Autumn Leaves…By Linda Hurdwell--England

Autumn Leaves…

A Winter’s gale blows thick and fast

Tossing the leaves that are unable to last

While the timid sun sighs with despair

As winter laughs without a care.

Autumn hides with fear on her face

This land is now no longer her place

Birds migrate with urgent speed

There’s nothing here that they need.

Insects don’t thrive when it is so cold

Plants wither and become suddenly old

A lone robin still sings with some hope

Wondering how on earth he will cope.

Autumn turns and hurries away

Taking her hues and pride with dismay

She sheds such a small and silent tear

Grateful that she will be back next year.

Linda Hurdwell has been a widow for 5 years. She has two adult sons. Living in the English countryside, she takes her dog, Bessie, for a daily walks and that's where many of her poems and stories are born.  She has always loved writing and has a few short stories published. Although now a pensioner, she enjoys working with adults with learning disabilities and running a mencap social club once a week. Her hobbies are writing, tap dancing, and going to the theatre or cinema with my friends.

An Autumn Afternoon--By Barbara Siekierski--United States

An Autumn Afternoon

The trees rustle

in the wind,

singing songs

to each other.

Their leaves fall

like a whisper,

begging me to play

tag with them.

The crickets

join the symphony,

bringing music

to my ears.

A sense of peace

only God can give

stays with me…

this autumn afternoon.

Barbara Siekierski is a writer from Swarthmore, PA. 

Her Hands Smell Like Sunsets--By Arthur Turfa--United States

Her Hands Smell Like Sunsets

The silence cannot, will not

stifle the emerging word.

Within you speak voices.

Music resounds throughout you.

When despair closes in,

a melody, a metaphor arises.

Far more remains in you than

the incessant, obscene wound.

Flowers blossom where none

ever burst forth in color before.

Every part of your being glows,

Your hands still smell like sunsets.

Let my words shine like the sun

upon the waters you touch.

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

Solstice--By Candace Armstrong--United States

Solstice

Celebrate the longest night

when winter’s apex reigns.

Fears frolic in ghostly gowns,

worries dress in rumpled dreams.

Clouds like smoky arms

wrap around the moon

beckon the wind cry

of a broken season.

Movement fastens light to life.

A moment can change everything:

the rhythm of a planet’s dance,

a reaching toward spring.

Candace Armstrong writes poetry and prose in the beautiful woodlands of Southern Illinois. Formerly in corporate business management, she has relocated to the country where she enjoys gardening, cooking, reading and hiking with her husband and their canine child, Murphy. Her poems have been published in The Lyric, MUSE, Midwest Review, California Quarterly, The Official Poets Guide to Peace, Distilled Lives 2 & 3 and online at Dream Quest One and the Illinois State Poetry Society's website. Her website is a work-in-progress at candacearmstrongwriter.com.    

Jesus Is Knocking--By Helen Dowd--Canada

Jesus Is Knocking

Jesus is standing at your heart's door today.
He is patiently waiting. Don't send Him away.
He's calling so softly, He wants to come in.
He'll heal all your sorrows, and cleanse you from sin.

Jesus has knocked on your heart's door before.
But you haven't answered, tho' He's knocked o’er and o'er.
Oh please, dear one, listen. He silently waits.
If you put Him off longer, it may be too late.

Don't be afraid of what He may find,
Inside of your heart, or inside your mind.
He died on the cross to redeem you from sin.
So please, dear friend, listen. Oh, let the Lord in.

Don't let Satan tell you that your sin is too great.
He wants you to linger--to procrastinate.
But please friend, don't listen to Lucifer's lies.
COME, open to Jesus. He's still standing by.

Helen Dowd enjoys spending time at her computer, along side her husband of 56 years, writing poetry, story poems, stories about pets and life in general, as well as inspirational and Bible stories. She has one book published. Her stories and poems have been published in several Anthologies. Helen hosts an inspirational online publication, www.occupytillicome.ca  She is presently a caregiver for her husband and sister, two dogs, four cats and 3 gold fish.

Excerpts from The Gift of You, The Gift of Me--By Nila J. Webster--United States

Thank you, hands,

For reaching out

Over sadness

And over doubt

Toward all

that is wonder

______________

For believing, loving,

Feeling, seeing,

The gift of Earth

The miracle of being

______________

These excerpts are from Nila J. Webster's picture book The Gift of You, The Gift of Me. She wrote the book in one sitting as a response in an incident of bullying, with the hope that honoring the beauty in nature, and in ourselves, will create a beautiful space where bullying will dissolve and be replaced by love and acceptance.

______________

Nila J. Webster has been writing since a young age, thanks to the encouragement and support of her beloved mother, poet jani johe webster. Nila has donated over 120,000 picture books in her mother's honor, with more to come. If anyone knows of schools or hospitals that would like to receive a picture book donation, please let her know at nila.webster@comcast.net.

Compassion--By Christine Tate--United States

Compassion

Confined to wheelchairs frail and weak,
they seldom laugh and rarely speak...
eyes now dim that sparkled bright,
minds confused not thinking right.
some forgotten by family and friends,
lonely hours most of them spend.
I didn't know until it touched me
when mom was placed in a facility.

I observed many patients there,
many depressed and didn't care.
The ones who seemed to be happy,
were visited by loved ones regularly.
mom's eyes lit up when I'd appear,
a familiar face to bring good cheer...

I read her scriptures, shared stories,
and recalled many fond memories...
anywhere there is a need,
we can perform a godly deed.
a little compassion goes a long way,
so practice spreading some each day!

Christine Tate has been writing since 1994. She's the mother of 3 sons and has 8 grandchildren. She was widowed in 2007 and met her husband Artie, a widower with 6 children & 12 grandchildren, in a nursing facility where their mothers resided. They've been happily married 4 1/2 years. They describe their meeting as "God's divine appt." because of their faith, and the fact that they swore they'd never marry again.

Season's Sadness--By Jack Horne--England

Season's Sadness

With Christmas and the New Year come

my thoughts of those I love and miss:

those treasured relatives and friends -

oh, how I long for one more kiss -

but Death has taken them away,

and sent them to eternal bliss;

but you, my love, are living still,

condemning me to reminisce

about the joy, I knew with you;

without your love my life's amiss...

Jack Horne enjoys reading and writing poetry.

Black Crow--ByTammy Manikas--United States

Black Crow

Black is the crow that stalks my days.
Can see him even through the darkest of haze.
He flies from tree to tree, the only
one that notices me.
Why for me has he come?
I am invisible to everyone.
He taunts me with his haunting tone.
Reminding me that I am all alone.
I try to speak to him with my mind,
wanting to know, to me was he assigned?
A frown formed on my face, silently
hoping that he leaves this place.
An angry feeling he does instill.
I turn my back, but he flies closer still.
A sideways look he throws my way.
He whispers, numbered now
are your last days.

Tammy Manikas (ML Poetry) resides in the great state of Michigan. She has been writing since a young age, and has a high interest in music.  Dreams of one of her works being turned into a song to be enjoyed by many.  You can follow her at--https://www.facebook.com/MLPoetry.T.Manikas/  

From the Archives—Featuring Mary Jo Balistreri

Dear Whispers’ Readers,

It is a gift to travel back into our Whispers’ archives, and savor the wonderful poetry within its pages. The unique imagery in the first line of Mary Jo Balistreri’s “Christmas Morning”  drew me in—then the brewing coffee clinched it. I hope you don’t mind a little humor that does carry a bit of truth. Mary Jo weaves present and past, flowing so naturally that one almost misses it until the last simile carries the essential message. This poem was originally published December 21, 2015. Congratulations Mary Jo! Thank you being a candle at Whispers and in the poetry community at large.

Sincerely,

Karen O’Leary—Whispers’ Editor

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

Christmas Morning

In the pale glint of dawn, a hawk darts

across the marsh. I wash dishes from last night’s supper.

Coffee gurgles, filling the glass carafe.

Alone at this hour, husband and children still asleep,

I breathe in peace—my hands deep in warm suds,

china and silver soaking amidst the bursts of bubbles,

their reflections tinged pink.

Outside a streak of mauve swirls and widens

over the pond, feathery as angel wings

on childhood holy cards. The sun paints

peach hibiscus, dusty blue asters, chrysanthemums,

yellow and spiky—all sprouting from the dark

of December like the star that once glowed

in Bethlehem.

By Mary Jo Balistreri

Happy Days are Coming--By Dr. Satish Chandra Srivastava--India

Happy Days are Coming

A change in Indian economy
by banning the old currency

and banishing rotten agony

ow the happy days are coming.

Implanting new economic policy
without caring for future vote
withdrawn old running currency
demonetizing 500/- & 1000/- rupee note.

As assured by PM Narendra MODI
treating social Cancer was not fun,
A drastic decision by policy deciding body
another surgical strike was done.

While this action made opposition sad
the smugglers and terrorists are stunning,
the poor and most of middle class are glad
most awaited "HAPPY DAYS ARE COMING"

Dr. Satish Chandra Srivastava, a retired manager admin. from a pharmaceuticals company has keen interest in writing poetry since his college life as it is his passion but due to family liabilities, the passion was suppressed by time constrains. Upon his retirement, he devotes his full time to his passion and writing poetry to fulfill his hidden desire. His poems are much appreciated by fellow poets and has a repute honor among fellow poets. His poem "DREAMS" was published in first E-zine anthology by "POETS DREAMS.”

Diving in a Quiet Bay--By Greg Gregory--United States

Diving in a Quiet Bay

Sea turtles leave

invisible trails.

They beat slowly

through the water,

quiet in their secrets,

wordless in their calls.

In the sacred water

they see me.  I see them.

We meet.  We part.

We become part

of each other’s stories.

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

Tanka--By Anne Curran--New Zealand

shifting her plants
on the whim
of a spring breeze ...
it is a woman's privilege
to change her mind
______________

a gunshot
from over the rise
in our suburb...
he never wanted
to go to war
______________

an unseasonal
Autumn wind
stirring up talk ...
things are not
as we remember them
______________

Anne Curran is a Hamiltonian and New Zealander. She writes in awe and admiration of all those Japanese verse poets and editors who have encouraged her on this journey.

She Evokes a Soul for Winter--By Jean Colonomos--United States

She Evokes a Soul for Winter

Fireplace warm, teddy bear tender,

she speaks of her husband and children

as they course through her being

where there’s no beginning or end.

It is my daughter’s compassion

that wraps me in blanket fields,

in electric currents connecting me to

light pouring in.

Jean Colonomos began her career as a member of the Martha Graham Dance Company. She then wrote about it for various publications in New York City during the 1960s and ‘70s.  She’s been published in over 50 publications. Her most recent book is ART FARM.  For more, visit jeancolonomos.weebly.com.   

ringing--By Richard Carl Subber (Rick)--United States

ringing

children laughing

   and sounding their chimes of mirth…

      new peals of young joy

Richard Carl Subber (Rick) is a freelance editor, a writing coach and a historian. He lives with his family in Natick, Massachusetts, USA. He’s a former newspaper reporter/editor who now indulges his love of the right words.  Rick is a proud grandpa who is teaching his granddaughter to read and write, in case there is poetry in her future.  His poetry appears in The Australia Times Poetry Magazine, miller’s pond poetry magazine, The RavensPerch, Northern Stars, and elsewhere. His blog: http://barleyliterate.blogspot.com/  

Family Feature--Johann Wilhelm Rehbein--In Memory 1830-1909--Germany

(shared and authorized for publication by Gert Knop—a Whispers’ contributor since 2013)

Christmas Wishes (English)

Oh Christkind, come with your gifts

In every heart, in every house;

Give all what they need,

Do not exclude a single soul!

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

Weihnachtswünsche (German)

O Christkind, komm' mit deinen Gaben

In jedes Herz, in jedes Haus;

Gib Allen, was sie nötig haben,

Schließ' keine Menschenseele aus !

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

Johann Wilhelm Rehbein (listed as Wilhelm Rehbein) was born on October 28, 1830 at Mülheim/ Ruhr. He devoted himself to the profession of an elementary schoolteacher and worked as such for 43 years, of which he spent 37 years in Remscheid as head of a boys' school and as a conductor of the municipal advanced training school. In the fall of 1895, he retired due to throat problems, and lived since then in comfortable circumstances in Dusseldorf, he was able to celebrate his golden wedding here as well. He continued his literary career until old age. He died of a heart attack on a journey to Wermelskirchen on May 16, 1909.  His works were: Poems, 1870, Poems, 1872 and a second edition, 1875. Engelbert, Bishop of Cologne, a theater play, 1894 and Cecilia, an opera libretto, 1894.

Autumn Invitation--By Glenda Frazier--United States

Autumn Invitation

Mr. Autumn you are cordially invited to attend a winter fest

A change of seasons at its holiday best

We await your arrival before we light the firer place

The colors to wear are brown, orange or grey

If you bring a guest, please consider Mr. Snow Flakes

RSVP and please don't be late

(Previously published in Poems that Bleed)

Glenda Frazier and her husband Andre reside in Pace, Florida.  She has been writing poetry for over 20 years and has finally compiled some of them in her most recent book, Poems that Bleed.  She enjoys writing and spending time with her family and friends.  God has instructed her to share her book of poems as an inspirational tool to witness to the lives of her readers.

I Hear the Music--By Neil Creighton--Australia

I Hear the Music

When these limbs were strong,

when ears were young and clear,

when each day was unblinkingly bright,

much grand music I could not hear.

Now they hear a vast symphony

from stars traversing the night,

and these declining ears hear "alleluia"

from vast pinpricks of cosmic light;

hear a symphonic world

filled with the magic of sound,

hear it swell, rise, crescendo, fall,

echo, harmonise and resound;

hear it in a baby's cry,

hear it in each tiny cell,

hear in the twisted helix of DNA

a great song rise and swell,

hear it in rain and drop of dew,

in shining hair, in birds that throng

and raising my voice I cry aloud

"I hear the music! I sing the song!"

Neil Creighton is an Australian poet with a passion for social justice, a love of people and the natural world. His work as a teacher of Drama and English made him intensely aware of how opportunity is so unequally proportioned. His recent publications include Prosopisia, Poetry Quarterly, Praxis Online Mag, Silver Birch Press, Social Justice Poetry, Whispers  and Verse-Virtual, where he is a contributing editor. He blogs at windofflowers.blogspot.com.au 

let us...By ayaz daryl nielsen--United States

let us have the light left within 

awaken lifted and renewed 

clear eyes sight-smoothed 

hands full of loved ones 

amidst a simplified day 

bringing into our homes 

the churning genesis of 

purified, passionate beginnings 

amid stars that were always ours

ayaz daryl nielsen, veteran, former hospice nurse, ex-roughneck (as on oil rigs) lives in Longmont, Colorado.  Editor of bear creek haiku (26+ years/135+ issues) with poetry published worldwide, he also is online at:  bear creek haiku poetry, poems and info

What Fallen Apple Dare One Take Sweet Bite--By Robert Lindley--United States

What Fallen Apple Dare One Take Sweet Bite

What value an oracle that denies

Time and Fate both join to join, to create

rich dessert with man's miserable lies

and dish it all up on a dirty plate.

What steady course to set sail on if known

one that in the calm harbor remains safe

Or through stormy skies, there gaily blown

like upward drawn dregs of useless wheat chaff.

What fallen apple dare one take sweet bite

as if sweet happiness would thus be found

for nowhere in mankind's long, futile flight

is paradise sold by penny or pound.

What hope rewards seekers that blessed key

What Light shines, for any and all to see.

Robert Lindley is poet from the Southern USA. He has been writing poetry since 1969. Robert writes with the intent to offer others words to enjoy and with high hopes he may inspire and brighten lives in some way.

Family Feature--Arthur Rehbein (pseudonym Atz vom Rhyn)—In Memory 1867-1952—Germany

(shared and authorized for publication by Gert Knop—a Whispers’ contributor since 2013)

Autumn Joy (English)

Autumn moon - Mother of God spins

white silk threads.

At night time

practise yet the wind

at window shutters.

Laughing colorful flowering May

golden summer's glitter -

already past, already past,

passed like a dream.

But there is no place for woefulness;

every nice hour

rests like a saved treasure

deep in the bottom of heart,

friendly reminder

- even if the mouth is silent -

Eternally young, eternally young

still remains our own.

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

Herbstfreude (German)

Herbstmond. – Mutter Gottes spinnt
Weiße Seidenfäden.
Nächtens übt sich schon der Wind
An den Fensterläden.
Lachend bunter Blütenmai,
Gold'nen Sommers Prangen –
Schon vorbei, schon vorbei,
Wie ein Traum vergangen.

Doch für Wehmut ist kein Platz;
Jede schöne Stunde
Ruht wie ein gesparter Schatz
Tief im Herzensgrunde,
Freundliche Erinnerung
– Mag der Mund auch schweigen –
Ewig jung, ewig jung
Bleibt sie unser Eigen.

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

Arthur Rehbein, also known under his pseudonym Atz vom Rhyn, was one of Gert Knop’s grandfather's brothers. He was born on October 26, 1867 in Remscheid, North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany and died on February 29, 1952 in Berlin, Germany. His son Max H. Rehbei was a journalist, TV-editor and producer for the NDR (North German Radio).

Arthur Rehbein was a journalist and author. He did extensive travels around the world and published many books including three volumes of poetry. He started as a tradesman but became a jounalist in 1893. He moved to Arnstadt/Thuringia, Germany where he wrote articles for the'Arnstädter Tageblatt', an Arnstadt newspaper. In 1899, he left Arnstadt and became chief editor of the newspaper 'Krefelder Anzeiger'. In 1901, he moved to Cologne and wrote until 1903 for the Cologn nespaper 'Kölner Tageblatt'. But he wanted a change in 1904 and studied art history and natural sciences in Bonn, Germany, Strasbourg. In 1907, he moved to Stuttgart (Germany) and wrote for the 'Württemberger Zeitung), a Stuttgart newspaper. Later he moved to Berlin, Germany and wrote for the newspaper 'Norddeutsche Allgemeine Zeitung'. He wrote stories, radio dramas, poetry and particularly narrations accounts of his travels to foreign countries with a vivid and humorous depiction. Arthur Rehbein was a member of the 'Erfurter Akademie gemeinnütziger Wissenschaften' in Thuringia (Erfurt Academy and was awarded the title 'Geheimer Hofrat' (Privy Counsellor).

Family Feature Submission Guidelines

Family Feature Submission Guidelines 

In an effort to increase opportunities for contributors and other writers, Whispers is offering an opportunity for sharing family poetry. The submission must come from a current contributor with permission from the contributor or family member to publish any poetry.  Parental consent is needed for any writers under the age of 18.

1. Submissions of unpublished and previously published work is acceptable. Please do not send quotes from others unless they are in the context of the piece submitted and that the original author is given credit. It is up to the authors to obtain permission if needed for reprints. By submitting to Whispers, the writers are assuring that the work is eligible for publication at our online journal. Whispers reserves the right to delete any work that has been copied from other writers without credit or authorization.

2. Send one poem 20 lines or less if submitting an individual family member’s poem. Thoughts from the current contributor are welcome.  Please also send a bio of the author written from the third person perspective if available.  After the initial feature, person featured is eligible for individual poem publication per the guidelines available at Whispers.

3. Current contributors are also eligible for collaborative poetry with family members, 30 lines or less.  This will be a onetime relationship, example father-daughter, uncle-niece, etc. A contributor can submit poems with different family members such as mother-daughter, mother-son. This is a new opportunity so even if poetry has been featured in a collaborative feature in the past, writers are eligible for this opportunity. 

4. These features will be in addition to the regular submission opportunities. Any writer submitting for a feature will still be able to submit a single author poem every other month.

5. No profanity, erotica, violence or other derogatory writing will be accepted.

6. Whispers reserves the right to select poetry based on the goal stated at the end of the guidelines.

7. Spiritual poetry is welcomed but the editor would like to have a variety of pieces that will uplift and inspire readers. Humor is appreciated.

8. Poetry will be published along the left margin for consistency. Please keep that in mind when submitting.

9. Preferred method of submission is to send poetry as a works document or in the body of an email with your name and country. Please email your submission to Karen O’Leary at karenoleary1956@gmail.com If you would rather submit by snail mail, please email Karen for her address. You may email her with any questions you may have.

10. I hope you also participate by commenting on others’ writing.

In this challenging time for many, it is the hope that Whispers will connect people in a way that is supportive, encouraging and inspiring to others. Thank you for considering being a part of this community.

Sincerely,

Karen O’Leary

Whispers’ Editor

Constellations--By Shannon Kelly--United States

Constellations

Once scarce constellations of freckles,

are placed delicately across pale cheeks,

forming a master plan,

flaws created into seamless stories.

Without hesitation,

Once scarce constellations blotch together,

obscuring the night sky.

Innocent fingers can no longer reach,

The purity buried underneath.

Concealed by over encumbered clouds of dust,

obligated to dictate what lies below,

are stars so starved for space they are consuming each other.

The sky ends here but the stars do not

Every flaw is burned into these links disguised as lights,

the night sky absorbed into an orchestra of thoughts.

These once scarce freckles and constellations have consumed me.

Shannon Kelly was born in Yokosuka, Japan and now lives in Florida attending high school as a senior. She enjoys writing poetry and short stories. She has traveled around the world with her family as a military child and draws her inspiration from her family and closest friends. 

Transformed--By Evelyn Splane--Canada

Transformed

I was walking in darkness, so lost in the night;
But there shined from above, God's marvelous light.
I dwelt in the land of the shadow of death,
Now abide in His sunshine and delight in His rest.

From darkness and bondage of Satan's grim power;
Now my King is God's Son in His glorious power;
From worshipping dead gods of wood and of stone
I serve now the true God, alive, on His throne.

I was doomed to the terror of God's wrath to come;
Now I'm washed, sanctified, and I wait for His Son.
My works were like rags, unclean in God's sight,
Now I'm clothed with salvation, my garments are white.

At her own expense Evelyn Splane traveled many times back and forth from Canada, her homeland, to India for the fifty years she was an active missionary.  She lived in a modest, one-bedroom suite in the basement of a church, in Toronto. In April of 2006, due to her advancing age, and deteriorating health, she moved West to live with her sister and brother-in-law, Hart and Helen Dowd.  Now, as her health does not permit, she can no longer travel about from place to place in her homeland to create and renew an interest in the Lord's work in her adopted land of India. However, she generously gives of her meager income to help others go. (If you want to read more of Evelyn’s stories, check out:http://occupytillicome.ca/missionary/     

Like Cleansing Rain--By Andrea Dietrich--United States

Like Cleansing Rain

Such contemplating that the poets do.

They sing of God, our spirits to renew.

With Mother Nature often they’re in tune

And offer up their verse to sun and moon.

They praise the sunset over a blue lake

While pondering man’s purpose, and they ache. . .

They ache for all that earth can never be,

For dreams they’ve lost, and for humanity.

And when they ache, their words are filled with pain

Which pour out from their soul like cleansing rain!

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.

Mad Woman of the public square--By Sunil Sharma--India

Mad Woman of the public square

Draped in cotton saree

the bent figure

doing what she did earlier

sweeping/mopping

own home, somewhere

expelled, maybe from there

now this lazy morning 

arms rotating

cleans the shop- fronts

and at the same time

talks to things companions

after finishing that portion of the plaza

moves on to another place, nearby

broom in hands

clearing it quickly of litter

she---

the old woman

babbling and working free

unnoticed, as always

by others.

Sunil Sharma is a writer based in Mumbai, India. A college principal, he has published four books of poetry, two books of shorts and a novel in English, apart from co-editing six literary anthologies.  He edits Episteme: http://www.episteme.net.in/  

Alberta Bound--By Michael Lee Johnson--United States

Alberta Bound

I own a gate to this prairie

that ends facing the Rocky Mountains.

They call it Alberta-

trail of endless blue sky

asylum of endless winters,

hermitage of indolent retracted sun.

Deep freeze drips haphazardly into spring.

Drumheller, dinosaur badlands, dried bones,

ancient hoodoos sculpt high, prairie toadstools.

Alberta highway 2 opens the gateway of endless miles.

Travel weary I stop by roadsides, ears open to whispering pines.

In harmony North to South

Gordon Lightfoot pitches out

a tone-

"Alberta Bound."

With independence in my veins,

I am long way from my home.

Michael Lee Johnson is a poet, editor, publisher, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois.  He has been published in more than 880 small press magazines in 27 countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites.  Michael is the author of The Lost American:  From Exile to Freedom, several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises and Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago.  See his website for more about him http://poetryman.mysite.com/     

Stanislavsky's Unit--By Lois Greene Stone--United States

Stanislavsky's Unit

Oxygen tubes tickled tiny

hairs in my nostrils.

Monitored leads left doodle

lines on the overhead scope.

I stared at circular tracks

in the ceiling thinking they

looked like toy train rails,

only upside down.  Life doesn't

flash through the mind while

irregular beats blip on

rhythm strips; soap-opera

scene starring me is what my

brain believed.

(Previously published in 1988, The Writer, Inc.)

Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian.

Fibonacci Poems--By Ralph Stott--England

Tourist Trap

I

stopped

and viewed,

the skyline

of Vesuvius.

Street dust settled on my sandals.

________________

The Recliner

I

felt,

viewing

on my back:

how ridiculous!

this upturned fly on the ceiling.

________________

The Ancient of Ways

We

walked

the stone

path. Before

and behind us, stretch

these random white trails of lichen.

________________

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

This Ring of Ours--By James Keane--United States

This Ring of Ours

that I wear everywhere
could slip from my finger
at the slightest pull. What
keeps it in place

is my love for you. May love
ever brighten your face.
Your love for me
I wear everywhere

for everyone to see. May it
radiate from me
at the slightest pull.
May it stay forever

in place, embraced
everywhere
by my love for you.

And anchored in love
for as long as we live

with this ring of ours.

(Previously published in Verse-Virtual)

James Keane lives in northern New Jersey USA with his wife and son and a menagerie of merry pets. In 2013, his first poetry chapbook, What Comes Next, was published by Finishing Line Press. His poems have appeared recently in the Indiana Voice Journal, Verse-Virtual, The Bond Street Review, the Wilderness House Literary Review, the Tipton Poetry Journal, the Blue Monday Review, the Firewords Quarterly, the  East Coast Literary Review, and Contemporary American Voices. In addition, he still can’t cook to save his life.