and fiction. Her poems have appeared in Comstock Review, Big Muddy, Appalachian Heritage, Cold Mountain Review, Poem, Still, Mobius, Now & Then, Slant, and other journals.
I will lift up my eyes to the hills,
from whence cometh my help
Psalms 121:1
Sunrise over the ocean, we sit
on the balcony praising the glory
until the heat rises. Sand fleas,
sunburns, jellyfish, boisterous
crowds, a misery, this August.
Even the children are weary.
We head home early, miles
and miles of interstate,
the only view pine trees.
When we round a bend and see
mountains, misery flows away,
peace settles in my marrow.
I am home again,
my spirit comforted.
Elizabeth Howard lives in Crossville, Tennessee. She writes poetry and fiction. Her poems have appeared in Comstock Review, Big Muddy, Appalachian Heritage, Cold Mountain Review, Poem, Still, Mobius, Now & Then, Slant, and other journals.
Monday, March 24, 2014
The Promise of Spring--By Elaine George--Canada
The Promise of Spring
I
Will
Kiss you
While you sleep
Lady dressed in white
And melt your cold heart made of ice
Then
You
Will rise
Liquefied
High into the sky
And fall as raindrops from God’s eyes
To
The
Waiting
Buds below
Where now you will grow
With me - in the bloom of a rose
Born in New Brunswick, Elaine George spent the early years of her life living in Lorneville (a small fishing village along the Bay of Funday) still inhabited by many of her family members. Much of her writing is inspired by the memories of that place and those wonderful people. She has published two volumes of poetry and is currently writing a novel entitled Out of the Darkness. Many of her poems and short stories have appeared in magazines in both Canada and the United States. Currently she lives with her husband in Wainfleet, Ontario.
I
Will
Kiss you
While you sleep
Lady dressed in white
And melt your cold heart made of ice
Then
You
Will rise
Liquefied
High into the sky
And fall as raindrops from God’s eyes
To
The
Waiting
Buds below
Where now you will grow
With me - in the bloom of a rose
Born in New Brunswick, Elaine George spent the early years of her life living in Lorneville (a small fishing village along the Bay of Funday) still inhabited by many of her family members. Much of her writing is inspired by the memories of that place and those wonderful people. She has published two volumes of poetry and is currently writing a novel entitled Out of the Darkness. Many of her poems and short stories have appeared in magazines in both Canada and the United States. Currently she lives with her husband in Wainfleet, Ontario.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Cradle My Tears, Moon--By Nikko Palmario--Philippines
Cradle My Tears, Moon
The moon's bow beckons to me,
wind's frosty fingers
entwining mine,
and I lay myself on the balcony's ledge
immersing, losing myself
under that inky blanket sea
the clouds rolling past, so fast,
skimming like waves veiling moonlight,
then letting it peek through
like a shy bride
beautiful, so beautiful
a gentle glow of soul
a silent lullaby that rocks me
If only for a moment
I keep my cradle of tears at bay,
as I let the moon do the weeping for me.
-------------------------------------------------
Debussy's Clair de Lune
now mingles in my mind like soft smoke
and tears come streaming...
Tired, so tired am I.
Nikko Palmario is someone who enjoys dabbling with words and chocolate.
The moon's bow beckons to me,
wind's frosty fingers
entwining mine,
and I lay myself on the balcony's ledge
immersing, losing myself
under that inky blanket sea
the clouds rolling past, so fast,
skimming like waves veiling moonlight,
then letting it peek through
like a shy bride
beautiful, so beautiful
a gentle glow of soul
a silent lullaby that rocks me
If only for a moment
I keep my cradle of tears at bay,
as I let the moon do the weeping for me.
-------------------------------------------------
Debussy's Clair de Lune
now mingles in my mind like soft smoke
and tears come streaming...
Tired, so tired am I.
Nikko Palmario is someone who enjoys dabbling with words and chocolate.
Windblown or…More--By Karen O'Leary--United States
Windblown or…More
Wheat
grains left
blowing in
the wind become
chaff--part of the dust.
Reaped…refined, the kernels
blend into fine sifted flour,
nourishing, restoring mankind.
People, too, can drift in the breeze or
choose to join the whole, enriching the world.
Karen O'Leary is a freelance writer/editor from West Fargo, ND. Her poetry, short stories, and articles have been published in a variety of venues. She released her first book of poetry in 2011 called Whispers... published by A.P.F. Publisher. Their second project, Snippets...an anthology of short verse, contains poetry from 73 talented writers from across the world and was released in 2012. Karen is a member of The Writers and Poetry Alliance and the Haiku Society of America.
Wheat
grains left
blowing in
the wind become
chaff--part of the dust.
Reaped…refined, the kernels
blend into fine sifted flour,
nourishing, restoring mankind.
People, too, can drift in the breeze or
choose to join the whole, enriching the world.
Karen O'Leary is a freelance writer/editor from West Fargo, ND. Her poetry, short stories, and articles have been published in a variety of venues. She released her first book of poetry in 2011 called Whispers... published by A.P.F. Publisher. Their second project, Snippets...an anthology of short verse, contains poetry from 73 talented writers from across the world and was released in 2012. Karen is a member of The Writers and Poetry Alliance and the Haiku Society of America.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Limerick--By Arthur Ford--United States
Jimmy, as odd as can be
Was obsessed with brevity,
He always said, "fridge,"
Used only the abridged
And fished from his tub, not the sea.
Arthur C. Ford, Sr. is originally from New Orleans, LA., where he graduated from Southern University (S.U.N.O.). He studied Mathematics, Physics, Creative Writing (Poetry) and was a member of The Drama Society. He has traveled to 45 States, lived in Europe (Bruxelles, Belgium), and more recently spent 30 days doing missionary work and traveling throughout the country of India. He publishes a quarterly poetry newsletter entitled THE PEN(The Poetry Explosion Newsletter), and resides in Pittsburgh, PA.
Was obsessed with brevity,
He always said, "fridge,"
Used only the abridged
And fished from his tub, not the sea.
Arthur C. Ford, Sr. is originally from New Orleans, LA., where he graduated from Southern University (S.U.N.O.). He studied Mathematics, Physics, Creative Writing (Poetry) and was a member of The Drama Society. He has traveled to 45 States, lived in Europe (Bruxelles, Belgium), and more recently spent 30 days doing missionary work and traveling throughout the country of India. He publishes a quarterly poetry newsletter entitled THE PEN(The Poetry Explosion Newsletter), and resides in Pittsburgh, PA.
The Poet's Soul--By Stacy Savage--United States
The Poet's Soul
A poem is expressions from the heart.
A poem is a painting of words
from the poet's imagination
to the blank canvas on paper.
The pen, a gateway
to endless possibilities.
It is the right of the poet to find
where his journey leads,
and he follows the path
without restrictions or guidance,
to create the work of art dwelling within.
Every poet has their own style
of telling their story.
Each poem -- like a snowflake.
There is no right or wrong way
to birth a poem.
Every poet's way of writing, different indeed,
but in the end, one thing is the same,
Each word is a stepping stone
that leads to the poet's soul.
Stacy Savage has published six books. Her most recent anthology, Naturally Yours: Poems and Short Stories about Indiana State Parks and Reservoirs, benefits Indiana Natural Resources Foundation's "Discovering the Outdoors Fund.” Stacy believes in mixing poetry and good causes together. Visit her Facebook page to keep up-to-date on her poetry contests: https://www.facebook.com/poetrycontestsforacause.
A poem is expressions from the heart.
A poem is a painting of words
from the poet's imagination
to the blank canvas on paper.
The pen, a gateway
to endless possibilities.
It is the right of the poet to find
where his journey leads,
and he follows the path
without restrictions or guidance,
to create the work of art dwelling within.
Every poet has their own style
of telling their story.
Each poem -- like a snowflake.
There is no right or wrong way
to birth a poem.
Every poet's way of writing, different indeed,
but in the end, one thing is the same,
Each word is a stepping stone
that leads to the poet's soul.
Stacy Savage has published six books. Her most recent anthology, Naturally Yours: Poems and Short Stories about Indiana State Parks and Reservoirs, benefits Indiana Natural Resources Foundation's "Discovering the Outdoors Fund.” Stacy believes in mixing poetry and good causes together. Visit her Facebook page to keep up-to-date on her poetry contests: https://www.facebook.com/poetrycontestsforacause.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Lower the Mat--By Cindy Evans--United States
Lower the Mat
Just as the friends in the Bible
lowered their friend on a mat through the roof,
may I be someone that takes you to Jesus
to do what only He can do.
May I place you in front of Him,
praying for your healing,
may I step out in faith for you
caring, lifting, bringing...
No place too high,
no time to be shy,
just to get you to Jesus,
may that be my heart's cry!
Cindy Evans is a published poet living in the greater Atlanta area. She does receptionist work for corporate offices as well as at non-for-profits. She is happily married to her husband, Mark, and they enjoy ferris wheels, lighthouses, Christian movies and walking trails.
Just as the friends in the Bible
lowered their friend on a mat through the roof,
may I be someone that takes you to Jesus
to do what only He can do.
May I place you in front of Him,
praying for your healing,
may I step out in faith for you
caring, lifting, bringing...
No place too high,
no time to be shy,
just to get you to Jesus,
may that be my heart's cry!
Cindy Evans is a published poet living in the greater Atlanta area. She does receptionist work for corporate offices as well as at non-for-profits. She is happily married to her husband, Mark, and they enjoy ferris wheels, lighthouses, Christian movies and walking trails.
Young Proposal--By Robert A. Dufresne--United States
Young Proposal
She lay slipping into slumber gently dreaming,
her tousled hair draped across her down pillow,
dwelling on the memory, her face beaming,
Of his proposal under the willow.
Kneeling at eternity’s edge, he paused,
his knees soiled and sweat on his brow,
not aware of the anxiety he caused,
as she awaited his solemn vow.
He but a poor lad, afraid he’d be denied,
with ring of tin foil he muffled his plea,
she, so joyful she cried.
No one could be as happy as she.
She crooned to her husband, “do you remember that time?”
Of course my love, he smiled. We were only nine….
Robert A. Dufresne was born in Vermont and raised on a dairy farm. After four years in the Navy and trying his hand at a couple of trades, he settled in as a self employed remodeling carpenter for 31 years. He and his wife moved to Florida in 1998, where he continued his career. He began writing poetry in 2009 .
She lay slipping into slumber gently dreaming,
her tousled hair draped across her down pillow,
dwelling on the memory, her face beaming,
Of his proposal under the willow.
Kneeling at eternity’s edge, he paused,
his knees soiled and sweat on his brow,
not aware of the anxiety he caused,
as she awaited his solemn vow.
He but a poor lad, afraid he’d be denied,
with ring of tin foil he muffled his plea,
she, so joyful she cried.
No one could be as happy as she.
She crooned to her husband, “do you remember that time?”
Of course my love, he smiled. We were only nine….
Robert A. Dufresne was born in Vermont and raised on a dairy farm. After four years in the Navy and trying his hand at a couple of trades, he settled in as a self employed remodeling carpenter for 31 years. He and his wife moved to Florida in 1998, where he continued his career. He began writing poetry in 2009 .
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Changing Focus--By Charlene McCutcheon
Changing Focus
Every way wanting to get better and better.
She tried hard to live the law to the letter.
Knowing well His laws were right and good,
Something was missing or not understood.
Trying to overcome a weakness of the flesh,
Negativity she found, kept her from her best.
She was not able to conquer it with her will,
Nor with sheer determination, the law fulfill.
What is my problem she asked o're and o're.
That I'm not able to reach the distant shore?
Success she wanted now, not to be delayed.
Not my will but thine, she fervently prayed.
A vision of a puzzle piece came to her mind.
Thoughts came with it. "Love you must find;
Pray with your heart for the gift of Charity.
Then obey from your heart; you will be free."
In one moment in time; one taste of His love
Was like receiving manna from Heaven above.
She'd finally found the ‘peace’ that was missing.
Focused on Charity, she'd now be succeeding.
Charlene McCutcheon is a 73 year old, wife, mother of seven, grandmother of thirty and great-grandmother of 14. She has just discovered her voice through poetry within the last few years. Her former ways of expression have been through the media of arts and crafts. Her desire to share herself with others for their benefit has been the motivating factor in all her endeavors. She loves life, work, play and most of all people.
Every way wanting to get better and better.
She tried hard to live the law to the letter.
Knowing well His laws were right and good,
Something was missing or not understood.
Trying to overcome a weakness of the flesh,
Negativity she found, kept her from her best.
She was not able to conquer it with her will,
Nor with sheer determination, the law fulfill.
What is my problem she asked o're and o're.
That I'm not able to reach the distant shore?
Success she wanted now, not to be delayed.
Not my will but thine, she fervently prayed.
A vision of a puzzle piece came to her mind.
Thoughts came with it. "Love you must find;
Pray with your heart for the gift of Charity.
Then obey from your heart; you will be free."
In one moment in time; one taste of His love
Was like receiving manna from Heaven above.
She'd finally found the ‘peace’ that was missing.
Focused on Charity, she'd now be succeeding.
Charlene McCutcheon is a 73 year old, wife, mother of seven, grandmother of thirty and great-grandmother of 14. She has just discovered her voice through poetry within the last few years. Her former ways of expression have been through the media of arts and crafts. Her desire to share herself with others for their benefit has been the motivating factor in all her endeavors. She loves life, work, play and most of all people.
All Things Beautiful--By Robert L. Hinshaw--United States
All Things Beautiful
When growing up on the farm even at 'round the age of three,
I began to notice simple, yet beautiful things that surrounded me.
Strange though it seems, I found beauty in grumpy bumble bees,
And was fascinated by the gold and crimson robes that clad the autumn trees!
Golden fields of grain undulating in the breeze was a beauty to behold,
As were luscious apples ripening on laden trees in hues of red and gold.
Green fields of corn that were to provide roasting ears bye and bye,
Were crowned with bronzed, dancing tassels reaching for the sky.
I saw beauty in the gamboling of a newborn baby calf,
And the antics of squealing piglets that really made me laugh!
I caressed fluffy yellow baby chicks with my youthful paws.
Though the threat of the fussy mother hen at times gave me pause.
I captured elusive lightning bugs on languid summer nights,
And thrilled at the eerie beauty of the awesome Northern Lights!
I saw magnificent displays of lightning as it flashed across the prairies,
And delighted at the sight of golden eagles preening in their aeries.
I caressed the peonies my Mother grew glistening in the morning dew,
And savored the freshness of new-mown hay that my Father grew.
Though I'm in the autumn of my life, in all things beautiful and bright,
That The Creator in his munificence provides, I still take delight!
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.
When growing up on the farm even at 'round the age of three,
I began to notice simple, yet beautiful things that surrounded me.
Strange though it seems, I found beauty in grumpy bumble bees,
And was fascinated by the gold and crimson robes that clad the autumn trees!
Golden fields of grain undulating in the breeze was a beauty to behold,
As were luscious apples ripening on laden trees in hues of red and gold.
Green fields of corn that were to provide roasting ears bye and bye,
Were crowned with bronzed, dancing tassels reaching for the sky.
I saw beauty in the gamboling of a newborn baby calf,
And the antics of squealing piglets that really made me laugh!
I caressed fluffy yellow baby chicks with my youthful paws.
Though the threat of the fussy mother hen at times gave me pause.
I captured elusive lightning bugs on languid summer nights,
And thrilled at the eerie beauty of the awesome Northern Lights!
I saw magnificent displays of lightning as it flashed across the prairies,
And delighted at the sight of golden eagles preening in their aeries.
I caressed the peonies my Mother grew glistening in the morning dew,
And savored the freshness of new-mown hay that my Father grew.
Though I'm in the autumn of my life, in all things beautiful and bright,
That The Creator in his munificence provides, I still take delight!
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.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Poet of the Month--Maurice J. Reynolds
The Wave
By Maurice J. Reynolds
The wave begins to form,
rising higher and higher
until it reaches its peak.
I watch in awe as it howls
in the wind,
ready to make a great impact.
It moves swiftly,
but begins to transcend,
decreasing little by little
until all that’s left of the
mighty wave comes gliding
onto the shore, kissing the tips
of my toes and then
the entirety of my feet.
So peaceful….
Ready to experience
it all again.
______________
From the editor--It is an honor to announce that Maurice Reynolds is March’s Poet of the Month. A talented writer and the editor of Creative Inspirations, Maurice’s poems are enjoyed by Whispers’ readers. He is an uplifting voice in our poetry community, leaving thoughtful comments that contributors appreciate. Maurice has promoted our online journal by advertising the site in both his magazine and at his To God be the Glory! Publications website. It is a pleasure to present him with this award.
______________
Thoughts on “The Wave”--I was immediately impressed with Maurice’s poem the first time I read it. I selected it from Whispers’ archives to share with you again because of its impact. Maurice’s use of personification gives the wave a human-like quality that allows the reader to identify with the experience. The imagery and action help the verse to live. The poem challenges people to look for meaning in our surroundings and truly find that peace.
______________
Congratulations and thank you Maurice! I appreciate all you do and have done for Whispers.
Sincerely,
Karen O’Leary, Editor
By Maurice J. Reynolds
The wave begins to form,
rising higher and higher
until it reaches its peak.
I watch in awe as it howls
in the wind,
ready to make a great impact.
It moves swiftly,
but begins to transcend,
decreasing little by little
until all that’s left of the
mighty wave comes gliding
onto the shore, kissing the tips
of my toes and then
the entirety of my feet.
So peaceful….
Ready to experience
it all again.
______________
From the editor--It is an honor to announce that Maurice Reynolds is March’s Poet of the Month. A talented writer and the editor of Creative Inspirations, Maurice’s poems are enjoyed by Whispers’ readers. He is an uplifting voice in our poetry community, leaving thoughtful comments that contributors appreciate. Maurice has promoted our online journal by advertising the site in both his magazine and at his To God be the Glory! Publications website. It is a pleasure to present him with this award.
______________
Thoughts on “The Wave”--I was immediately impressed with Maurice’s poem the first time I read it. I selected it from Whispers’ archives to share with you again because of its impact. Maurice’s use of personification gives the wave a human-like quality that allows the reader to identify with the experience. The imagery and action help the verse to live. The poem challenges people to look for meaning in our surroundings and truly find that peace.
______________
Congratulations and thank you Maurice! I appreciate all you do and have done for Whispers.
Sincerely,
Karen O’Leary, Editor
Freedom to Do Wrong--By Suzanne Delaney--United States
Freedom to Do Wrong
A prisoner hung himself in his cell.
He could not live without freedom.
How cruel jail seems! How hard
to endure confinement.
If there were a hypothetical way
to divide wrong doers from law abiders,
as payment for crime
they could go through a high wall
to that land of thieves and murderers
not be locked away but segregated,
Put into a free world of their own kind,
never to prey on the weak, or good, again
but to deal with the uncertainty
of someone like themselves
committing cruel deeds
when they themselves
were unsuspecting.
Suzanne Delaney is a retired Registered Nurse. A resident of Hawaii, USA she was born in Tasmania. She now has time to pursue her passion for writing poetry, creating collages and for traveling.
A prisoner hung himself in his cell.
He could not live without freedom.
How cruel jail seems! How hard
to endure confinement.
If there were a hypothetical way
to divide wrong doers from law abiders,
as payment for crime
they could go through a high wall
to that land of thieves and murderers
not be locked away but segregated,
Put into a free world of their own kind,
never to prey on the weak, or good, again
but to deal with the uncertainty
of someone like themselves
committing cruel deeds
when they themselves
were unsuspecting.
Suzanne Delaney is a retired Registered Nurse. A resident of Hawaii, USA she was born in Tasmania. She now has time to pursue her passion for writing poetry, creating collages and for traveling.
Friday, March 14, 2014
crossword puzzle...--By Poppy Herrin--United States
crossword puzzle
d
o
w
n
a c r o s s
spaces between us
words cannot fill
Poppy Herrin is married to the love of her life Jason, and together they have four daughters and one grandson. She is originally from Laurel, Mississippi, but recently relocated to Baton Rouge, Louisiana. By day she makes a living as a medical transcriptionist, and by night she works toward living the dream as a writer. Her poems have appeared in many publications and have received various contest awards.
d
o
w
n
a c r o s s
spaces between us
words cannot fill
Poppy Herrin is married to the love of her life Jason, and together they have four daughters and one grandson. She is originally from Laurel, Mississippi, but recently relocated to Baton Rouge, Louisiana. By day she makes a living as a medical transcriptionist, and by night she works toward living the dream as a writer. Her poems have appeared in many publications and have received various contest awards.
Good Friendship--By Patricia Ann Farnsworth-Simpson--Canary Islands
Good Friendship
Good friends are wonderful that is true
Openly supporting you in all you do
Offering to be there whenever there's need
Deliberately nurturing the friendship’s seed!
Fondly helping you through your pain
Remaining with you till well again
Inspiring you with words to help you through
Every hurting emotion that may trouble you!
Naturally enjoying it when they see you smile
Dreaming with you also, once in a while
Staying close even when far away
Happily thinking of you day by day,
Investing in you time, thoughts and love
Praying with you to God above!
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.
Good friends are wonderful that is true
Openly supporting you in all you do
Offering to be there whenever there's need
Deliberately nurturing the friendship’s seed!
Fondly helping you through your pain
Remaining with you till well again
Inspiring you with words to help you through
Every hurting emotion that may trouble you!
Naturally enjoying it when they see you smile
Dreaming with you also, once in a while
Staying close even when far away
Happily thinking of you day by day,
Investing in you time, thoughts and love
Praying with you to God above!
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.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
April--By Janet Vick--United States
April
As gypsy winds ensnare the inner child
with jasmine blossoms scenting up the air
and spring’s inspiring rebirth...nature’s wild
awakening, replenishing what’s bare.
Azalea smiles in colors, lilacs peak
while inner child is laughing, full of glee.
Each day a new discovery to seek
around the country edges growing free.
Yet dusty pollen layers budding leaves,
encoded sinuses respond in kind.
The beauty, allergies and Kleenex sleeves
for sneezes, teary eyes but hopeful mind.
So little pill from heaven do your stuff,
desensitize the pollen’s sneezy snuff.
Janet lives in rural Suffolk, Virginia with her husband, Randy. She loves the fresh air and space of country living. She works as a Registered Nurse in surgery. She is a mother of one and grandmother of two.
As gypsy winds ensnare the inner child
with jasmine blossoms scenting up the air
and spring’s inspiring rebirth...nature’s wild
awakening, replenishing what’s bare.
Azalea smiles in colors, lilacs peak
while inner child is laughing, full of glee.
Each day a new discovery to seek
around the country edges growing free.
Yet dusty pollen layers budding leaves,
encoded sinuses respond in kind.
The beauty, allergies and Kleenex sleeves
for sneezes, teary eyes but hopeful mind.
So little pill from heaven do your stuff,
desensitize the pollen’s sneezy snuff.
Janet lives in rural Suffolk, Virginia with her husband, Randy. She loves the fresh air and space of country living. She works as a Registered Nurse in surgery. She is a mother of one and grandmother of two.
Triumph with Christ--By Christina R. Jussaume--United States
Triumph with Christ
Fear not any outcome
The Lord will guide your steps
Chaos may be around
Read Bible trusting faith
You are on firmest ground
Fear not any outcome
End is known by our Lord
Panic not but give trust
He watches from above
He does what’s best for us
Fear not any outcome
Trust and act with belief
He has equipped for all
Victory will be soon
Soon in life you’ll stand tall
Fear not any outcome
Purpose is behind all
He’s the most important thread
Walk in faith throughout life
Trust in good plan ahead
Christina R. Jussaume is a Christian Author of 9 poetry books. She has had many poems published in anthologies and fundraisers. She has won many awards for her poetry including Best Spiritual Poetry award from Christianstorytelling.com. Her first book, My Walk with Jesus, received this award and began her journey toward fulfillment as a Style Tutor now on the Alliance of Poets. All of her books except the first book were published by apfpublisher.com.
Fear not any outcome
The Lord will guide your steps
Chaos may be around
Read Bible trusting faith
You are on firmest ground
Fear not any outcome
End is known by our Lord
Panic not but give trust
He watches from above
He does what’s best for us
Fear not any outcome
Trust and act with belief
He has equipped for all
Victory will be soon
Soon in life you’ll stand tall
Fear not any outcome
Purpose is behind all
He’s the most important thread
Walk in faith throughout life
Trust in good plan ahead
Christina R. Jussaume is a Christian Author of 9 poetry books. She has had many poems published in anthologies and fundraisers. She has won many awards for her poetry including Best Spiritual Poetry award from Christianstorytelling.com. Her first book, My Walk with Jesus, received this award and began her journey toward fulfillment as a Style Tutor now on the Alliance of Poets. All of her books except the first book were published by apfpublisher.com.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Special Feature Collaborative Poem--By Kathryn Collins, United States and Terry O'Leary, France
Only I Decide My Fate
By Kathryn Collins and Terry O'Leary
At times when I am dark and deep
joy but flickering dim,
I upon the portal keep
stilled like phantom limb.
Braced by winter's welkin wind,
distant clouds unfold,
where once the roar of laughter dinned
I taste the burning cold.
Stood in life's predicament
immobile on the sill,
I wait for grand encouragement,
to warm this awful chill.
Stranded in the winter bleak,
with breezes bitter blown
slicing like the sleet oblique
I find myself alone
If frozen at the brink I stand,
persist in stagnant stall,
my feet will melt to silken sand.
gone my soul, my all.
By Kathryn Collins and Terry O'Leary
At times when I am dark and deep
joy but flickering dim,
I upon the portal keep
stilled like phantom limb.
Braced by winter's welkin wind,
distant clouds unfold,
where once the roar of laughter dinned
I taste the burning cold.
Stood in life's predicament
immobile on the sill,
I wait for grand encouragement,
to warm this awful chill.
Stranded in the winter bleak,
with breezes bitter blown
slicing like the sleet oblique
I find myself alone
If frozen at the brink I stand,
persist in stagnant stall,
my feet will melt to silken sand.
gone my soul, my all.
Domestic Scene--By David Austin--United States
Domestic Scene
by the alley
paint bare and splintered
this leaning green fence
inside safe in their garden
two old women chattering
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.
by the alley
paint bare and splintered
this leaning green fence
inside safe in their garden
two old women chattering
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.
Thoughts and Feelings--By Jean Calkins--United States
Thoughts and Feelings
Love hurts.
If that is your motto,
that is the kind of relationship
you will create.
Love heals.
Believe it, and you will create
excitement, enthusiasm.
You will decide to love all,
once you learn to love yourself.
The choice is yours.
Which do you believe?
Which will you claim?
If the beliefs you hold
are no longer your choice,
you have the power
to change them.
Desire, imagine, expect: Create.
Jean, at 80, has been writing poems since she was 18. For 25 years she published a popular poetry quarterly of up to 100 pages, with a subscribership of nearly 500. Illness in 1986 ended the magazine. She currently publishes, by email, a 2-page monthly of clean humor. Contact her at jcalkins01@charter.net.
Love hurts.
If that is your motto,
that is the kind of relationship
you will create.
Love heals.
Believe it, and you will create
excitement, enthusiasm.
You will decide to love all,
once you learn to love yourself.
The choice is yours.
Which do you believe?
Which will you claim?
If the beliefs you hold
are no longer your choice,
you have the power
to change them.
Desire, imagine, expect: Create.
Jean, at 80, has been writing poems since she was 18. For 25 years she published a popular poetry quarterly of up to 100 pages, with a subscribership of nearly 500. Illness in 1986 ended the magazine. She currently publishes, by email, a 2-page monthly of clean humor. Contact her at jcalkins01@charter.net.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
From City To Rusticity--By Ndaba Sibanda--Saudi Arabia
From City To Rusticity
They sought to escape
the distractions of a busy life,
the bustles and hustles of the city;
Then they packed their bags, off they
went with their wondering cats and dogs
to the remotest of villages where they hoped
to become farmers of simplicity and tranquility.
Ndaba Sibanda is a Zimbabwean-born writer. His poems, essays and
short stories have been published in Africa and the USA. Ndaba
currently lives and teaches in Saudi Arabia. Of his career, he
says, "writing is my life, and my second wife".
They sought to escape
the distractions of a busy life,
the bustles and hustles of the city;
Then they packed their bags, off they
went with their wondering cats and dogs
to the remotest of villages where they hoped
to become farmers of simplicity and tranquility.
Ndaba Sibanda is a Zimbabwean-born writer. His poems, essays and
short stories have been published in Africa and the USA. Ndaba
currently lives and teaches in Saudi Arabia. Of his career, he
says, "writing is my life, and my second wife".
In Troubled Dreams--By Tim Ryerson--United States
In Troubled Dreams
Abandoned in the fifties after the war
A freight elevator stuck between floors
Obsolete machinery, splintered old chairs
In a warehouse in Newark, New Jersey somewhere
Dead air presses down, stifling and thick
Something still dwells behind one of those bricks
Curled up in a ball, it waits for me there
In a warehouse in Newark, New Jersey somewhere
A musty gray vapor that whispers my name
It seeps through the wall and creeps to my brain
It sighs and it groans as my soul is laid bare
In a warehouse in Newark, New Jersey somewhere
It mumbles and moans and drones of ancient tombs
Of claustrophobic closets and dim, hollow rooms
I cry out for help, echoes answer my prayer
In a warehouse in Newark, New Jersey somewhere
The ghost of my lonely, my lost and alone
My hopeless and helpless, my can't go back home
It's looking at me now with a dull, vacant stare
In a warehouse in Newark, New Jersey somewhere
Tim Ryerson is a published poet from Ponchatoula, Louisiana who retired from the printing business in 2011. He began writing in the 80’s but did not take it seriously until 2001 after the untimely death of his then 21 year old son. He does not have a ‘signature style’ but prefers writing different forms of poetry. Many of his poems use southern slang and Cajun dialect. He also enjoys writing humorous poems, especially limericks and senryu and was among the winners in the latest Humor Press writing contest with his entry “Emergency Rooms Just KILL me.”
Abandoned in the fifties after the war
A freight elevator stuck between floors
Obsolete machinery, splintered old chairs
In a warehouse in Newark, New Jersey somewhere
Dead air presses down, stifling and thick
Something still dwells behind one of those bricks
Curled up in a ball, it waits for me there
In a warehouse in Newark, New Jersey somewhere
A musty gray vapor that whispers my name
It seeps through the wall and creeps to my brain
It sighs and it groans as my soul is laid bare
In a warehouse in Newark, New Jersey somewhere
It mumbles and moans and drones of ancient tombs
Of claustrophobic closets and dim, hollow rooms
I cry out for help, echoes answer my prayer
In a warehouse in Newark, New Jersey somewhere
The ghost of my lonely, my lost and alone
My hopeless and helpless, my can't go back home
It's looking at me now with a dull, vacant stare
In a warehouse in Newark, New Jersey somewhere
Tim Ryerson is a published poet from Ponchatoula, Louisiana who retired from the printing business in 2011. He began writing in the 80’s but did not take it seriously until 2001 after the untimely death of his then 21 year old son. He does not have a ‘signature style’ but prefers writing different forms of poetry. Many of his poems use southern slang and Cajun dialect. He also enjoys writing humorous poems, especially limericks and senryu and was among the winners in the latest Humor Press writing contest with his entry “Emergency Rooms Just KILL me.”
Monday, March 10, 2014
Evening Ballet--By Joann Grisetti--United States
Evening Ballet
we begin our dance
you brush, I wash my face
you floss, I brush
and so on until we finish,
the last pirouette into the bed
this choreography
designed and rewritten
over four decades
a practiced and perfected
pas de deux
tonight I flounder
for my partner I have
a mere reflection
from an unreliable mirror
showing an old woman
she cannot be truth
for I am nineteen –
always nineteen in your eyes –
as you are twenty in mine
at least, until I closed them
Joann Grisetti has been writing for 45 years. She is a retired teacher from Florida. She receives encouragement from her daughter and has recently enrolled in a creative writing workshop. She is a member of Poetry Soup. You can read more of her poetry there.
we begin our dance
you brush, I wash my face
you floss, I brush
and so on until we finish,
the last pirouette into the bed
this choreography
designed and rewritten
over four decades
a practiced and perfected
pas de deux
tonight I flounder
for my partner I have
a mere reflection
from an unreliable mirror
showing an old woman
she cannot be truth
for I am nineteen –
always nineteen in your eyes –
as you are twenty in mine
at least, until I closed them
Joann Grisetti has been writing for 45 years. She is a retired teacher from Florida. She receives encouragement from her daughter and has recently enrolled in a creative writing workshop. She is a member of Poetry Soup. You can read more of her poetry there.
Shopping Wars--by Peter Dome--United Kingdom
Shopping Wars
Phew! I survived!
It's crazy out there.
Just came back from town,
and it's been hell I swear.
Had to battle through the crowds
and frenzied throng.
Just about to grab a tin of sardines for
dinner tomorrow
and woosh! It's gone!
The weathers freezing
and someone's sneezing
all over you
with the flu.
''A a a achooooooooo!!!!!!!.''
Hi, my name is Pete. I live in Sheffield, U.K. I hope you enjoy my poems. I look forward to reading yours. My best wishes. Pete.
Phew! I survived!
It's crazy out there.
Just came back from town,
and it's been hell I swear.
Had to battle through the crowds
and frenzied throng.
Just about to grab a tin of sardines for
dinner tomorrow
and woosh! It's gone!
The weathers freezing
and someone's sneezing
all over you
with the flu.
''A a a achooooooooo!!!!!!!.''
Hi, my name is Pete. I live in Sheffield, U.K. I hope you enjoy my poems. I look forward to reading yours. My best wishes. Pete.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
A St. Paddy’s Day Kyrielle--By Andrea Dietrich--United States
A St. Paddy’s Day Kyrielle
St. Paddy’s Day has come. At dawn,
Wake up and put a smile on!
The birds are whistling cheerily
This day of green, a day for glee.
The time has come for conjuring
The start of something sweet. . . Like spring!
So be footloose and fancy free
This day of green, a day for glee.
Go out and find a verdant place
And let the sunshine touch your face.
Relax; enjoy the scenery
This day of green, a day for glee.
A child’s soul inside you thrives.
Unloose it, and when night arrives,
Be ready for a jubilee
This day of green, a day for glee!
Then bring your favorite friends along
To laugh and dance and sing a song.
You’ll wish that life could always be
This day of green, a day for glee!
Andrea Dietrich grew up in Iowa and now resides in Utah with a spouse and two cats. She has two grown children and six grandchildren. Having graduated BYU with a Spanish major/ESL minor, she has spent most of her adult life teaching. It wasn't until 2000 that she began writing in earnest and discovering her "niche" as a writer of lyrical poetry. The internet opened up a new world for her, and she has spent nearly a decade now participating in poetry clubs, acting as a judge of poetry contests for various magazines and for the website Shadow Poetry.
St. Paddy’s Day has come. At dawn,
Wake up and put a smile on!
The birds are whistling cheerily
This day of green, a day for glee.
The time has come for conjuring
The start of something sweet. . . Like spring!
So be footloose and fancy free
This day of green, a day for glee.
Go out and find a verdant place
And let the sunshine touch your face.
Relax; enjoy the scenery
This day of green, a day for glee.
A child’s soul inside you thrives.
Unloose it, and when night arrives,
Be ready for a jubilee
This day of green, a day for glee!
Then bring your favorite friends along
To laugh and dance and sing a song.
You’ll wish that life could always be
This day of green, a day for glee!
Andrea Dietrich grew up in Iowa and now resides in Utah with a spouse and two cats. She has two grown children and six grandchildren. Having graduated BYU with a Spanish major/ESL minor, she has spent most of her adult life teaching. It wasn't until 2000 that she began writing in earnest and discovering her "niche" as a writer of lyrical poetry. The internet opened up a new world for her, and she has spent nearly a decade now participating in poetry clubs, acting as a judge of poetry contests for various magazines and for the website Shadow Poetry.
Stages--By Richard Sponaugle--United States
Stages
One dawn the chocolate night will melt;
I’ll rise not to inhale Hellish flames,
but the baptized rug where I’d knelt,
and begged God to cleanse my nightmares.
Parlous painful reflections fought back,
tears won’t stream down my ashen face.
My heart will smile just a crack,
and my battered body will rise in place.
Each AM starts with infant steps.
Glacial improvements my daily goal,
achieved through tedious reps;
some day my shattered soul shall be whole.
Richard Sponaugle was born 4-20-60 in Maryland and raised in Northern Virginia. He received a BA from George Mason University. A prolific poet and songwriter, he has been published in many venues.
One dawn the chocolate night will melt;
I’ll rise not to inhale Hellish flames,
but the baptized rug where I’d knelt,
and begged God to cleanse my nightmares.
Parlous painful reflections fought back,
tears won’t stream down my ashen face.
My heart will smile just a crack,
and my battered body will rise in place.
Each AM starts with infant steps.
Glacial improvements my daily goal,
achieved through tedious reps;
some day my shattered soul shall be whole.
Richard Sponaugle was born 4-20-60 in Maryland and raised in Northern Virginia. He received a BA from George Mason University. A prolific poet and songwriter, he has been published in many venues.
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