Whispers Within
I am the spirit of satin stardust
and the antiquities of golden memories alive
I call to you from the rising warmth of the sun
and greet you in the misty morning light
I am the steady and rolling drum beat
echoing from the jagged heights above
I am the mysterious curves of the raging waters'
and the freedom birds of love
I rise above the white summer clouds
in lilting songs of grace
and roam with the western tail-winds
to take you home again
I am a Spirit of our gracious Lord God Almighty
of love, hope and faith
I have come to tell
Rick
Parise, known as “A Pondering Poet”, is from the beautiful land of
Salem, Oregon. The main focus of his poetry is to take the reader to a
meaningful, personal time in their lives, to a place where spirit's are
touched and memories unwind. He hopes you enjoy his work. To Contact
Rick please email him at rapondering@yahoo.com
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Marley's Breakfast--By Elizabeth Howard--United States
Marley's Breakfast
Marley awakens while it's still dark,
her tummy grumbling with hunger.
Her mother who works the night shift
at the diner will not be home until
after Marley and Billy have gone
to school. She finds a little cornmeal
in the bin, mixes it with water, cooks it,
and gives it to Billy who gobbles it up.
She licks the spoon and puts it in the sink.
They do not need to dress. They are
wearing the only clothes they have.
Marley takes Billy's hand, and they walk
to school. Her first class is English,
but she does not hear the teacher.
She only hears the grumbling in her tummy
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.
Marley awakens while it's still dark,
her tummy grumbling with hunger.
Her mother who works the night shift
at the diner will not be home until
after Marley and Billy have gone
to school. She finds a little cornmeal
in the bin, mixes it with water, cooks it,
and gives it to Billy who gobbles it up.
She licks the spoon and puts it in the sink.
They do not need to dress. They are
wearing the only clothes they have.
Marley takes Billy's hand, and they walk
to school. Her first class is English,
but she does not hear the teacher.
She only hears the grumbling in her tummy
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.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
New Delhi Railroad Station--By Isha Wagner--New Zealand
New Delhi Railroad Station
Hot, tired, dusty, out of sync
to the station staggering luggage
Swarms of beings standing, bending, lying
Dark beautiful faces with eyes that bind
Making you think of God
And his strange creation.
Breathing, sheer force of life, exhaling
Stinking smells, flower perfume mingling
Drifting, mouths gabbling unknown languages
Floating the air, shouts, whispers
Stares, trains in, trains out
Monks shaven heads, tranquil looks
Turbans, beards abound
Babies who choke you with emotion
Their innocence lit so bright
My head hurts, my throat hurts
I want to see it as a movie
Lights, camera, action
But the Director makes no cuts
I am a bit player.
Isha Wagner is a New Zealand poet. She has resided in many countries including Iceland, Libya, India, and Australia. She read some of her work at the VIII International Poetry Festival held in Granada, Nicaragua, in February 2012. She has had three collections of poetry published.
Hot, tired, dusty, out of sync
to the station staggering luggage
Swarms of beings standing, bending, lying
Dark beautiful faces with eyes that bind
Making you think of God
And his strange creation.
Breathing, sheer force of life, exhaling
Stinking smells, flower perfume mingling
Drifting, mouths gabbling unknown languages
Floating the air, shouts, whispers
Stares, trains in, trains out
Monks shaven heads, tranquil looks
Turbans, beards abound
Babies who choke you with emotion
Their innocence lit so bright
My head hurts, my throat hurts
I want to see it as a movie
Lights, camera, action
But the Director makes no cuts
I am a bit player.
Isha Wagner is a New Zealand poet. She has resided in many countries including Iceland, Libya, India, and Australia. She read some of her work at the VIII International Poetry Festival held in Granada, Nicaragua, in February 2012. She has had three collections of poetry published.
Vestige--By Cristine A. Gruber--United States
Vestige
He didn’t have much
in the way of mementos,
a bible that belonged
to his mama, a tobacco tin
that his daddy had used.
There were a few gifts
from his girls over the years,
and more recently, keepsakes
from the grandchildren too.
He kept these things,
but rarely looked at them.
But once each autumn,
when the earth gleamed golden
for a time, just before turning
barren for yet another winter,
he would retrieve the small box
from the back of his closet, sit
for a spell, and re-read each card,
one by one, voicing each word,
reliving every moment.
Cristine A. Gruber, a Southern California native, is a registered caregiver as well as a widely-published poet. Her work has been featured in numerous magazines, including: North American Review, Writer’s Digest, California Quarterly, The Homestead Review, Iodine Poetry Journal, The Penwood Review, The Poet’s Haven, Red River Review, The Tule Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, and The Write Place at the Write Time. Her first full-length collection of poetry, Lifeline, is available from Amazon.com. More of Cristine's work can be found at http://sierraviewjournal.blogspot.com/.
He didn’t have much
in the way of mementos,
a bible that belonged
to his mama, a tobacco tin
that his daddy had used.
There were a few gifts
from his girls over the years,
and more recently, keepsakes
from the grandchildren too.
He kept these things,
but rarely looked at them.
But once each autumn,
when the earth gleamed golden
for a time, just before turning
barren for yet another winter,
he would retrieve the small box
from the back of his closet, sit
for a spell, and re-read each card,
one by one, voicing each word,
reliving every moment.
Cristine A. Gruber, a Southern California native, is a registered caregiver as well as a widely-published poet. Her work has been featured in numerous magazines, including: North American Review, Writer’s Digest, California Quarterly, The Homestead Review, Iodine Poetry Journal, The Penwood Review, The Poet’s Haven, Red River Review, The Tule Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, and The Write Place at the Write Time. Her first full-length collection of poetry, Lifeline, is available from Amazon.com. More of Cristine's work can be found at http://sierraviewjournal.blogspot.com/.
Monday, November 17, 2014
The Great Depression--By Elizabeth Kral--United States
The Great Depression
(In memory of my mother, born 1919)
The Great Depression
made quite an impression
on Mom and her foods of choice.
Chicken was prized,
beans despised,
and she loved all cakes and pies.
We took her out.
A special treat,
dinner at a restaurant down the street.
But the Great Depression
made such an impression,
she would not order a platter.
She opted instead
for the basket of bread,
with a bowl of bean and ham chowder.
Elizabeth Kral is retired and resides with her husband in Surprise, Arizona. Local memberships include the Arizona West Valley Writers Workshop and the Arizona West Valley Writers Critique Group. Elizabeth and her husband enjoy spending summers in Colorado, and she is a member there of the Steamboat Springs Writer’s Workshop.
(In memory of my mother, born 1919)
The Great Depression
made quite an impression
on Mom and her foods of choice.
Chicken was prized,
beans despised,
and she loved all cakes and pies.
We took her out.
A special treat,
dinner at a restaurant down the street.
But the Great Depression
made such an impression,
she would not order a platter.
She opted instead
for the basket of bread,
with a bowl of bean and ham chowder.
Elizabeth Kral is retired and resides with her husband in Surprise, Arizona. Local memberships include the Arizona West Valley Writers Workshop and the Arizona West Valley Writers Critique Group. Elizabeth and her husband enjoy spending summers in Colorado, and she is a member there of the Steamboat Springs Writer’s Workshop.
Autumn--By Sandra Stefanowich--Canada
Autumn
listening as Autumn's voice takes hold
aimlessly roaming among the red, green and gold
as daylight slowly falls from the sky
I'm content to watch the pastel clouds pass me by
holding the remnants of yesterday in my hand
I let them go and wonder where they might land
a bonfire smolders, lingering in the air as memories burn
where this soul longs to be and one day return
flames break through the landscape setting it afire
to not see this vision end is my deep desire
my eyes far away in a silent moment of thought
in awe of the beauty of this world I'm caught
in the twilight of fall the love of a season again found
captivated by its presence and to it forever bound
Born in Toronto, Ontario, Sandra is a self taught writer. She has been writing off and on since an early age. Most of her writing revolves around what she sees in everyday life, nature and her concerns about mankind. She enjoys reading, writing, hiking, animals and photography.
listening as Autumn's voice takes hold
aimlessly roaming among the red, green and gold
as daylight slowly falls from the sky
I'm content to watch the pastel clouds pass me by
holding the remnants of yesterday in my hand
I let them go and wonder where they might land
a bonfire smolders, lingering in the air as memories burn
where this soul longs to be and one day return
flames break through the landscape setting it afire
to not see this vision end is my deep desire
my eyes far away in a silent moment of thought
in awe of the beauty of this world I'm caught
in the twilight of fall the love of a season again found
captivated by its presence and to it forever bound
Born in Toronto, Ontario, Sandra is a self taught writer. She has been writing off and on since an early age. Most of her writing revolves around what she sees in everyday life, nature and her concerns about mankind. She enjoys reading, writing, hiking, animals and photography.
Sunday, November 16, 2014
Tanka--By ayaz daryl nielsen--United States
autumn’s rose petals
gently falling
may my years pass
with such poise
and such grace
ayaz daryl nielsen is a husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/120+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish, Whispers, Shamrock, and! bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com (translates as joie de vivre)
gently falling
may my years pass
with such poise
and such grace
ayaz daryl nielsen is a husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/120+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish, Whispers, Shamrock, and! bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com (translates as joie de vivre)
Yesterday’s Echo--By Janet Vick--United States
Yesterday’s Echo
The yesterdays echoed with anger’s bite
while sorrow’s seam unraveled, lost the fight.
Regrets were catalogued, redeemed as lost
and dreams contained within self-floating spheres
because reality was smeared in fears
as time evaporated all it cost.
The yesterdays echoed with anger’s bite
while sorrow’s seam unraveled, lost the fight
but tiny kisses from the memories
brought hope tomorrow’s walk would echo free.
Regrets were catalogued, redeemed as lost
as time evaporated all it cost.
The yesterdays echoed with anger’s bite
while sorrow’s seam unraveled, lost the fight.
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.
The yesterdays echoed with anger’s bite
while sorrow’s seam unraveled, lost the fight.
Regrets were catalogued, redeemed as lost
and dreams contained within self-floating spheres
because reality was smeared in fears
as time evaporated all it cost.
The yesterdays echoed with anger’s bite
while sorrow’s seam unraveled, lost the fight
but tiny kisses from the memories
brought hope tomorrow’s walk would echo free.
Regrets were catalogued, redeemed as lost
as time evaporated all it cost.
The yesterdays echoed with anger’s bite
while sorrow’s seam unraveled, lost the fight.
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.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Memories of Summer Rambles--By Marianne Szlyk--United States
Memories of Summer Rambles
A girl of the last century
strides
along the bike path,
past the goldenrod
the spiky chicory,
and Queen Anne’s lace.
With a brick red anthology in her book bag,
she wishes she lived among the Romantics
walking twenty miles or more
through the car-free countryside.
Waiting for a walk light
in August’s brittle brilliance,
she remembers a minor poem
that her grandmother still recites from memory,
having learned it
by a river
brick-red with dye
at the beginning of the last century.
Every so often Marianne Szlyk thinks about taking a walking tour in England, but for now she is happy to explore the Washington, DC area. She recently published her first chapbook, Listening to Electric Cambodia, Looking Up at Trees of Heaven, at Kind of a Hurricane Press: http://barometricpressures.blogspot.com/2014/10/listening-to-electric-cambodia-looking.html Individual poems have appeared in print and online, most recently in Poppy Road Review, Flutter Poetry Journal, The Greensilk Journal, bird's thumb, The Blue Hour Literary Anthology Volume 3, and Literature Today. She also edits The Song Is..., a journal of poetry inspired by music.
A girl of the last century
strides
along the bike path,
past the goldenrod
the spiky chicory,
and Queen Anne’s lace.
With a brick red anthology in her book bag,
she wishes she lived among the Romantics
walking twenty miles or more
through the car-free countryside.
Waiting for a walk light
in August’s brittle brilliance,
she remembers a minor poem
that her grandmother still recites from memory,
having learned it
by a river
brick-red with dye
at the beginning of the last century.
Every so often Marianne Szlyk thinks about taking a walking tour in England, but for now she is happy to explore the Washington, DC area. She recently published her first chapbook, Listening to Electric Cambodia, Looking Up at Trees of Heaven, at Kind of a Hurricane Press: http://barometricpressures.blogspot.com/2014/10/listening-to-electric-cambodia-looking.html Individual poems have appeared in print and online, most recently in Poppy Road Review, Flutter Poetry Journal, The Greensilk Journal, bird's thumb, The Blue Hour Literary Anthology Volume 3, and Literature Today. She also edits The Song Is..., a journal of poetry inspired by music.
Poet of the Month--Sara Kendrick
Strength
By Sara Kendrick
The trip to church on Sunday wasn't long
Down dry dusty country roads closer roamed
Hearts did rejoice when singing love's sweet song
Precious memories now deeply intoned
A home filled to the brim with kith and kin
No evidence of the grief she suffered
When in her youth tales of such loss did spin
By age of twenty-five her life crumbled
Joys of a young bride with husband beside
Darling daughters three in tow~gone~from life
Oh, life’s issues such hard brazen blows inside
No longer was she a mother and wife
Her faith in a loving God never failed
She had strength of character which prevailed
I have been doing some research about my biological family
I found that my father's mother was married in her youth
and had three daughters which all died as did her husband..
She married my grandfather and then had four sons which
all lived. She never gave up her faith through it all. What strength.
_______________
From the editor--It is a privilege to announce that Sara Kendrick is November’s Poet of the Month. She is a talented writer that has been published in a variety of venues. Readers at Whispers relate to her heartfelt poetry. Sara regularly leaves thoughtful comments which others appreciate. She has collaborated with other writers on poems that have been featured at Whispers and has brought new writers to our online journal. It is a pleasure to present Sara with this honor!
_______________
Thoughts on “Strength”--Sara sets the tone of the poem in the first two lines which are rich in imagery. Based on a true story, this poem has a powerful impact. We all have losses and challenges. It’s what we do with them that counts in life. Sara portrays a woman of amazing courage--“No evidence of the grief she suffered.” This poem conveys a real hero, one that was a light despite all she suffered. This is a wonderful piece with a timeless message.
_______________
Congratulations and thank you Sara! I appreciate all you do and have done for Whispers.
Sincerely,
Karen O’Leary, Editor
By Sara Kendrick
The trip to church on Sunday wasn't long
Down dry dusty country roads closer roamed
Hearts did rejoice when singing love's sweet song
Precious memories now deeply intoned
A home filled to the brim with kith and kin
No evidence of the grief she suffered
When in her youth tales of such loss did spin
By age of twenty-five her life crumbled
Joys of a young bride with husband beside
Darling daughters three in tow~gone~from life
Oh, life’s issues such hard brazen blows inside
No longer was she a mother and wife
Her faith in a loving God never failed
She had strength of character which prevailed
I have been doing some research about my biological family
I found that my father's mother was married in her youth
and had three daughters which all died as did her husband..
She married my grandfather and then had four sons which
all lived. She never gave up her faith through it all. What strength.
_______________
From the editor--It is a privilege to announce that Sara Kendrick is November’s Poet of the Month. She is a talented writer that has been published in a variety of venues. Readers at Whispers relate to her heartfelt poetry. Sara regularly leaves thoughtful comments which others appreciate. She has collaborated with other writers on poems that have been featured at Whispers and has brought new writers to our online journal. It is a pleasure to present Sara with this honor!
_______________
Thoughts on “Strength”--Sara sets the tone of the poem in the first two lines which are rich in imagery. Based on a true story, this poem has a powerful impact. We all have losses and challenges. It’s what we do with them that counts in life. Sara portrays a woman of amazing courage--“No evidence of the grief she suffered.” This poem conveys a real hero, one that was a light despite all she suffered. This is a wonderful piece with a timeless message.
_______________
Congratulations and thank you Sara! I appreciate all you do and have done for Whispers.
Sincerely,
Karen O’Leary, Editor
Blinded by the Speed of Life--By Joe Flach--United States
Blinded by the Speed of Life
I never took the time to speak my love
I never told him what I was thinking of
I never thanked him for all he had done
I never said I was proud to be his son
I always waited for the perfect time
I always kept those thoughts inside my mind
I always choked on the words when in his sight
I always said I would, in bed at night
But, I was blinded by the speed of life
Now, on angel’s wings he’s taken flight
To have shared his world, I feel delight
I was blinded by the speed of life
And, now it’s too late, I missed my chance
I wasn’t there for his final dance
He never heard me say what I had to say
Now, I miss my father, every day
I was blinded by the speed of life
Now, on angel’s wings he’s taken flight
To have shared his world, I feel delight
I was blinded by the speed of life
Joe Flach is an amateur poet living in Gig Harbor, WA. Joe has been writing poetry, short stories and song lyrics his entire life but has only recently found the courage to share some of his work with others through internet websites and his own Poetry Facebook Page – “Poems, Lyrics and Stuff by an Average Joe”. As a professional consultant working in the fields of crisis management and disaster recovery, Joe uses has writing as a form of stress release and an opportunity to expand his horizons. Joe is a father of four children who he often relies on as a source for inspiration.
I never took the time to speak my love
I never told him what I was thinking of
I never thanked him for all he had done
I never said I was proud to be his son
I always waited for the perfect time
I always kept those thoughts inside my mind
I always choked on the words when in his sight
I always said I would, in bed at night
But, I was blinded by the speed of life
Now, on angel’s wings he’s taken flight
To have shared his world, I feel delight
I was blinded by the speed of life
And, now it’s too late, I missed my chance
I wasn’t there for his final dance
He never heard me say what I had to say
Now, I miss my father, every day
I was blinded by the speed of life
Now, on angel’s wings he’s taken flight
To have shared his world, I feel delight
I was blinded by the speed of life
Joe Flach is an amateur poet living in Gig Harbor, WA. Joe has been writing poetry, short stories and song lyrics his entire life but has only recently found the courage to share some of his work with others through internet websites and his own Poetry Facebook Page – “Poems, Lyrics and Stuff by an Average Joe”. As a professional consultant working in the fields of crisis management and disaster recovery, Joe uses has writing as a form of stress release and an opportunity to expand his horizons. Joe is a father of four children who he often relies on as a source for inspiration.
Friday, November 14, 2014
To What We Lost--By Jack Horne--England
To What We Lost
As you leave,
I pass you a poppy
in remembrance of our love,
bloody and battered.
It died on life's battlefield,
another casualty,
another number.
Wear your poppy with pride
and remember me.
Jack Horne enjoys reading and writing poetry.
As you leave,
I pass you a poppy
in remembrance of our love,
bloody and battered.
It died on life's battlefield,
another casualty,
another number.
Wear your poppy with pride
and remember me.
Jack Horne enjoys reading and writing poetry.
Dayspring--By Lisa DeVinney--United States
Dayspring
Dawn quietly seeps through the porous fog,
On this, a shrouded, frosty, autumn morn.
The veil begins to lift, the ground to thaw;
As bird, and beast, and flow’r begin to warm.
And sun reveals a bright and blessed new day,
Once hidden by a curtain, thick and cold.
Fresh glories waken, and stretch forth, anew.
God’s mercies for the day ahead unfold.
Oh Son, who melts away the darkest veil;
Who warms the heart that’s filled with joy and grace;
Come touch us with the rays of Thy sweet love,
And let us gaze upon Thy lovely face.
Oh, Dayspring from on high, shine down on me.
I shall, forever, gladly worship Thee.
Lisa DeVinney is a homemaker and mother of six in upstate New York. She enjoys photography and writing devotional poetry in her spare time. Lisa is the author of several books, including a devotional entitled I Will Lift Up Mine Eyes. She also maintains her own website at liftingmyeyes.com
Dawn quietly seeps through the porous fog,
On this, a shrouded, frosty, autumn morn.
The veil begins to lift, the ground to thaw;
As bird, and beast, and flow’r begin to warm.
And sun reveals a bright and blessed new day,
Once hidden by a curtain, thick and cold.
Fresh glories waken, and stretch forth, anew.
God’s mercies for the day ahead unfold.
Oh Son, who melts away the darkest veil;
Who warms the heart that’s filled with joy and grace;
Come touch us with the rays of Thy sweet love,
And let us gaze upon Thy lovely face.
Oh, Dayspring from on high, shine down on me.
I shall, forever, gladly worship Thee.
Lisa DeVinney is a homemaker and mother of six in upstate New York. She enjoys photography and writing devotional poetry in her spare time. Lisa is the author of several books, including a devotional entitled I Will Lift Up Mine Eyes. She also maintains her own website at liftingmyeyes.com
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Special Feature Collaborative Poem--By Sara Kendrick and Doris Culverhouse--United States
Fisherman
By Sara Kendrick and Doris Culverhouse
Swimming, life carefree
Net tightens around the school
Deliverance, grace
May your hook always be cast
Where you least expect fish caught
Synergism, save
These lost fish, grateful intent
Catch and release, Life
Responsible now
Freedom, new life in warm water
Breach, spout words, joy, sing
School of life, protective school
Numbers rise with the right bait
Bait, love, nurturance
Guide... North Star...The leader Home
Reward eternal life
By Sara Kendrick and Doris Culverhouse
Swimming, life carefree
Net tightens around the school
Deliverance, grace
May your hook always be cast
Where you least expect fish caught
Synergism, save
These lost fish, grateful intent
Catch and release, Life
Responsible now
Freedom, new life in warm water
Breach, spout words, joy, sing
School of life, protective school
Numbers rise with the right bait
Bait, love, nurturance
Guide... North Star...The leader Home
Reward eternal life
The Warlock’s Rubric--By John Polselli--United States
The Warlock’s Rubric
Sail down upon the river, child;
Sail on beneath the bridge,
Where lives a hidden wizard, mild,
Providing tutelage.
Drift deep within the darkness, where
His soft voice beckons thee,
And drop thy anchor by his lair--
O, heed his urgent plea:
“Do not release the rose of youth
Regardless of thy years,
For should it fall and wither, truth
And joy shall turn to tears.
Ensnare the springtime in thy heart
Until thy final breath,
For though thy mortal cloak depart,
Thy soul shall conquer death.”
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.
Sail down upon the river, child;
Sail on beneath the bridge,
Where lives a hidden wizard, mild,
Providing tutelage.
Drift deep within the darkness, where
His soft voice beckons thee,
And drop thy anchor by his lair--
O, heed his urgent plea:
“Do not release the rose of youth
Regardless of thy years,
For should it fall and wither, truth
And joy shall turn to tears.
Ensnare the springtime in thy heart
Until thy final breath,
For though thy mortal cloak depart,
Thy soul shall conquer death.”
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.
How Dare You--By Ndongolera C. Mwangupili--Malawi
How Dare You
For Denis, my nephew
How dare you die and leave us wondering
How you dared dying? Is this one
Of those games you like playing -
Missing in action - and your fellow men
In uniform coming to look for you?
How dare you die and leave your child wondering
How possible it can be to know no father? Is this
How silly life can be that you come back
From a soldierly mission only to die of malaria
On a silly Wednesday like an Ash Wednesday?
How dare you die and leave your wife wondering
How a morning bye can lead to widowhood? And how
Stupid life can be when what we see becomes
An illusion of what really is. And there we are -
Fools, chasing our own follies. And life remains life.
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 a daughter Mary Magdalena.
For Denis, my nephew
How dare you die and leave us wondering
How you dared dying? Is this one
Of those games you like playing -
Missing in action - and your fellow men
In uniform coming to look for you?
How dare you die and leave your child wondering
How possible it can be to know no father? Is this
How silly life can be that you come back
From a soldierly mission only to die of malaria
On a silly Wednesday like an Ash Wednesday?
How dare you die and leave your wife wondering
How a morning bye can lead to widowhood? And how
Stupid life can be when what we see becomes
An illusion of what really is. And there we are -
Fools, chasing our own follies. And life remains life.
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 a daughter Mary Magdalena.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Forever There Within Our Minds--By Marcus Omer--United States
Forever There Within Our Minds
( For Chad )
The days of weeping slowly pass,
but still within the question why
a life so young could not last,
and one so dear to us must die.
The answers wait another day,
when all our sorrows will be healed.
The giver of life will have His say,
and life’s mysteries are revealed.
Until that day this void we’ll fill
with memories frozen in time.
A part of you is with us still,
as from these shadows we must climb.
A zest for life, your carefree ways
made bright the path of all you met.
Exuberant thoughts filled your days,
a sunny smile we’ll n’er forget.
We’ll reap those thoughts when days are long,
reflections that you left behind.
Your time with us becomes a song,
forever there within our minds.
Grandpa
Marcus Omer got serious about writing after he retired in 1997. He draws his inspiration from the many emotions we experience in life. He has published Of Sunshine and Clouds with iUniverse and The Winding Road with Shadow Poetry. He’s also published in Snippets, The Magic of Words and several issues of Golden Words.
( For Chad )
The days of weeping slowly pass,
but still within the question why
a life so young could not last,
and one so dear to us must die.
The answers wait another day,
when all our sorrows will be healed.
The giver of life will have His say,
and life’s mysteries are revealed.
Until that day this void we’ll fill
with memories frozen in time.
A part of you is with us still,
as from these shadows we must climb.
A zest for life, your carefree ways
made bright the path of all you met.
Exuberant thoughts filled your days,
a sunny smile we’ll n’er forget.
We’ll reap those thoughts when days are long,
reflections that you left behind.
Your time with us becomes a song,
forever there within our minds.
Grandpa
Marcus Omer got serious about writing after he retired in 1997. He draws his inspiration from the many emotions we experience in life. He has published Of Sunshine and Clouds with iUniverse and The Winding Road with Shadow Poetry. He’s also published in Snippets, The Magic of Words and several issues of Golden Words.
before dusk settles--By David J. Kelly--Ireland
before dusk settles
Herb Robert’s dainty wavering
in the gentle evening breeze …
Hart’s Tongue ferns now savouring
the dewfall, by degrees …
A Scot’s Pine, still, regretting
the limbs it left behind …
Two Goldcrests pirouetting,
their voices intertwined …
__________________
The setting is European, so some of the plants and animals may not be familiar:
Herb Robert is a small pink flower, with delicate leaves.
Hart's Tongue is a fern with a rather peculiar shape.
The Goldcrest is a close relative of the Golden-crowned Kinglet.
__________________
David J. Kelly is an animal ecologist based in Dublin, Ireland. While his day job revolves around science writing, his light poetry and Japanese verse forms (haiku, tanka, haibun and haiga) have been published in a number of journals and anthologies. He aspires to publish a book of poetry one day, when he has enough suitable material. David is a member of The British Haiku Society and Haiku Ireland.
Herb Robert’s dainty wavering
in the gentle evening breeze …
Hart’s Tongue ferns now savouring
the dewfall, by degrees …
A Scot’s Pine, still, regretting
the limbs it left behind …
Two Goldcrests pirouetting,
their voices intertwined …
__________________
The setting is European, so some of the plants and animals may not be familiar:
Herb Robert is a small pink flower, with delicate leaves.
Hart's Tongue is a fern with a rather peculiar shape.
The Goldcrest is a close relative of the Golden-crowned Kinglet.
__________________
David J. Kelly is an animal ecologist based in Dublin, Ireland. While his day job revolves around science writing, his light poetry and Japanese verse forms (haiku, tanka, haibun and haiga) have been published in a number of journals and anthologies. He aspires to publish a book of poetry one day, when he has enough suitable material. David is a member of The British Haiku Society and Haiku Ireland.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Veterans Day Tribute--By Karen O'Leary--United States
Today is Veterans Day in the United States. Thank you to all the Veterans, Current Military Personnel, Law Enforcement Officials and their Families for all the sacrifices they have made or are making to promote freedom and protect people around the world. This is a day to honor you and your partners all over the world that share in a vision for peace. May God protect each and every one of you.
Our Nation’s Heroes
Bless our nation’s veterans,
protectors of this land.
Despite how hard the mission,
side by side they took a stand.
They fought with faith and honor,
hearts filled with country pride.
Defenders of our freedom,
some were wounded, others died.
Bless these loyal heroes,
souls one in righting wrong.
With gratitude, we laud them
for they kept our nation strong.
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.
Our Nation’s Heroes
Bless our nation’s veterans,
protectors of this land.
Despite how hard the mission,
side by side they took a stand.
They fought with faith and honor,
hearts filled with country pride.
Defenders of our freedom,
some were wounded, others died.
Bless these loyal heroes,
souls one in righting wrong.
With gratitude, we laud them
for they kept our nation strong.
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.
The Ocean and Me--By Tom Davis--United States
The Ocean and Me
I love the Ocean
the sound of waves
thrashing the shore
the crunch of wet sand
under bare feet
the smell of seaweed
and baked on suntan oil
the taste of salt water
up my nose
I also love the Smokies
but my heart belongs
to the sea
In his younger years, Tom Davis served as a Special Force Combat Diver. It seems to him that he spent more time on, in, and under the water than as a landlubber. This and other adventures he has written about in his memoir, The Most Fun I Ever Had With My Clothes On: A March From Private to Colonel. http://www.oldmp.com/davismemoirs
I love the Ocean
the sound of waves
thrashing the shore
the crunch of wet sand
under bare feet
the smell of seaweed
and baked on suntan oil
the taste of salt water
up my nose
I also love the Smokies
but my heart belongs
to the sea
In his younger years, Tom Davis served as a Special Force Combat Diver. It seems to him that he spent more time on, in, and under the water than as a landlubber. This and other adventures he has written about in his memoir, The Most Fun I Ever Had With My Clothes On: A March From Private to Colonel. http://www.oldmp.com/davismemoirs
Frosted Panes--By Elaine George--Canada
Frosted Panes
When winter paints those frosty ferns on my windowpane,
I find myself a little girl up on your lap again;
In that old house, there by the sea, where you wove that tapestry,
With all the glorious memories, of your life upon the sea.
With weathered palm, so deeply etched, with every season past,
You rubbed a porthole in the center, of the frosted glass,
Where outside, in splendour lie, a winter-wonderland,
As halos rose above your head, from a pipe bowl in your hand.
And there upon a rocking chair, as smoke rings filled the air,
We rocked across a sea of dreams, wind tangled in our hair;
To lands I’d never been before, we stepped upon those shores,
And through your eyes I saw each one, and still I wanted more.
The morning passed in dreams between two pairs of eyes of green,
As the world outside, held its breath, in a sea of snowy cream;
And when the chill of winter melted, from the windowpane,
The whistling kettle, on the stove, brought us home again.
You held my hand and looked at me, with that twinkle in your eyes,
And told me you would be my Captain, 'til the day I died.
So, when winter paints those frosty ferns, on my windowpane,
I find myself a little girl, up on your lap again.
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.
When winter paints those frosty ferns on my windowpane,
I find myself a little girl up on your lap again;
In that old house, there by the sea, where you wove that tapestry,
With all the glorious memories, of your life upon the sea.
With weathered palm, so deeply etched, with every season past,
You rubbed a porthole in the center, of the frosted glass,
Where outside, in splendour lie, a winter-wonderland,
As halos rose above your head, from a pipe bowl in your hand.
And there upon a rocking chair, as smoke rings filled the air,
We rocked across a sea of dreams, wind tangled in our hair;
To lands I’d never been before, we stepped upon those shores,
And through your eyes I saw each one, and still I wanted more.
The morning passed in dreams between two pairs of eyes of green,
As the world outside, held its breath, in a sea of snowy cream;
And when the chill of winter melted, from the windowpane,
The whistling kettle, on the stove, brought us home again.
You held my hand and looked at me, with that twinkle in your eyes,
And told me you would be my Captain, 'til the day I died.
So, when winter paints those frosty ferns, on my windowpane,
I find myself a little girl, up on your lap again.
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.
Monday, November 10, 2014
Hey Hank, Did You Just--By Tim Ryerson--United States
Hey Hank, Did You Just -
hi-jack my haiku?
Hah! You hi-jacked the wrong ku
You stole a senryu
I hide my haikus
safe and sound beneath silly...
senryus such as this
Hark and heed this Hank!
Stealing somebody’s senryu
is scandalous BUT
heisting haikus or
holding a haiku hostage
Have you no heart, Hank?
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.”
hi-jack my haiku?
Hah! You hi-jacked the wrong ku
You stole a senryu
I hide my haikus
safe and sound beneath silly...
senryus such as this
Hark and heed this Hank!
Stealing somebody’s senryu
is scandalous BUT
heisting haikus or
holding a haiku hostage
Have you no heart, Hank?
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.”
memories...By Gert W. Knop--Germany
In my memories
Edinburgh in mist
Raindrops like dew
Gert W. Knop, born in 1943, studies art and tropical agriculture in Germany and Scotland (University of Edinburgh). He has lived in many different countries and writes mainly in German, English and Spanish. He currently resides in Zittau (Saxony), Germany.
Edinburgh in mist
Raindrops like dew
Gert W. Knop, born in 1943, studies art and tropical agriculture in Germany and Scotland (University of Edinburgh). He has lived in many different countries and writes mainly in German, English and Spanish. He currently resides in Zittau (Saxony), Germany.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Winter Wonderland--By Christine Tate--United States
Winter Wonderland
Winter makes its grand debut
as it obeys the good Lord's cue.
old man sun sneaks a peek
behind clouds with fuchsia streaks.
hearth and home are a retreat
from blustery winds, snow and sleet...
cozy blankets keep us snug
like a fuzzy big bear rug.
while children skate on frozen ponds
shivering moms and dads look on.
riding sleds down icy hills,
invigorated by the thrills...
it's a picture postcard sight,
a winter wonderland delight!
Christine Tate lives in New Jersey. She is the mother of three married sons and has eight grandchildren. She started writing inspirational poetry in 1994, and is blessed to encourage others and honor the Lord. She was widowed in 2007 and met her new husband Artie, a widower, in the nursing facility where their late mothers resided. They've been happily married for 2 1/2 years. Since neither of them ever expected to marry again, they consider it a "divine appt."
Winter makes its grand debut
as it obeys the good Lord's cue.
old man sun sneaks a peek
behind clouds with fuchsia streaks.
hearth and home are a retreat
from blustery winds, snow and sleet...
cozy blankets keep us snug
like a fuzzy big bear rug.
while children skate on frozen ponds
shivering moms and dads look on.
riding sleds down icy hills,
invigorated by the thrills...
it's a picture postcard sight,
a winter wonderland delight!
Christine Tate lives in New Jersey. She is the mother of three married sons and has eight grandchildren. She started writing inspirational poetry in 1994, and is blessed to encourage others and honor the Lord. She was widowed in 2007 and met her new husband Artie, a widower, in the nursing facility where their late mothers resided. They've been happily married for 2 1/2 years. Since neither of them ever expected to marry again, they consider it a "divine appt."
Adieu...--By Dr. Upma A. Sharma--India
Adieu to green sheet,
Twilight lends its orange charm,
Crispy brown runway,
Yellow beguiles all around,
Reddish hue across the blue !
Passion for poetry can turn anyone crazy, Dr. Upma A. Sharma has proved this so well. She finds time from her busy schedule to satiate her appetite for words, words that rhyme with her heart. She feels that nothing in this world happens without a reason and so is poetry. This indeed is a purposeful expression of emotions and thoughts that are well oxygenated before putting them into circulation, and positive words certainly are a way to serenity.
Twilight lends its orange charm,
Crispy brown runway,
Yellow beguiles all around,
Reddish hue across the blue !
Passion for poetry can turn anyone crazy, Dr. Upma A. Sharma has proved this so well. She finds time from her busy schedule to satiate her appetite for words, words that rhyme with her heart. She feels that nothing in this world happens without a reason and so is poetry. This indeed is a purposeful expression of emotions and thoughts that are well oxygenated before putting them into circulation, and positive words certainly are a way to serenity.
Saturday, November 8, 2014
If Walls Could Talk--By Peter Dome--United Kingdom
If Walls Could Talk
The moonlight creeps in like a thief
through an arched Gothic window,
casting dark, long shadows
upon cold sandstone walls.
There's an eerie silence
that whispers to the imagination,
echoing through empty halls.
Spider webs furnish the rooms
and hang precariously from old oak beams,
a huge fireplace now unused
with burned out embers in the grate.
The chandeliers burn no more.
Mice scurry on cold granite floors.
If walls could talk and reveal the history
of happy and sad times
that remain now a mystery.
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.
The moonlight creeps in like a thief
through an arched Gothic window,
casting dark, long shadows
upon cold sandstone walls.
There's an eerie silence
that whispers to the imagination,
echoing through empty halls.
Spider webs furnish the rooms
and hang precariously from old oak beams,
a huge fireplace now unused
with burned out embers in the grate.
The chandeliers burn no more.
Mice scurry on cold granite floors.
If walls could talk and reveal the history
of happy and sad times
that remain now a mystery.
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.
Haiku/Senryu--By Robert Epstein--United States
sun behind clouds
a stranger not yet open
to kindness
_______________
Father's Day
I sign the card and
give it to myself
_______________
popsicle stick
the past still tastes
purple
_______________
apple tree
I give it a shake
and forgive myself
_______________
Robert Epstein is a licensed psychologist who lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area. He has edited several anthologies: The Breath of Surrender: A Collection of Recovery-Oriented Haiku; Dreams Wander On: Contemporary Poems of Death Awareness; and The Temple Bell Stops: Contemporary Poems of Grief, Loss and Change; as well as two books of haiku: Checkout Time is Noon: Death Awareness Haiku; and A Walk Around Spring Lake: Haiku. He is currently editing another anthology, The Sacred in Contemporary Haiku, due to be released in 2014.
a stranger not yet open
to kindness
_______________
Father's Day
I sign the card and
give it to myself
_______________
popsicle stick
the past still tastes
purple
_______________
apple tree
I give it a shake
and forgive myself
_______________
Robert Epstein is a licensed psychologist who lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area. He has edited several anthologies: The Breath of Surrender: A Collection of Recovery-Oriented Haiku; Dreams Wander On: Contemporary Poems of Death Awareness; and The Temple Bell Stops: Contemporary Poems of Grief, Loss and Change; as well as two books of haiku: Checkout Time is Noon: Death Awareness Haiku; and A Walk Around Spring Lake: Haiku. He is currently editing another anthology, The Sacred in Contemporary Haiku, due to be released in 2014.
Friday, November 7, 2014
Revelations of Sight and Soul--By Jean Calkins--United States
Revelations of Sight and Soul
Sun reflects off virgin clouds
that scud over autumn-hued mountaintops.
Cool nights, warm days, have painted
the trees with muted shades of red,
yellow, orange, brown—a masterpiece
only possible at a Master’s hand.
Far from city lights, the glories of nature
abound, soothing the heart and soul
of a transient drifter, blocking out doomsday
newscasts of a war-ravaged nation.
Back to nature, the simpler life,
though even this is tainted by life-long
experiences in a world of chaos,
the search for a calm existence where artificial
supplementation gives false courage and hope.
The life, death and resurrection of the seasons
provide a blueprint, a promise ages-old
to those with the vision to read its message.
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.
Sun reflects off virgin clouds
that scud over autumn-hued mountaintops.
Cool nights, warm days, have painted
the trees with muted shades of red,
yellow, orange, brown—a masterpiece
only possible at a Master’s hand.
Far from city lights, the glories of nature
abound, soothing the heart and soul
of a transient drifter, blocking out doomsday
newscasts of a war-ravaged nation.
Back to nature, the simpler life,
though even this is tainted by life-long
experiences in a world of chaos,
the search for a calm existence where artificial
supplementation gives false courage and hope.
The life, death and resurrection of the seasons
provide a blueprint, a promise ages-old
to those with the vision to read its message.
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.
Fata Morgana--By Elly Wouterse--Netherlands
Fata Morgana
wandering in unassailable jungles of sand grains
deeply hidden between highest hills and long valleys
and endless colorless shadeless plains
wearing ubiquitous sandy clothes and gloves
tired unyielding legs dragging forth riveted feet
repeatedly chained and deeply bogged down
amidst an immense impenetrable dried fleet
of days gone by and still alive and cherished dreams
the universe of sand moves in its own unimaginable endless mass
for who feels the loneliness of intimate worlds of a small hourglass
Dutch poetess Elly Wouterse is oftentimes focused observing the world surrounding her. While watching, noticing, listening, thinking, dreaming and - or fantasizing she often finds the inspiration resulting in Poetical Visuals published on her own website - http://www.ellywouterse.com/ and in her first publication, Between Moonset and Sunrise. http://www.ellywouterse.com/special-edition.html
wandering in unassailable jungles of sand grains
deeply hidden between highest hills and long valleys
and endless colorless shadeless plains
wearing ubiquitous sandy clothes and gloves
tired unyielding legs dragging forth riveted feet
repeatedly chained and deeply bogged down
amidst an immense impenetrable dried fleet
of days gone by and still alive and cherished dreams
the universe of sand moves in its own unimaginable endless mass
for who feels the loneliness of intimate worlds of a small hourglass
Dutch poetess Elly Wouterse is oftentimes focused observing the world surrounding her. While watching, noticing, listening, thinking, dreaming and - or fantasizing she often finds the inspiration resulting in Poetical Visuals published on her own website - http://www.ellywouterse.com/ and in her first publication, Between Moonset and Sunrise. http://www.ellywouterse.com/special-edition.html
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Haiku--By Barbara Tate--United States
midnight thunder
the buffalo spirits
come to earth
_______________
heat waves
the sweet aroma
of quiet illusion
_______________
winter evening
snowflakes fall
on kitten whiskers
_______________
ripples
my son skips
his first stone
_______________
sunset
the sea oats wave goodbye
_______________
Barbara Tate is a member of the Haiku Society of America, Gulf Coast Writers Association and the United Haiku and Tanka Society. This year her work has appeared in Storyteller Magazine, Magnolia Quarterly, Frogpond, Cattails, Modern Haiku, Contemporary Haiku Online, Poet's Art and Brass Bell, among others. She lives in Winchester, TN.
the buffalo spirits
come to earth
_______________
heat waves
the sweet aroma
of quiet illusion
_______________
winter evening
snowflakes fall
on kitten whiskers
_______________
ripples
my son skips
his first stone
_______________
sunset
the sea oats wave goodbye
_______________
Barbara Tate is a member of the Haiku Society of America, Gulf Coast Writers Association and the United Haiku and Tanka Society. This year her work has appeared in Storyteller Magazine, Magnolia Quarterly, Frogpond, Cattails, Modern Haiku, Contemporary Haiku Online, Poet's Art and Brass Bell, among others. She lives in Winchester, TN.
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