Wednesday, 17 August 2016

The First Hint of Summer

The first hint of summer
came when I looked into
your eyes.
I saw the sorrow
among briars and
smiles among lilies.
Frozen were your feelings
but, with the sun's rays
shining, I saw the
thaw begin.

Mary Bone
Wilson, Oklahoma,

mdbone@cebridge.net 

Monday, 15 August 2016

Translate

One side of the page
travels to the other
joining words to worlds 
pages of syllables

The characters of one
language mingle with another
children playing in the yard 

Cultures meet at the table
dancing for understanding.



JD DeHart
Tennessee,
US 

Saturday, 16 July 2016

A Traveling Salesman

This traveling salesman 
has worn out six vans 
in 40 years and he
hopes to retire soon.

Age and illness 
are growing concerns
and there isn’t a pill 
for everything.

Every 20 miles or so
he has to stop for 
a rest room, usually 
at a gas station.

Then one day he sees 
a highway billboard 
that promises help.
He dials the 800 number 

on his cell phone
and a machine answers:
“Incontinence Hotline.
Can you hold?”


Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net 

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, US and has had poems published in Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa 

Friday, 3 June 2016

Wandering Eye

An image of floating eye
taking in the scenery,
and I seeing the eye

makes me wonder about
the time when my sight
will dim, when my mind

will no longer solve
puzzles, a bare bulb
snapped brittle in two.



Alan Inman
New York, NY 

Tuesday, 24 May 2016

Ripened

There is a time
to plant, wise people know,
a time to tend.
My fingers never took 
to moving earth, opting
instead for convenience.
My generation is the one
of the mail-order catalog.
But nature has moods,
starlight movements, a song
I sometimes pretend to hum.

J Ash Gamble
Ft Myers, 
Florida, US

Tuesday, 17 May 2016

Went Back

I went back twelve
times, once for each
disciple, once for each
meditation
No time was the same 
for I found I had outgrown
the place of my growing
Old jokes were no longer
humorous, old wounds
itching over with healing,
even some old memories
fading from me.



Kaitlyn Park
Salem, 
Oregon, US

Monday, 9 May 2016

Gist

Wise old professors
ask me for the point
I'm getting to

I have loved populations
on pages, voices
tucked in verses

I have loved learning
about assonance and
Rosenblatt, all the spaces
between reader and text

The point I'm getting
to is I love the way
my son crawls off a page
into reality, how he squirms
with actual delight

Escape into my fiction
is delightful
but the real sounds echoing
around me are the true
gist of my creative life.


Hannah Scarlet
Valdosta,
Georgia, US