My Silent Hours
As night's darkness touches the corners of my room
And a small night light shines small light rays into the darkness of the night,
I know God's healing hands are gently touching my Spirit and Soul,
Soothing and healing my body slowly but most assuredly making me to be fit and all right.
God's positive program for how He wants me to be now
Will be accepted by what God chooses to do,
God is the Master and Healer of all His creations,
And I will accept what ever God decides He wants me to do.
God is a compassionate God, our Master Physician,
My aches and pains and of all things God will take care of His way,
God's power of Healing is the most Powerful Miracle ever,
God gently holds my hand as we walk together with love on life's earthly path night and day
Anne R. C. Neale is 85 years old. She taught outdoor education for 20 years. Anne still works at school as crossing guard. She has sent six free poems daily to 165 people for the past 18 years. She been writing poems since the age of 8 and has all of them in albums. She resides in New Jersey .
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
The Candle Glow--By Patricia Ann Farnsworth-Simpson--Canary Islands
The Candle Glow
(Candlelight)
See the candle glow
For all those we know
That has life above
Prayer is from love
Blessed then are they
Gone on way
To be
Safely
With God
Where
Joy
Does
Run
Deep
And
Yet
Flows very fast while it's still
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.
(Candlelight)
See the candle glow
For all those we know
That has life above
Prayer is from love
Blessed then are they
Gone on way
To be
Safely
With God
Where
Joy
Does
Run
Deep
And
Yet
Flows very fast while it's still
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.
This Ditty--By Andrea Dietrich--United States
This Ditty
In limerick form is this ditty,
A rhyme not sublime, but it’s witty.
I’m a Word Warrior who
Kicks a rhyme like Kung-fu.
Don’t haiku me. It won’t be pretty!
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.
In limerick form is this ditty,
A rhyme not sublime, but it’s witty.
I’m a Word Warrior who
Kicks a rhyme like Kung-fu.
Don’t haiku me. It won’t be pretty!
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.
Monday, May 12, 2014
The Desert Rose--By Joann Grisetti--United States
The Desert Rose
the desert rose stretches a yawn
swiftly she swings her scythe
the darkened rocks rapidly react
pour forth a blood-red glow
the desert rose lifts her head
to glance upon her work
the glowing rocks respond once more
and lighten into gold
on she strolls across the land
ever they shift their colors
daily they repeat this ritual
the rocks and the admired
rocks shift and weather -
the rose remains the same
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.
the desert rose stretches a yawn
swiftly she swings her scythe
the darkened rocks rapidly react
pour forth a blood-red glow
the desert rose lifts her head
to glance upon her work
the glowing rocks respond once more
and lighten into gold
on she strolls across the land
ever they shift their colors
daily they repeat this ritual
the rocks and the admired
rocks shift and weather -
the rose remains the same
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.
Great Tree--By David Austin--United States
Great Tree
tree out my window
the various multitudes
call your branches home
world within a world
a mystery large to small
and each blade of grass
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.
tree out my window
the various multitudes
call your branches home
world within a world
a mystery large to small
and each blade of grass
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.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Special Feature Collaborative Poem--By Jack Horne, England and Sandra Stefanowich, Canada
On A Misty Road
By Jack Horne and Sandra Stefanowich
It's raining and I'm soaking wet,
the water's rolling down my cheeks;
my face is wet with tears - my friend
is missing and it feels like weeks.
Tears run like a river with no end
mile markers of time slipping away
distance; the silent killer in the night
wondering if there was another way
As bitterness and anger die,
let raindrops wash all ills away,
I promise after heavy rain,
the sun will shine again today.
I see your hand reach out for mine
your love; as warm as the sun's rays
your promise is all I can hope for
as I find my way through the misty haze.
By Jack Horne and Sandra Stefanowich
It's raining and I'm soaking wet,
the water's rolling down my cheeks;
my face is wet with tears - my friend
is missing and it feels like weeks.
Tears run like a river with no end
mile markers of time slipping away
distance; the silent killer in the night
wondering if there was another way
As bitterness and anger die,
let raindrops wash all ills away,
I promise after heavy rain,
the sun will shine again today.
I see your hand reach out for mine
your love; as warm as the sun's rays
your promise is all I can hope for
as I find my way through the misty haze.
Heart in the Clouds--By Lisa DeVinney--United States
Heart in the Clouds
Today God said, “I love you.”
He wrote it in the sky,
Up in a cloud formation
That caught my wandering eye;
A perfect heart formation
Between two clouds that passed.
I tried to take a picture –
It disappeared too fast.
I smiled just a little,
And said, “I love You, too,”
Back to my Heavenly Father,
With heartfelt gratitude;
That He would take that moment
To share His heart with me.
Oh, what a thoughtful Father –
A precious memory.
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
Today God said, “I love you.”
He wrote it in the sky,
Up in a cloud formation
That caught my wandering eye;
A perfect heart formation
Between two clouds that passed.
I tried to take a picture –
It disappeared too fast.
I smiled just a little,
And said, “I love You, too,”
Back to my Heavenly Father,
With heartfelt gratitude;
That He would take that moment
To share His heart with me.
Oh, what a thoughtful Father –
A precious memory.
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
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Lingual Diversity--By Carl "Papa" Palmer--United States
Lingual Diversity
We share the bench
at a neighborhood park,
watch children play.
He says something,
points toward a running, laughing boy,
probably his son,
about the same age as my daughter,
also running and laughing.
I point toward my little girl,
say the same thing in English
he most likely said in German.
Like our children’s laughter
we require no translation.
Carl "Papa" Palmer, retired Army, retired FAA, now just plain retired, lives in University Place, Washington. He has seven chapbooks and a contest winning poem riding buses somewhere in Seattle. Carl has been nominated for the Micro Award and Pushcart Prize.
MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever
www.authorsden.com/carlpalmer
We share the bench
at a neighborhood park,
watch children play.
He says something,
points toward a running, laughing boy,
probably his son,
about the same age as my daughter,
also running and laughing.
I point toward my little girl,
say the same thing in English
he most likely said in German.
Like our children’s laughter
we require no translation.
Carl "Papa" Palmer, retired Army, retired FAA, now just plain retired, lives in University Place, Washington. He has seven chapbooks and a contest winning poem riding buses somewhere in Seattle. Carl has been nominated for the Micro Award and Pushcart Prize.
MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever
www.authorsden.com/carlpalmer
A Cup of Tea--By Christine Tate--United States
A Cup of Tea
Growing up mom was there
to spend time with me...
I talked, she listened
over a hot cup of tea.
When I became a newlywed
and visited for the day,
we'd sat around the table,
drink some tea, and pray.
Soon I became a mother
and mom knew instantly,
I needed to relax as
she prepared a cup of tea.
When mom was old and frail
and came to live with me,
I was the one preparing
a soothing cup of tea.
I'll never forget those years
and the great memories,
sharing with my mom
over a simple cup of tea.
My precious mom went home to be with the Lord on 7/21/11, but the
memories we shared are forever etched on my heart.
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."
Growing up mom was there
to spend time with me...
I talked, she listened
over a hot cup of tea.
When I became a newlywed
and visited for the day,
we'd sat around the table,
drink some tea, and pray.
Soon I became a mother
and mom knew instantly,
I needed to relax as
she prepared a cup of tea.
When mom was old and frail
and came to live with me,
I was the one preparing
a soothing cup of tea.
I'll never forget those years
and the great memories,
sharing with my mom
over a simple cup of tea.
My precious mom went home to be with the Lord on 7/21/11, but the
memories we shared are forever etched on my heart.
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."
Friday, May 9, 2014
Fire Fries--By Jack Horne--England
Fire Fries
Bro Tuck was a jolly old friar,
Who fried all his food near a briar,
And as Robin ate fries,
With a roll of his eyes,
He muttered, ‘That bush is on fire!’
Jack Horne enjoys reading and writing poetry.
Bro Tuck was a jolly old friar,
Who fried all his food near a briar,
And as Robin ate fries,
With a roll of his eyes,
He muttered, ‘That bush is on fire!’
Jack Horne enjoys reading and writing poetry.
Distant Yesterdays--By Richard Sponaugle--United States
Distant Yesterdays
Once sparkling blue eyes
reflect as murky olive.
Retinal and mental deterioration
squeeze them inward…
Picture postcard memories
of crisp, mountain air,
chirping robins and honey perfume,
padlocked lips that smooch,
and two hearts with boundless dreams…
Windows to the soul
shut tighter than coffins,
as early morning Spring
fades to Winter at midnight.
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.
Once sparkling blue eyes
reflect as murky olive.
Retinal and mental deterioration
squeeze them inward…
Picture postcard memories
of crisp, mountain air,
chirping robins and honey perfume,
padlocked lips that smooch,
and two hearts with boundless dreams…
Windows to the soul
shut tighter than coffins,
as early morning Spring
fades to Winter at midnight.
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.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Haiku--By Elizabeth Howard--United States
April starlight--
disparate voices rejoicing
the old pond reborn
_______________
deep woods--
fox grape tendrils
searching for light
_______________
at nightfall
fireflies on the hillside
flashing in sync
_______________
sipping coffee--
a fawn on the porch
eye to eye
_______________
strawberry fields--
under a red umbrella
a baby crying
_______________
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.
disparate voices rejoicing
the old pond reborn
_______________
deep woods--
fox grape tendrils
searching for light
_______________
at nightfall
fireflies on the hillside
flashing in sync
_______________
sipping coffee--
a fawn on the porch
eye to eye
_______________
strawberry fields--
under a red umbrella
a baby crying
_______________
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.
A Kiss Goodbye?--By Robert A. Dufresne--United States
A Kiss Goodbye?
Cold metal trains pressing refrains on hard steel tracks,
racing ever, changing never the lyrics of clickity clack.
Loved ones scurrying, hurrying, never worrying,
that they may never be riding back,
in cold metal trains pressing refrains on hard steel tracks,
racing ever, changing never the lyrics of clickity clack.
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 .
Cold metal trains pressing refrains on hard steel tracks,
racing ever, changing never the lyrics of clickity clack.
Loved ones scurrying, hurrying, never worrying,
that they may never be riding back,
in cold metal trains pressing refrains on hard steel tracks,
racing ever, changing never the lyrics of clickity clack.
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 .
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Out of Sync on a Summer Evening--By Sunil Uniyal--India
Out of Sync on a Summer Evening
The god ran all day in his seven-horsed chariot
chasing shadows all around o'er hills, hamlets, towns,
shooting light arrows at shadows that ran and fell,
ran and fell, got up and ran again, without a sound
The shadows could not be killed,
falling, rising, falling, rising, like the demon Raktabeej,
they laughed and mocked and spat on the god's beaming face
And the god was wild with rage
his seven horses he whipped and whipped,
and whipped till they bled, their blood sprinkling in the sky...
Now, it's the evening here
the god is gone, the chariot gone, the horses gone, too
a stillness hangs all around and red stains are over there
I faintly hear, a low wail coming from the west,
perhaps the horses neigh in agony, left behind in the air !
________________
Note: The 'god' here refers to the Sun. According to the Hindu mythology, he drives a chariot pulled by seven horses; and 'Raktabeej' is a demon who had a boon that if anyone tried to slay him, every drop of his blood falling on the ground, would create another demon like him, and thus it would be impossible to kill him.
________________
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.
The god ran all day in his seven-horsed chariot
chasing shadows all around o'er hills, hamlets, towns,
shooting light arrows at shadows that ran and fell,
ran and fell, got up and ran again, without a sound
The shadows could not be killed,
falling, rising, falling, rising, like the demon Raktabeej,
they laughed and mocked and spat on the god's beaming face
And the god was wild with rage
his seven horses he whipped and whipped,
and whipped till they bled, their blood sprinkling in the sky...
Now, it's the evening here
the god is gone, the chariot gone, the horses gone, too
a stillness hangs all around and red stains are over there
I faintly hear, a low wail coming from the west,
perhaps the horses neigh in agony, left behind in the air !
________________
Note: The 'god' here refers to the Sun. According to the Hindu mythology, he drives a chariot pulled by seven horses; and 'Raktabeej' is a demon who had a boon that if anyone tried to slay him, every drop of his blood falling on the ground, would create another demon like him, and thus it would be impossible to kill him.
________________
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.
Special Feature Collaborative Poem--By Sheri Stanley and Maurice Reynolds--United States
When Angels Smile Upon, A Sonnet
By Sheri Stanley and Maurice Reynolds
What is this whisp’ring brush against my cheek
That calls to me in flutters through the trees
With playful strokes teasing the sun to peek
Inspired waters calm; dancing in the breeze
In one felled swoop and instantaneous
One dark moment turned into glorious
Angelic kisses filling up the heart
Rejuvenating, lifting with love’s dart
An obvious presence felt but unseen
Its gentle touch of majestic power
Wakens desire to interact so keen
Soothing, soft like the kiss of a flower
When majestic angels do smile upon
Life plays its guided role as led by God
By Sheri Stanley and Maurice Reynolds
What is this whisp’ring brush against my cheek
That calls to me in flutters through the trees
With playful strokes teasing the sun to peek
Inspired waters calm; dancing in the breeze
In one felled swoop and instantaneous
One dark moment turned into glorious
Angelic kisses filling up the heart
Rejuvenating, lifting with love’s dart
An obvious presence felt but unseen
Its gentle touch of majestic power
Wakens desire to interact so keen
Soothing, soft like the kiss of a flower
When majestic angels do smile upon
Life plays its guided role as led by God
I Dream--By Robert L. Hinshaw--United States
I Dream
When on the lonely midnight watch and gazing out to sea,
Thoughts of you waft through my mind, gossamer like, floating free.
And though we are oceans apart and urgent duties beckon me,
I can simply close my eyes and pleasantly dream of thee.
We've been at sea seven months visiting mysterious ports of call.
We've had our rigging rent by many a ferocious squall.
Though our Man O' War may be tossed about by billowing foam,
I am ever comforted when I close my eyes and dream of home.
We've borne the brutal battle midst furious shot and shell.
The terrible stench and gore of war I know all too well.
My earnest prayer is that I survive never more to roam,
And hold you in my arms to fulfill that dream of coming home!
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 on the lonely midnight watch and gazing out to sea,
Thoughts of you waft through my mind, gossamer like, floating free.
And though we are oceans apart and urgent duties beckon me,
I can simply close my eyes and pleasantly dream of thee.
We've been at sea seven months visiting mysterious ports of call.
We've had our rigging rent by many a ferocious squall.
Though our Man O' War may be tossed about by billowing foam,
I am ever comforted when I close my eyes and dream of home.
We've borne the brutal battle midst furious shot and shell.
The terrible stench and gore of war I know all too well.
My earnest prayer is that I survive never more to roam,
And hold you in my arms to fulfill that dream of coming home!
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.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
The Soil of Life--By Rhoda Galgiani--United States
The Soil of Life
Within myself I hide a seed
that is buried deep beneath
the soil of life a consuming weed
Nurturing simple delicate ways
protects the shell that covers
and grows with an external haze
Longing to climb as a morning glory vine
to reach new heights of knowledge brings
soul contentment to the mind that's mine
Wildly consume all there is to know
storing images that are in my garden
as my future adventures grow...
outside my seed of capture
Rhoda Galgiani has published two books - Expressions From the Inside Out and No Snow for Johnny - A Child's Book. She also maintains a website with instructional poetry forms called Expressions Poetry Journal at chesakat1.blogspot.com Come visit for a relaxing moment and poetry instructions.
Within myself I hide a seed
that is buried deep beneath
the soil of life a consuming weed
Nurturing simple delicate ways
protects the shell that covers
and grows with an external haze
Longing to climb as a morning glory vine
to reach new heights of knowledge brings
soul contentment to the mind that's mine
Wildly consume all there is to know
storing images that are in my garden
as my future adventures grow...
outside my seed of capture
Rhoda Galgiani has published two books - Expressions From the Inside Out and No Snow for Johnny - A Child's Book. She also maintains a website with instructional poetry forms called Expressions Poetry Journal at chesakat1.blogspot.com Come visit for a relaxing moment and poetry instructions.
Amazing Mother’s Struggles--By Ndaba Sibanda--Saudi Arabia
Amazing Mother’s Struggles
Mother, you embody love.
You define noble nourishment of a child.
You bestow a child with amazing queenly care.
Mother, you saw beyond what l was,
To what l could be in this competitive world.
You helped me build my destiny and chart out my way.
You struggled in London with a high measure of selflessness.
For all the wonderful sacrifices no countless words are enough honour.
May our Creator’s love continue to reign and radiate through your life.
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".
Mother, you embody love.
You define noble nourishment of a child.
You bestow a child with amazing queenly care.
Mother, you saw beyond what l was,
To what l could be in this competitive world.
You helped me build my destiny and chart out my way.
You struggled in London with a high measure of selflessness.
For all the wonderful sacrifices no countless words are enough honour.
May our Creator’s love continue to reign and radiate through your life.
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".
Monday, May 5, 2014
Footprints--By Carolyn Devonshire--United States
Footprints
Frothy waves stretch to kiss toes
Hikers plodding sandy coasts
Leaving imprints on the shore
Who journeyed here, perhaps this morn
As the orange orb created dawn
Summoning sun worshipers
Footprints far too large to fill
Descended down the shell-strewn hill
Then hugged the waves’ low tide
The retirement community
Sends scouts here daily just to see
If the sands of time still wait
Alas, they do, imprints remain
Sacrificed to sea when evening tide returns again
A Florida writer, Carolyn enjoys writing humor but also receives inspiration from nature and people who touch her life. She has enjoyed co-writing with other poets and finds that both writers grow when they share their thoughts. She has spent most of her life as a reporter and a writer for magazines.
Frothy waves stretch to kiss toes
Hikers plodding sandy coasts
Leaving imprints on the shore
Who journeyed here, perhaps this morn
As the orange orb created dawn
Summoning sun worshipers
Footprints far too large to fill
Descended down the shell-strewn hill
Then hugged the waves’ low tide
The retirement community
Sends scouts here daily just to see
If the sands of time still wait
Alas, they do, imprints remain
Sacrificed to sea when evening tide returns again
A Florida writer, Carolyn enjoys writing humor but also receives inspiration from nature and people who touch her life. She has enjoyed co-writing with other poets and finds that both writers grow when they share their thoughts. She has spent most of her life as a reporter and a writer for magazines.
Grandmother Burns--By Jean Calkins--United States
Grandmother Burns
Grandmother, I never knew you.
I was but a fledgling when you flew
the nest. But I remember your little
white house, set lower than the highway—
the highway that is now no more
than an extended drive. And I remember
the precious old flour bin you said was mine.
But mother never agreed, and claimed
it as her own. I see your white-topped
head, lying on pale sheets, but the face
is gone, and there are no pictures
to remind me. But your blood flows
through my veins, and across the years,
I feel a connection to that other life.
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.
Grandmother, I never knew you.
I was but a fledgling when you flew
the nest. But I remember your little
white house, set lower than the highway—
the highway that is now no more
than an extended drive. And I remember
the precious old flour bin you said was mine.
But mother never agreed, and claimed
it as her own. I see your white-topped
head, lying on pale sheets, but the face
is gone, and there are no pictures
to remind me. But your blood flows
through my veins, and across the years,
I feel a connection to that other life.
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.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
The Permanence of Art--By--Suzanne Delaney--United States
The Permanence of Art
In the third act
a recital of a dream
Beauty transcribes it, punctuating it,
entering when the poet is out
for a moment
The song, a promise from a meadow
begins with bird notes.. a real masterpiece
viewed as poetry begins
and makes a parody of song
Authorship of the song is sung
as an impulse, love
and youthful ardor,
the poet discourses on the
permanence of art.
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.
In the third act
a recital of a dream
Beauty transcribes it, punctuating it,
entering when the poet is out
for a moment
The song, a promise from a meadow
begins with bird notes.. a real masterpiece
viewed as poetry begins
and makes a parody of song
Authorship of the song is sung
as an impulse, love
and youthful ardor,
the poet discourses on the
permanence of art.
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.
Falling Up--By Sandra Stefanowich--Canada
Falling Up
Deep through wooded forest she ran for her life
branches and leaves snapped and crackled under her feet
she felt its eyes following her as wind taunted and laughed
reaching a hillside, she paused but she didn't to stop to rest
scrambling up loose rock she slipped, grabbing onto trees
she pulled and picked herself up off her bloodied knees determined
neither thirst nor hunger would stop her now and its eyes followed
it watched the girl in quiet curiosity; would she make it this time?
she knew what followed had been at her door too many times before
her will was strong as she looked back at her adversary and continued
she reached the top upon a clearing just as darkness filled the sky
beneath a full moon; her heart slowed, a quiet peace fell over her
stars shone brightly tonight and she smiled for the first time in a long time
once lost in a world where she had never belonged, always falling down
she now stood and heard the world call out to her in a different way
and as the wolf howled its mournful cry, she knew it was no longer at her door
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.
Deep through wooded forest she ran for her life
branches and leaves snapped and crackled under her feet
she felt its eyes following her as wind taunted and laughed
reaching a hillside, she paused but she didn't to stop to rest
scrambling up loose rock she slipped, grabbing onto trees
she pulled and picked herself up off her bloodied knees determined
neither thirst nor hunger would stop her now and its eyes followed
it watched the girl in quiet curiosity; would she make it this time?
she knew what followed had been at her door too many times before
her will was strong as she looked back at her adversary and continued
she reached the top upon a clearing just as darkness filled the sky
beneath a full moon; her heart slowed, a quiet peace fell over her
stars shone brightly tonight and she smiled for the first time in a long time
once lost in a world where she had never belonged, always falling down
she now stood and heard the world call out to her in a different way
and as the wolf howled its mournful cry, she knew it was no longer at her door
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.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
One Shared Moment--By Sheri Stanley--United States
One Shared Moment
(Whispers Dedication)
Whispers, so like a warm embrace
Taking you to another place
Placing a smile upon your face
Giving your soul a certain grace
The pen unites, therefore delights
Inspiring hearts in all it writes
At peaceful sleep in restful nights
In Whispers flows reaching new heights
Through words and rhyme we emerge one
All hopes and dreams under the sun
Rainbow of blends where dreams are spun
For one shared moment peace is won
(Editors note--Thank you, Sheri, for this lovely dedication and for all your do for the Whispers community.)
Sheri is an artist, song writer and poet. She is also a graphic and digital book illustrator. A citizen of the United States she enjoys golf and music and quiet evenings at home with her much cherished family. Her website is www.poetryandbeyond.net
(Whispers Dedication)
Whispers, so like a warm embrace
Taking you to another place
Placing a smile upon your face
Giving your soul a certain grace
The pen unites, therefore delights
Inspiring hearts in all it writes
At peaceful sleep in restful nights
In Whispers flows reaching new heights
Through words and rhyme we emerge one
All hopes and dreams under the sun
Rainbow of blends where dreams are spun
For one shared moment peace is won
(Editors note--Thank you, Sheri, for this lovely dedication and for all your do for the Whispers community.)
Sheri is an artist, song writer and poet. She is also a graphic and digital book illustrator. A citizen of the United States she enjoys golf and music and quiet evenings at home with her much cherished family. Her website is www.poetryandbeyond.net
Special Feature Collaborative Poem--By James Marshall Goff and Carolyn Devonshire
Butterscotch Moon
By James Marshall Goff and Carolyn Devonshire
My hand
Wet with tears pouring down my face
Reaches out and finds nothing
Empty spaces where familiar voices
Once comforted me
My only hope
Is sleep, where dreams, in sketchy
Re-wind, promise a glimpse of lost
Loved ones, maybe a voice, if fleeting
Even, to soothe me
Those still with me
Look to me for strength, my motor
Memory urging me on, focusing
On the well, deep in my heart,
Cycle renews
Another beloved soul passes
Light they find
But darkness they leave behind
Grief
Hungry monster
Selfishly consumes my life
Devours all glimmers of hope
Leaving me
Destitute on a perilous plane
Mere existence
Not life as it once was
Sanity
Confronting memories, loneliness
Trek on an unbalanced bridge
Connecting life and death
Emotions purged
Shadows of yesterday surround me
Wisdom of loved ones
Permeates my thoughts
Filled
With clear vision, handed down to me
From my ancestors
By James Marshall Goff and Carolyn Devonshire
My hand
Wet with tears pouring down my face
Reaches out and finds nothing
Empty spaces where familiar voices
Once comforted me
My only hope
Is sleep, where dreams, in sketchy
Re-wind, promise a glimpse of lost
Loved ones, maybe a voice, if fleeting
Even, to soothe me
Those still with me
Look to me for strength, my motor
Memory urging me on, focusing
On the well, deep in my heart,
Cycle renews
Another beloved soul passes
Light they find
But darkness they leave behind
Grief
Hungry monster
Selfishly consumes my life
Devours all glimmers of hope
Leaving me
Destitute on a perilous plane
Mere existence
Not life as it once was
Sanity
Confronting memories, loneliness
Trek on an unbalanced bridge
Connecting life and death
Emotions purged
Shadows of yesterday surround me
Wisdom of loved ones
Permeates my thoughts
Filled
With clear vision, handed down to me
From my ancestors
The Violin--By Leokadia Durmaj--Australia
The Violin
Play her like a melody,
Inhale the sweetness
you envisage, breathlessly;
caressing every thought.
Hear the soft whispers
dance within the silence
of your heart and soul,
Awaken the passion,
destined to ignite the fire,
allowing to burn slowly
like glowing embers,
just like the stars above,
Let the dance of love begin.
Leokadia Durmaj is a published writer from Australia.
Play her like a melody,
Inhale the sweetness
you envisage, breathlessly;
caressing every thought.
Hear the soft whispers
dance within the silence
of your heart and soul,
Awaken the passion,
destined to ignite the fire,
allowing to burn slowly
like glowing embers,
just like the stars above,
Let the dance of love begin.
Leokadia Durmaj is a published writer from Australia.
Friday, May 2, 2014
Procrastination--By Charlene McCutcheon--United States
Procrastination
A
habit
born of doubt
or perhaps fear,
procrastination,
has dire consequences.
Persistent, nagging feelings
of worry and anxiety build,
because progression has come to a halt.
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.
A
habit
born of doubt
or perhaps fear,
procrastination,
has dire consequences.
Persistent, nagging feelings
of worry and anxiety build,
because progression has come to a halt.
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.
I Recall--By Tim Ryerson--United States
I Recall
I recall a filthy sidewalk
running in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white oak
Meandering down to the levee
with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
Barefoot in careless summers
I recall one low spot
beneath a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
Shuffling through and digging down
burying our toes
Often now I recall
when the heavens are shrouded in grief
when darkness closes at the edge of vision
I recall a porch light flicking on in the distance
I recall grandma’s trembling soprano calling
calling me back home….
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.”
I recall a filthy sidewalk
running in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white oak
Meandering down to the levee
with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
Barefoot in careless summers
I recall one low spot
beneath a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
Shuffling through and digging down
burying our toes
Often now I recall
when the heavens are shrouded in grief
when darkness closes at the edge of vision
I recall a porch light flicking on in the distance
I recall grandma’s trembling soprano calling
calling me back home….
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.”
Thursday, May 1, 2014
Ranu in her Sandals--By Ranu Uniyal--India
Ranu in her Sandals
I prefer my sandals without any heels
For me there is no signing of deals
Tripping and Falling I cannot afford
O my feet! look at them - they are so bored
Walk and run I do it all in sandals
High heels and boots are stacked in bundles.
Come and pick them if you need
My feet long for a different breed...
Editor’s Note--Inspired by “Ode to the Unwalkables” By Jack Horne, Sandra Stefanowich and Carolyn Devonshire--Published at Whispers 4/4/2014
Ranu Uniyal lives in Lucknow, India. Poetry keeps her going and is as much a part of her life as her love for humanity. She is a Professor of English at Lucknow University. She has two books of poems: Across the Divide and December Poems to her credit.
I prefer my sandals without any heels
For me there is no signing of deals
Tripping and Falling I cannot afford
O my feet! look at them - they are so bored
Walk and run I do it all in sandals
High heels and boots are stacked in bundles.
Come and pick them if you need
My feet long for a different breed...
Editor’s Note--Inspired by “Ode to the Unwalkables” By Jack Horne, Sandra Stefanowich and Carolyn Devonshire--Published at Whispers 4/4/2014
Ranu Uniyal lives in Lucknow, India. Poetry keeps her going and is as much a part of her life as her love for humanity. She is a Professor of English at Lucknow University. She has two books of poems: Across the Divide and December Poems to her credit.
Last Goodbyes--By Joe Flach--United States
Last Goodbyes
(In memory of the victims from Newtown, CT - 12/14/2012)
Nobody knew it would be their last goodbye
On a day not unlike many others
The sun still ascending into the sky
Waving goodbye to their fathers and mothers
No warning to give a prolonged hug
Or to repeat, “I love you” again
No reason to put aside the coffee mug
To kiss them as the day did begin
Nobody knew of the tragedy just hours away
And the thin ice upon which we walk
The torment of wondering if your child is okay
The breaking of a parent’s heart
Watching parent and child reunited
While others still stand there alone
Feeling guilty to be so excited
That your child will be coming home
Twenty plus angels ascended to heaven
On the river of a nation’s tears
Be thankful for every day you are given
To hug your children throughout the years
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.
(In memory of the victims from Newtown, CT - 12/14/2012)
Nobody knew it would be their last goodbye
On a day not unlike many others
The sun still ascending into the sky
Waving goodbye to their fathers and mothers
No warning to give a prolonged hug
Or to repeat, “I love you” again
No reason to put aside the coffee mug
To kiss them as the day did begin
Nobody knew of the tragedy just hours away
And the thin ice upon which we walk
The torment of wondering if your child is okay
The breaking of a parent’s heart
Watching parent and child reunited
While others still stand there alone
Feeling guilty to be so excited
That your child will be coming home
Twenty plus angels ascended to heaven
On the river of a nation’s tears
Be thankful for every day you are given
To hug your children throughout the years
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.
MAY ANNOUNCEMENTS/PUBLICATION OPPORTUNITIES
NEW CONTRIBUTORS IN APRIL
Russel Sivey--United States
Rita Odeh--Israel
Shloka Shankar--India
Asni Amin--Singapore
Archana Kapoor Nagpal--India
Jim Teeters--United States
Please welcome them to our community. We now have representatives from the following countries--Australia, Botswana, Canada, Canary Islands, England, France, Germany, India, Israel, Malawi, New Zealand, Nigeria, Philippines, Portugal, Saudi Arabia, Singapore, Turkey, United Kingdom, United States and Wales. I look forward to expanding this list in the future. Thank you to everyone that has supported Whispers in any way. --Sincerely, Karen
We have a world wide audience. If you are currently reading Whispers, please consider submitting a poem for consideration. You may contact Karen at gksm@cableone.net for guidelines. Thank you.
Note--Ads due for June column by May 25
ANNOUNCEMENTS
Lisa DeVinney has a website for her devotional poetry called Lifting My Eyes, at liftingmyeyes.com
Sheri Stanley has opened a new web site and invites you to visit at: www.poetryandbeyond.net Please leave comments and visit often.
Rhoda Galgiani released Expressions From the Inside Out, a book of poetry in 2011. Rhoda's second book is a child's story entitled No Snow for Johnny in 2012. Both books are published by APF Publisher. They have received good reviews and is available online at lulu.com and amazon.com (search book titles or author's name at the appropriate website) or contact Rhoda at: chesakat@verizon.net
Carolyn Devonshire, Sandra Stefanowich and Jack Horne announce the release of their collaboration poetry book, Shades of Darkness and Light. This book is currently available from eTreasuresPublishing.com, price $2.50 http://jmhorneghosthunt.blogspot.com/
Jack Horne announces the release of his debut novel, A Ghost Hunt: a paranormal romance. This book is currently available from eTreasuresPublishing.com, price $3.99
http://jmhorneghosthunt.blogspot.com/
Karen O’Leary released Whispers, her first book of poetry in 2011, published by APF Publisher. It has been getting good reviews and is available at online at www.lulu.com (Search Whispers under Karen O'Leary) or contact Karen at gksm@cableone.net
John W. (Bill) Williams published a science fiction book that he also illustrated called The Dream Hill. To order copies from Xlibris Company call 1-888-795-4274 or go to www.Xlibris.com The website provides sample pages of the book for interested readers.
PUBLICATION/CONTEST OPPORTUNITIES
Please consider supporting The Pen, The Jokester, and Creative Inspirations by sending stamps or other small donations to help with postage. Thank you for considering this. ---Karen
Jean Calkins, editor: The Jokester, 2 pages of clean jokes free by email monthly, a forever stamp by snail mail (monthly or quarterly). Help bring smiles to shut-ins by contributing forever stamps. Even one stamp helps. Jean Calkins, 260 4th St., Waynesville, NC 28786-3762. jcalkins01@charter.net
Maurice J. Reynolds, the editor of the poetry publication Creative Inspirations, is seeking poetry 20 lines or less for his print magazine. Complete guidelines are available at www.tgbtgpublictions.com Stamps or cash donations would be appreciated to help with mailing costs.
Arthur C. Ford, poet/editor of The Pen (Poetry Newsletter) is looking for new subscribers and submissions. See information at:www.thepoetbandcompany.yolasite.com
(click on guidelines).
Whispers is always looking for new writers to join our community. Please send family friendly poems 20 lines or less to gksm@cableone.net Complete guidelines posted 1/21/2013. Thank you to everyone who has already contributed to the site.
Ads are placed by the underlined names. Whispers has not verified the accuracy of all the information.
Russel Sivey--United States
Rita Odeh--Israel
Shloka Shankar--India
Asni Amin--Singapore
Archana Kapoor Nagpal--India
Jim Teeters--United States
Please welcome them to our community. We now have representatives from the following countries--Australia, Botswana, Canada, Canary Islands, England, France, Germany, India, Israel, Malawi, New Zealand, Nigeria, Philippines, Portugal, Saudi Arabia, Singapore, Turkey, United Kingdom, United States and Wales. I look forward to expanding this list in the future. Thank you to everyone that has supported Whispers in any way. --Sincerely, Karen
We have a world wide audience. If you are currently reading Whispers, please consider submitting a poem for consideration. You may contact Karen at gksm@cableone.net for guidelines. Thank you.
Note--Ads due for June column by May 25
ANNOUNCEMENTS
Lisa DeVinney has a website for her devotional poetry called Lifting My Eyes, at liftingmyeyes.com
Sheri Stanley has opened a new web site and invites you to visit at: www.poetryandbeyond.net Please leave comments and visit often.
Rhoda Galgiani released Expressions From the Inside Out, a book of poetry in 2011. Rhoda's second book is a child's story entitled No Snow for Johnny in 2012. Both books are published by APF Publisher. They have received good reviews and is available online at lulu.com and amazon.com (search book titles or author's name at the appropriate website) or contact Rhoda at: chesakat@verizon.net
Carolyn Devonshire, Sandra Stefanowich and Jack Horne announce the release of their collaboration poetry book, Shades of Darkness and Light. This book is currently available from eTreasuresPublishing.com, price $2.50 http://jmhorneghosthunt.blogspot.com/
Jack Horne announces the release of his debut novel, A Ghost Hunt: a paranormal romance. This book is currently available from eTreasuresPublishing.com, price $3.99
http://jmhorneghosthunt.blogspot.com/
Karen O’Leary released Whispers, her first book of poetry in 2011, published by APF Publisher. It has been getting good reviews and is available at online at www.lulu.com (Search Whispers under Karen O'Leary) or contact Karen at gksm@cableone.net
John W. (Bill) Williams published a science fiction book that he also illustrated called The Dream Hill. To order copies from Xlibris Company call 1-888-795-4274 or go to www.Xlibris.com The website provides sample pages of the book for interested readers.
PUBLICATION/CONTEST OPPORTUNITIES
Please consider supporting The Pen, The Jokester, and Creative Inspirations by sending stamps or other small donations to help with postage. Thank you for considering this. ---Karen
Jean Calkins, editor: The Jokester, 2 pages of clean jokes free by email monthly, a forever stamp by snail mail (monthly or quarterly). Help bring smiles to shut-ins by contributing forever stamps. Even one stamp helps. Jean Calkins, 260 4th St., Waynesville, NC 28786-3762. jcalkins01@charter.net
Maurice J. Reynolds, the editor of the poetry publication Creative Inspirations, is seeking poetry 20 lines or less for his print magazine. Complete guidelines are available at www.tgbtgpublictions.com Stamps or cash donations would be appreciated to help with mailing costs.
Arthur C. Ford, poet/editor of The Pen (Poetry Newsletter) is looking for new subscribers and submissions. See information at:www.thepoetbandcompany.yolasite.com
(click on guidelines).
Whispers is always looking for new writers to join our community. Please send family friendly poems 20 lines or less to gksm@cableone.net Complete guidelines posted 1/21/2013. Thank you to everyone who has already contributed to the site.
Ads are placed by the underlined names. Whispers has not verified the accuracy of all the information.
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