Archives for posts with tag: Poet

by Lynn White

This is a grey place,
there’s no denying.
Grey slate, grey granite,
grey houses built of both.
And it rains a lot, there’s no denying.
Vertical, or horizontal, or swirling rain
falling greyly from heavy misty clouds.
But when caught by a sunbeam
it makes glistening slides
shimmering across the slate
and falls in bright white tails
or snakes like silver
where the mountains leak it.
And spills heavily over rocks,
its foaming, frothing, yellow ruffed
cascades catching rainbows as they crash
then spitting them back out
in a fine spray of colours.
And now there’s no grey
in the dark blue, black sky
filled with gold and silver twinkles.
No grey at all in this place now,
there’s no denying.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The small town where I live has the reputation of being grey, rainy, and therefore miserable. I have taken this idea and used it to show the positive side of this which reflects how I feel about the place.

IMAGE: “Snowdonia, North Wales” by Andy Astbury. Prints available at

lynn_whiteABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy, and reality. Her poem “A Rose For Gaza” was shortlisted for the Theatre Cloud War Poetry for Today competition in October 2014 and has since been published in the Poetry For Change Anthology by Vending Machine Press. Poems have also recently been included, or are forthcoming, in Harbinger Asylum’s A Moment To Live By anthology, Stacey Savage’s We Are Poetry an Anthology of Love poems, In The World Of Womyn’s She Did It Anyway anthology, the launch issue of Anomalie and Callope and Phizzog among others.

by Rose Mary Boehm

When the dog’s front half disappeared
under a heap of soggy leaves, I kicked
away that mix of rotting vegetable matter
and saw it. Man, I smelled it. It made
curious humming noises and something like
the sound bubbles make when they burst.

Decomposition, they call it. When the dog
had calmed, we just stood there under the giant
ferns. From the nearest kapok hung a termite
nest like a tumorous growth as large as a backpack.

Flesh had again become part of the earth. No CSI
in Amazonia, no cell phone connection, no 911.
Man or beast, who cares.
Just matter to be reabsorbed.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: In the rainforests of the Amazon and its tributaries, nature can’t be controlled. It gives and takes away. Here one understands that death and life will forever be united in their interdependence.

IMAGE: “Rain Forest, Peru” by Aidan Moran. Prints available at


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and a poetry collection published in 2011 in the UK, Tangents, her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in two dozen US poetry reviews as well as some print anthologies, and Diane Lockward’s The Crafty Poet. She won third price in the 2009 Margaret Reid Poetry Contest for Traditional Verse (US), was semi-finalist in the Naugatuck poetry contest 2012/13, and has been a finalist in several GR contests, winning it in October 2014.

by Melanie Dunbar

Four cranes rise at the back of the field,
fly as quarters of one bird,
as a flock of grackles
lands hidden in the grass.
Their wingbeats disturb the air near my neck.
This is my east thirty acres.

Fields border my fields,
in the distance the house I can see from my house is white.
Coming up from behind —
the unpainted back of the barn,

chicken coop and faded green shingles.
Near the road is the shagbark hickory
bare now except for the nuts.
Some guy cleaned out his car at the end of the drive.

The dust and hay sticks to the paste of sunblock
on my arms and face. I am encrusted in hay.
I pull bales off the baler,
stack them on the wagon.

The hay catscratches wherever it touches my skin.
It smells sweet,
meadows and clean sheets,
pillowcases left on the lilac to dry.

The tractor and wagon rock back and forth.
I sway with them,
a cowboy on a horse.
I climb to the top, spread-eagle,
a maharani riding an elephant.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: We live on a working farm. We grow our own corn and hay to feed our cattle. Baling hay is often hot, dusty, and physically exhausting — but there are moments of rest, when I dream. This poem was written after baling in late August. When the wagon was full, I climbed to the top and let my mind wander.

PHOTO: “Michigan Barn” by Melanie Dunbar.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Melanie Dunbar is a Master Gardener who has suddenly taken her writing seriously. She lives in Southwest Michigan with her husband and youngest son and their rooster, Mr. Beautiful. Her poetry is forthcoming in Your Impossible Voice.

Sunset over Tempe Buttes
by Andrea Janelle Dickens

the mystery fireballs pull
back, fail to travel –
splish, splash and dash
on rivers run dry.
under the curtain of red
embers, new fractures
lurk and die in the wake
of ground found troubled,
under the hood of creating
masks extending watchful
as one more midweek
victim slips away.
where are the coyotes that devote
watchful eyes to the movement of
the guilty in a ground rocked with heat?

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The first draft of this poem was created during National Poetry Month, April 2014, as part of the Oulipost project organized by the Found Poetry Review. Oulipo poetry is where mathematics and chance generation meet art. During that month, participating poets were given a number of mathematical or random word-generating prompts based on local newspaper articles. Each of these poems originated in the development of chance using words found in the source texts and then slightly edited into their final form. One of the interesting effects of this project, for me, was the injection of the local and the political into my writing, as well as a tone of judgment or anger. This last in particular fascinated me, since I’d always naively assumed news was at least somewhat impartial, until I began working closely with the language of my local newspapers.

SOURCE: “Sunset over Tempe Buttes”: From various headlines of the Arizona Republic, 9 April, 2014. Print.

IMAGE: “The View” (Sunset, Hayden Mountain, Tempe, Arizona) by Gerry Groeber. Prints available at


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Andrea Janelle Dickens lives in the Sonoran Desert, among the year-round sunshine and saguaro cacti. Her work has appeared in Star 82, cakestreet, Rivet, Ruminate, Caesura, and The Wayfarer, among others. She teaches at Arizona State University, and when she’s not teaching, she’s backpacking in foreign cities, making pottery in her ceramics studio, or tending hives of bees.

by Lynn Tait

I wait for the discovery of a new frontier,
          straight up and flying,
          no war of the worlds,
          anarchy to wither away,
          a perpetual rebirth.

I wait for the Second Coming,
          a revival, sweeping wrath away,
          God’s supper served
          to an army of the meek.

I wait for forests and animals
          to reclaim the earth,
          to destroy all nations
          without killing anybody.

I wait for a planet of lovers and weepers
          to lie down together,
          no axe to grind;
          a happiness reconstructed
          with tv rights lost to music.

I wait for clarity, in a wonderland
          where the darkest tower grows
          new each morning in green fields,
          to strains of unpremeditated poems
          embracing a forever renaissance

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:  My erasure version of “I Am Waiting” is wishful and whimsical, but I managed to keep a social/political slant to the poem. Ferlinghetti’s poem is just as relevant now as it was the then.

IMAGE: “Edna St. Vincent Millay” by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. For more information, visit georgekrevskygallery.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lynn Tait is an award-winning poet and photographer residing in Sarnia, Ontario. Her work has appeared in numerous literary magazines including the Windsor Review, Contemporary Verse 2, Quills Literary Magazine and in over 70 anthologies from Canada and the U.S. She published a chapbook Breaking Away, in 2002 and a book with four other poets, Encompass I, in 2013.

IMAGE: Found poem based on “I Am Waiting” by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

Shloka Shankar

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Shloka Shankar is a freelance writer residing in India. Her work appears in over two dozen international anthologies including The Traversal of Lines, Eastern Voices, The Living Haiku Anthology, Butterfly Dream Anthology, and publications by Paragram, Minor Arcana Press, and Harbinger Asylum, among others. Her poems, erasures, haiku & tanka have appeared in numerous online and print journals. She is also the founder and editor of the literary and arts journal, Sonic Boom.

Waiting for the Moose to Leave
by Connie Wieneke

I am waiting for the moose
all three of them today
to take leave of what’s left of summer
willow wands and rosehips
to polish off the by-now dwarf
mugo pine, to bulldoze a path
through cotoneaster, sedum, and the crimped
remains of red twig dogwood, to hurdle
the falling-down fence
with double-jointed oblivious grace
to do unto our neighbors’ gardens
as moose have done unto ours
unhurried season after
unhurried season.

I am waiting
to develop a strategy
that enviable practice of yogic non-
attachment to the idea of a future
perfection in my yard
to let go
of the superlative
borders and flower beds
unblemished by leaf mold
gopher tunneled tulips, aphid-
infested lupine, hay mice taking up
residence amidst sticky geraniums
and moose
pruning whatever and whenever
they want, waiting
to foster a devil
may care attitude toward
any and all
who make my garden
their own
no matter what I think
I can do about it

IMAGE: “Autumn Glimpse” by Marion Rose. Prints available at


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Connie Wieneke has lived in Wyoming for 30 years. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of journals, including Stand Magazine, Cutbank, Petroglyph, and Whiskey Mountain Magazine. Currently, she is working on a collection of poems about family. Who doesn’t? She received an MFA in creative writing from the University of Montana a long time ago.

      After a line by Laurence Ferlinghetti
by Jennifer Finstrom

When the young man and woman orbit from one
train car to the next on the first warm morning
after the polar vortex, I am waiting
for the daily spell cast by my commute to end.

And when the man pulls the cord above the door
and it opens, stopping the train, he shouts
“Is this what you want?” and tries to throw his
girlfriend out into the air over the elevated

tracks between the Wilson and Sheridan Red Line
stops, and I am not waiting for anything at all.
And when a US marine, who is also on the train,
takes control of the situation, it is still only a few

minutes past 8 a.m., and the sun is still shining.
The police are waiting on the Sheridan platform,
and a nineteen-year-old man has tried and failed
to throw his girlfriend from a moving train.

And I wonder what would have happened if she
had let herself be released into the bright air,
if she would have become a small brown bird
with a splash of red on its breast, and when I step

out of the train, my own identity is waiting to settle
back over me like a cloak of feathers. The snow
is melting into puddles, and I imagine that I see
the planets there, and even though I feel how they

still move, I know that everyone has changed.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I find the lines “and I am waiting / for linnets and planets to fall like rain” in Ferlinghetti’s poem very compelling, and as I was wondering what they might lead to, I found myself revisiting another poem that I had been meaning to write and seeing some elements of confluence between them.

IMAGE: “The Blue Bird” by Marc Chagall (1968).


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jennifer Finstrom teaches in the First-Year Writing Program, tutors in writing, and facilitates a writing group, Writers Guild, at DePaul University. She has been the poetry editor of Eclectica Magazine since October of 2005, and her work appears or is forthcoming in After HoursNEATMidwestern GothicOne Sentence Poems, and Yew Journal, among others. In addition, she has a poem forthcoming in the Silver Birch Press The Great Gatsby Anthology.

Home Coming
by Lynn White

I think that today
will be my home coming day.
The day I’ve been waiting for,
when I’ll come back.
to where I came from.
to here where I belong.
Even though,
I was never here before,
never in this place,
never with this person.
I know I’m home.
I can feel it.
And know I will stay
and that it
and you
will stay
with me.
I must go outside sometimes,
leave sometimes,
of course I must.
But I’m floating free
and I will take it all with me.
It has become
part of my being,
so I can’t move away.
Can’t separate us.
This place and this person,
have engulfed me.
Surrounded me in sweetness
and brought me back
from wherever I was,
Brought me home,
made me complete,
but still free floating,
carrying them with me
It’s the day I’ve been waiting for.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: “Home Coming” plays with ideas around the importance of home, the different meanings attached to it, and what makes somewhere feel like home when the wait to find it is over.

IMAGE: “The Way Home” by Francisc Şirato (1930).


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice, events experienced, and people she has known or imagined.

As when you were here
by Daniel von der Embse

In the house I keep
to remind me of you,
I wait for your return
to bring life back into the room

Your hair never cleaned
from the sink or your scent
lost from the bed, everything suspended
since you went away

On the table, the linens
brought back from Italy
soften the hardness of miles traveled
before we rested here

The front door kept unlocked
for you to enter without a knock,
nothing that could delay you
from rushing back to me

The creak of the hinges pitched
exactly as when you were here,
nothing changed
but the counting of the years

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I love this topic—Waiting! Years ago as a young actor I played Vladimir in Waiting for Godot — a transformative experience. Now, 40 years on, I spend most of my time traveling and waiting in airports. (I blog about it at Waiting defines much of my time, and my revenge is to write as much as I can during that time, often about what I see or experience while I wait.

IMAGE: “Spring: Open Door on the Balcony” by Pyotr Konchalovsky (1948).


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Daniel von der Embse was born and raised in Mansfield, Ohio, and graduated from Ashland University with a Theatre. He began writing poetry after a four-decade career as a copywriter for advertising agencies in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Seattle, San Francisco, and Salt Lake City. His poems appear The Missing Slate, Penny Ante Feud, Across The Margin, Harpoon Review, Decanto, Poetry Pacific, Vending Machine Press, and Poetry Quarterly.