Kassie Runyan

United States


grown girl running down

the slick sidewalk

laughing as the rain

drenches her hair

and soaks through

her thin jacket

yellow rainboot

splashing down into

a deep puddle

causing a wave

cascading down the side

of the street

pushing the paper boat

followed by the

giggling boy

his boots matching

the ones she wears

hers now gone around the block

running towards home

still laughing at the sky

as the boy keeps splashing

in the city rivers

flowing from one corner

to another

and he imagines himself

captain of his boat

as it soars into

the unknown

and the raindrops

splatter his face



Mel Haagman

United Kingdom

The smell of coffee roasting,
The sun shining bright,
The notion of acceptance
And it’s going to be alright.
The hard-work paying off,
Seeing friends succeed,
And the true joy you acquire
From a satisfying read. 
Learning from mistakes,
And truly laughing hard,
Being the authentic you
And letting down your guard.
Dancing in the kitchen,
And running for no reason, 
Dressing for the autumn, 
Cause, that’s my favourite season.
Not having to explain yourself,
But communicating with a look,
And know you made your point,
An expression’s all it took.
Playing tennis and doing well,
When the ball is in full swing,
Knowing that in this time,
The brain won’t fear a thing. 
Writing all the poetry,
Offloading inner chat,
These are my favourite things
And I’ll leave it as that.



Linda M. Crate

United States


one of my favorite things

is the memory of my 

best friend telling me that 

she loved the way my face lit

up when i talked about

the things i loved and was passionate


or when she told me that i was

so pretty that she wanted

to take a picture;

everyone talks about grand gestures

but it is really the little things

forgotten and buried 

in the subconscious that bring me

the most joy—

because sometimes it's not about who

can move mountains,

sometimes it is who will bring you 

an umbrella when you are caught in the rain.



Janette Ostle

United Kingdom


Rag doll

homemade, handmade.

A book of nursery rhymes

dog-eared and faded. Building blocks

paint chipped.

One bear

well loved, tin cars,

bent jigsaws, a train set,

tissue papered in the toy box,

lid closed.



Antoni Ooto

United States


Do you still watch the door?

After all this emptier time

what should we make of our days together.

I don’t know why it is

me staying, you going.

We had the same gate in our step,

mine, a chronic shamble,

yours, with a confident plumy tail.

And we teamed in the woods

where, around the burn barrel

you guarded with one eye open,

dozing, content.

Yes, content, both of us.


As seasons change, the days shorten.

Let this morning bring what it will.

I’m going for a walk now.

Your leash is still handy.

I get used to changes.

Published by The Poet Magazine / Summer 2021



(by D’oh-Raymese)

Ken Gosse

United States


Doughnuts are my favorite food;

raging pleasure and delight.

Me? I’m always in the mood,

fondly eating, day and night.

Solace with each bite I chew;

lots for me and none for you;

teeny crumbs—here, have a few!

Now it’s time to eat more dough, dough, dough,

d’oh Nuts! It’s all gone!



Helen Aitchison


A warmth in my hands, a sigh of contentment, I’m mesmerized by your sight.

A gentle blow to cool, my senses soaring, holding on, embracing tight.

Will I dip a biscuit or two, a digestive, a bourbon, a tasty ginger snap.

Maybe half the packet will get consumed, as the saucer rests on my lap.

Your wonderful colour, just the right shade, milked to the perfect degree.

A hug in a mug, the answer to all, heaven in a cup to me.

“Fancy a cuppa”? “Time for a brew”? “Shall I put the kettle on”?

Always a good time, for a cup of tea, night through to early morn.

One of life’s pleasures, a way to show you care, a hot soothing liquid gold.

Makes a bad day better, a morning brighter, a warm cuddle in the cold.

My favourite thing, an everyday must, a delicious cup of tea.

How do you take it? I’d love to know. No sugar, just milk for me!



Judy DeCroce

United States


there then, there always 

baking under a faithful mountain sun

like that old tent shouldered on the hill

Sitting Rock, Elephant Rock,

Whale Rock, named before I was young

for more years than known—

gentle boulders unchanged

surging rapids, high summer,

jumping rocks - chancy footholds

still humming in high summer

and scent of pine needles 

there always

there now

each and all

a seasoned adult now too careful

a teen’s first crush,

and still there at eight



Mihaela Melnic



Your saxophone is long gone, sold, never forgotten though 

your lips are still here, but they are dry

like a forbidden kiss
given beyond the tomb.

A sinuous piece of brass will always be
your favorite, I can see it in the corner of your mouth,

no matter how much a woman throbs with love for you
she's not That Thing that makes you really breathe...

The beast you gave yourself to 
stripped off your personality

and now you stagger in a tormented maze of memories
seeking for proofs
that once you were alive.



Linds Sanders

United States


Branded with the mark of downsizing 

(I remember pressing each seed underground.)

and what was sold to grow to fit to sink to away.

Who owns the sentimentality I traded for cash.

Silver webs tie the trees together in chaos,

(I imagined dying easier than creating older versions.)

seen by the sun, weight shifted back and forth:

glinting, glinting, gone. Broken through and spit out.

Sitting in the company of mayflies ,

(I divided with the water across three oceans.)

transparent wings and upturned tails, 

clear and symmetric seemingly without effort.

A daughter to paint with, another for company.

(I wanted two kids when they weren’t real.)

It’s remarkable I own two pairs of scissors

when I only need one. 

Snorkel mask pulling my upper lip taunt

(I search for those pieces I lent to the rivers)

swallowed like breadcrumbs broken in the water 

by tourists wanting color plated fish to need them.

Do you remember where you went?

(I note what to ask my dying self.)

Did your warm-blood survive off learnership?

Will you come back? 

Blown across the street, king tided on shore, 

(I navigate past and through and towards.)

parked in front of a gate, asked to move,

everywhere is home without being home.



Kathy Jo Bryant

United States

There are certain things

I love the best

My favourite things

Above the rest


Writing about

My favourite things

Just tickles my heart

So it truly sings


Family is awesome

So I love to know

Lots more about them

As research can show


Sewing and quilting

Are really a blast

Just make sure your fabric

Is colorfast


Poetry is awesome

Poetry is grand

Really, only a poet

Can best understand!



Neal Whitman

United States

If my pencil

had an odometer

it would return to 0

after a million words


had a GPS

it would find

the Coast of Bohemia

had a tire pressure gauge

it would blink

when there is a low leak

If my pencil

had a 1962 Alfa engine

it would need to be filled

with high octane lead

  had standard transmission

it would be able 

to switch gears

had cruise control   

it would be able 

to pick up the pace

if my pencil

had a DMV manual

it would qualify

for a poetic license

had an owner’s manual

it would specify 

its parts of speech

had a jack and air pump

it would fix

flat prose  


If my pencil

had a trunk

it would have a place

for indefinite articles

had a car radio

it would play a Greek lyric

on a classical station

had signal lights

it would never

make a wrong write turn

If my poem

had power brakes

it would know

when to stop

it is completed

and closed

like the day

a favorite thing

 my Pernambuco pencil

 is now put away



Mark Hudson

United States

I don’t particularly ever prefer

one color to another, but I can assure,

a great printmaker like Albrecht Durer

created prints with colors much purer.

Colors are something to open the mind,

you’d miss that all if you were struck blind.

A color is not a reason to condemn,

colors not us, and colors not them.

When my nephew was quite young,

he made a comment, the laughter stung.

“My favorite color is pink!” he said.

His classmates laughed, was his face red?

Is pink really the color of girls?

Not every time, do pigs have pearls?

“Do not cast your pearls before swine,”

What kind of saying is that to define?

Colors leap out at us from every angle,

look around you, things start to dangle.

So many colors to see with your eyes,

but you don’t think anything a surprise.

Films used to be black and white,

but Technicolor made it more bright.

In those days movies had a good plot,

nowadays, sometimes just not.

As a painter, the color scheme I use,

may not be perfect, it’s bound to confuse.

But if the sky outside shows a tint of blue,

then that’s a good reason to love the view.



Martina Robles Gallegos

United States


My garden is small but full of life.

Besides the weeds I pull out each day,

I get to watch hummingbirds and butterflies 

feed from my flowers, milkweed, and zapote leaves.

I enjoy watching the small off-white butterfly 

my cat tries to catch, or the big monarch 

she actually did catch, and I rescued.

I sit under my guava tree and wait for the hummingbirds,

and when they arrive, click, click, its picture time,

and I know they’ll be back in fifteen minutes.

And while I wait for the hummingbirds, I snap

pictures of bumblebees that feed on the magenta 


And when neither the hummingbirds nor bees are 

around, I go after the tiny butterflies my cat scans 

and tries to catch but misses. 

And when no creatures make their presence,

I snap pictures of different kinds of leaves,

front and back to see the different designs.

And because at times I get bored, I go weed 

my front yard because weeding relaxes me.

And I avoid going inside the house at all costs,

because nothing else is more relaxing or enjoyable 

than being around green or colorful things.



Don Edwards

United States


I was there when the forest floor glowed like vigor —

Its brilliance a mystic change from dull to bright — 

A chance discovery where no thing was altered but all was born in light —

Not a moon’s reflected glow but a spark emanating from within —

A cool but constant effulgence that turned the mundane to delight.

I can’t forget the angelic brightness within the night’s dark curtained scene. 

Green eyes blazing as forest floor cast shadows into the gloom,

The untouchable thing that turns the unnoticed to fascinating and unique —

A new thing not to be ignored full of a timely brief magic 

That is freely given — then as quickly removed.  

To have that yet again would be my greatest thrill. 

But then this life ends — Its attraction disappears. 

The darkness resumes as the excitement clears.  

All fades along with the glow — Its fire extinguished — 

Its life complete although the bodies remain. 

The daylight replaces the mystic spark, overpowers the delicate incandescent blush.  

Like life itself, special and delicate and brief only there for a moment then cooled and dark, Gone as a memory with nostalgic longing — Fairies luminescence — A cool and fiery bliss no more. 



Ranjeeta Prajapati 


I miss you 

I miss you 

I miss you my dear super Mom 

Miss your selfless love and goofy songs 

The unconditional and unique bond 

For me you are A lady with magic wand 


High toned , diligent, couther  July born

Who performed every task with great aplomb 

You are the backbone and my pillar of strength 

A lady at times cool 

At times a bomb


Whenever I was down  with no hope

You were there with your encouraging words and support 

It's you who gave me the strength to get back on my feet 

Those precious memories I cannot delete. 


Though today you are not alive 

Your actions and words I have kept in my hearts archive 

Your blessings and your positive vibes

Are enough for my life to thrive.


God on earth mom 

My life line



Colin Butcher

United Kingdom

Ball kicking, flower picking, kite flying, laces tying, rounders batting, racket smacking, race running, tunes humming, hill rolling, cricket bowling, sea swimming, jokes grinning, roller blade skating, new friends making, bike speeding, knees bleeding, over the top, no time to stop, your lunch eaten early, a huge Curly Wurly, wagon wheels, Vesta meals, trips to the zoo, an advert that’s new, chomping cucumber, cars like a Humber, Vauxhalls and Fords, Holidays abroad. Golden beaches in Spain, an old steam train. Days at Clacton, last tram to Acton, Museums and sites, the Christmas lights. Santa’s sack, playing right back, eating your dinner, never getting thinner. Skin on rice pudding, Coats with a hood in, cold days at school, the itchy feel of wool. Your nan’s knitted jumper, Bambi and Thumper. Airfix models, doing it’s a doddle. Sticky gluey hands, elastic bands. Black and White films, old brick kilns. Days out in Kent, the smell of wet cement. Doing a bunk, caught there’s a thump. That first cigarette, your fluffy little pet. In the woods after dark, a kiss for a lark. A first sip of cider, your best girl beside yer. 


All gone now, but never forgotten, an endless showreel in the privacy of your head.



Anila Arun Pillai

Unaware I laid 

Perhaps longer than longed

Purpose unknown 

Trifles kept along.


Flowers smiling and delighting,

Kept aloof.

Wind that soothe,

Seldom graced for long.

Forlorn was owned.


With life in me,

Started seeing 

Those known unknowns

Wondered why feel wondrous than remorse!


Shunned were the deep tight upheld grief.

Started loving two beats kicking within.

Drizzles never sound so cadence.

Flowers never had made fell such delight.


Full circle of my life achieved or not

Know not.

Life started been worth living and precious.

Waited for life with each awakening.


Children the greatest joy 

I sensed and imbibed.

Learned and preached myself too,

That I needed to be with them without expecting them to be another me.


They added light, colours and cheer

With them I lived the way life had to be lived.

With them I grow and thank life.

They gave purpose with sorrow and joy, 

Equally I accord with feelings such.


There jumping with joy for jelly

My hiding tricks when need to travel 

There bursting out on my very presence 

My cuddling them whenever I feel

They’re surprising me usually with the same bake

My delight to share for hours when they sleep

Each and every moment I feel graced 

What more would I wish than to keep them health and blessed.



Keabetswe Qobolo

Lesego Mahlakwane

South Africa


The rhythmic sounds of birds 

That hums through the woods 

To heal all scars and wounds 

With its sweet and gentle melody 


That wipes a woman's tears 

And washes away all the fears 

As it never goes moody, 

It hums all day on its feet 

And never tires nor go to sleep 


It hums all day proudly

And no one gets tired of its sound 

And crys all day so loudly 

While every note has its boundary 


And to heal it is bound 

As it hums with its gentle healing sound 

I'm surely bound to heal all wounds 

And it's sound is full of magical breve 


While humming aloft a beautiful rowan 

Every sound is one of a kind 

And still continues to blow my mind 




Lisa Keeton

United States


The red of our barn was only the color of a building.

There were no losses to count on my fingers, only

mother's growing belly and then you came out.

One was for the view of corn top rows from father's shoulders.

Two was for little girls who dance pigtails and romp bottoms

and the sizzle of fish pop popping the fry pan every Sunday.

Three was whistling into blades of grass to bent air sing.

Four was for lemonade ice cubes swirling mother's tea.

Five was the crackle of marshmallows
in the fire and scary stories being just that.

What I remember most is that 

the door to your bedroom was

the door to mine.


*The final three lines are borrowed from "I Remember" by Anne Sexton



Zaneta Varnado Johns

United States


This is our season

our summer in the midst of winter

where we shed our coats, our boots

We leave behind the joyful chaos

of family and friends

We shed the stress

of everyday life

We steal away to our happy place

of paradise

We arouse years of memories

our minds free, schedule clear

ready to create this season's story.

Do you remember that couple

the elders we admired in '97? 

We are they!

From the restaurant's lanai

we watched as they walked

hand in hand

Their stride as one

moving in blissful unison

down that tourist filled 

sidewalk in Kona

Perhaps returning from dinner

or strolling for exercise

I imagined they were residents

fortunate to live there

In that moment

I claimed that sidewalk for us.


Twenty-four years later

we are that charming couple

walking hand in hand

claiming sidewalks wherever we go

We long for that sidewalk today

in Kona or Kihei, Kapaa or Princeville

We long for days without structure

no boundaries or stress

Only joy with time devoted only 

to us, that elderly couple in Kona

Occasionally we part

only to enhance 

our savored time together.

Hours and hours of favored music

songs repeated and songs anew

Our wondrous day rides

enthralled with island splendor

Our bewitching nights

enthralled in glory—ours

Sunrise awaits with roosters crowing

tropical birds serenade our walks 

fragrant flowers, brides, and grooms

lava flows and tropical mist

We're seduced by the ocean

enticed by waterfalls 

intrigued by rainbows

mesmerized by sunsets

radiant and golden, just like us.

What we need this year

is imagination

to encounter the pleasures 

of that sidewalk in Kona

Here we are

better . . . wiser . . . cautious 

held captive by winter 

with willful summer mindsets

Still laughing

Still loving

Still holding hands

Still hearing that music

Still seeking rainbows

Still enjoying our sunsets

Still together

Because you loved me

in stereo

with both your heart and mind!   



Hilary McRee Flanery

United States


A man's best friend

If you please

Is not a dog

But cheddar cheese.


A cheese whose taste               

Runs sharp or mellow

Why cheese with beer

Can help a fellow


And make him look

Like a handsome hunk

When he passes some

To a girl that's drunk


In the local pub

If truth be told

When the girls get silly

Then cheese is gold


Where drafts of beer

Make you look better

As she gulps them down

With a side of cheddar!



Julie A. Dickson

United States


Feathers etched across blue sky
Air cool with promise of Autumn
Violets and purple iris, vibrant view
Orion’s Belt on a starry night
Red Rocks in Arizona desert
Ice cream dripping down my hand
Tears shed during romantic film
Elephants wild in a herd
Torrential rain-washing pollen away
Holding hands walking a path
Infinite piles of books
Nobody going hungry
Grandmother’s cherry pie
Silence of early morning



Susi Bocks


lazy sunday mornings
cuddles with flannel
and flesh
sly smiles
with closed eyes
and tousled about hair

where the toes
say hello
and reconnect
but the brain
hasn’t quite

giving in
to an abandoning
after six days of being on
succumbing to a fluid
unscheduled, unhurried
relaxed funk



Daya Jaggers

United States

the roses
sit in glory
with no way
to touch
with no arm
for reaching
and yet
touch they
their fragrance
envelops me
the most
enticing aroma
reaches depths
of my soul
i’ve forgotten
in their
still beauty
i am
filled with a
radiant feeling
we have
touched before



Nicolette Soulia

United States




These are a few of my favorite things…

You know, my birthday is in September.

Falls in the season of falling leaves, 

crunching under my feet 

after they’ve lost their green of 

spring youth and 

hope without abandon.

Falls in the season of apples 

ripe off the tree, 

collected in a wooden basket 

and made into a thousand different concoctions 

that involve slicing, 



and - somewhere along the way - adding 

so much sugar 

that we forget the tang 

that comes with consuming something with 


Falls under the boiling sap steam 

sent wafting into the air 

from the maple barn of the 

Vermont State Fair back when 

there actually was a fair to go to and 

plenty of cows and goats 

to feed all the grass and oats to. 

Two words: Hoodie Season.

…If you know, you know. 

September is the month where 

it’s still warm enough 

to forget that winter in Vermont fucking sucks 

and that I hate shoveling snow 

but cool enough to 

warrant the 

campfire AND a blanket 

to help the beer along in warming my body 

once I can see my breath after dark. 

September…used to be quiet. 

The quiet of starry nights with only cricket chirps to accompany them, 

of children sent to bed early because school nights 

are back to being a thing parents can use to get their adult time, 

of staying in to read a book because there aren’t five different BBQs 

I’m obligated to attend…


once upon a time, 

the quiet of not having war, politics, and xenophobia 

gift-wrapped in the American flag and 

left on my doorstep as my 

first and most persistent present come 

the morning of my birthday.

Eleven is no longer my favorite day.

La-didi-dada, first-world problems

to bitch about birthdays when thousands of others 

no longer have them.

Which is precisely why I celebrate, 

don’t you get the insult in refusing them?

I’m not sorry for the day I was born. 

I’m ALIVE - and that’s how I can honor them. 

And you will see me plug my fingers into my ears, 

sing la-di-da-lala over my nation’s tears, 

but make no mistake, 

for it has nothing to do with guilt, 

or shame, 

or pity on my name 

for having to feel happy on the day when 

others can only blame 

the languages they can’t speak 

or the faces they can’t tame 

with the values of my ancestors in the quest 

to conquer their lands. 

Make NO mistake, 

I don’t want to hear of it, 

but it’s not because I can’t handle the truth 

because the truth is that humanity’s evils 

will always fall before reaching 

past the la-di-da’s when there are 

still so many things to save me.

I plug my ears to the nationalism that 

threatens my ability to live gratefully. 



Koyel Mitra



To spice up my monotonous life,

to escape from the humdrum routine work

I flee to various garths

with  verdure, plants bearing luscious fruits

and freshly blossomed flowers.

Then I pick a piece of paper

and pen down my unsaid words,

my hidden bruises and bleeding wounds.

Sometimes what I write reaches

some deaf ears: I make them listen

to their voices of conscience.

Sometimes my poems reach blind eyes:

I make them see the naked truths

of oppression and tyranny in this world.

Sometimes my words soothe tormented

souls, or even bring smiles

in their faces, or suppress a tear.

I love to empathize with people

in their joys and sorrows

and speak for them with my pen.



Nolo Segundo

United States

I took a book out of the library,

Where it had stood amongst 

Its brethren for 25 years, unused,

unborrowed—I know this because 

Its pages were crisp, never bent

By a greedy reader, and were yellow

From time’s effect, a drug that 

Ages books as it does readers….

Someday I guess all books, both

The virgins and the overly used,

Even abused, will be no more: all

Replaced by sterile zeros & ones,

And my future self will never again 

Have the soft pleasure of turning

Crisp pages and feeling tangible

The words of a stranger’s mind.



Sonia Pal

United Kingdom


Literacy and Numeracy

     Cake and candy


Toys and presents

Teachers and friends


Lunchbreaks with play mates

Sleep overs  and    Play dates 


Colouring and rhymes 

Prayers and lullabies


Bonnet hats,Santa and snowman

On Easter and Christmas Fam-jams


Daddy, Mummy, 

Naana ,Naani,

Uncles, aunties 



Mike Ball

United States


My mother called me at work to say, 

“Bill is here. He’s taking everything!”

My uncle came to his mother’s last apartment,

to load pickup and station wagon.

His two sisters had triaged and cleaned. 

The trio’s parents were both dead now,

leaving neither castle nor treasure chest.

To the truck went appliances and furniture.

Even tiny inheritances prove grace or greed.

“If you want anything at all, tell us right now.”

I had coveted nothing but could quickly answer,

 “I want her recipe box and the photo box.”

May he have as many fridges as he can use.

I curate a century of faces of family and friends,

and the tin box of hand-written index cards,

each holding one of Mabel’s food moments. 

Bill got the loot. I got the treasure.

We both got what we wanted. 



Pankjuri Sinha



Wow! So many 

Love of friends and family 

And all things that convey it 

Of course, love is not a thing 

But such a deep emotion ! 

Expressed in words, gestures, touch and look! 


In the smile of my mother 

And the said words of my late father! 

The glitter in the eyes of all my pups , 

And in the voices of the kittens in the neighbourhood 

Glistens the moistness of happiness and my favourite things!

And when a stranger begins to endear 

And the body has a new sensation 

Of course, falling in love 

Is the prettiest of feelings 

More fulfilling than watching a flower bloom! 


But till that happens 

There are flowers around! 

Colourful and beautiful 

Charming and graceful 

Symbols and motifs 

But flowers are flowers !

Always and nonetheless!

Taking your hand 

Into the wilderness

Asking so loudly to never be tied in a bouquet!

The wilderness is so dear 

So peaceful, so healing 

So calm, so pretty 

Its my favourite place 

Favourite thing!

Am sure its yours too! 

Nothing like a walk among wild unknown flowers  

Clouds floating, pollen laden breeze, scent of rain on dried soil

River gushing, the cry and call of birds 

The fall of the waterfall

Space enough to bend and sit

Lie down and laugh, without being stalked , 

Space is the dearest of all things!



Brittney Marie

United States




Painting nature is divine. 




Moments we don’t forget. 



Black cats 

Hanging up spooky bats. 




Is what we’re after. 




Please, grant our wishes. 




It’s fun to be a little daring. 


Cheesy pizza 

Meatballs and spaghetti

Let’s toss rainbow confetti! 


Fresh seafood  

Sushi rolls 

Ordering delicious poké bowls 



French fries 

The smell of warm apple pies. 


Cozy sweaters 

Snow days 

Going on winter getaways. 



Palm trees 

Spending time in the Florida Keys.


Fall foliage 


Are each part of my life-maps.  




Are what set my soul free. 



Open heart 

Each day is a brand-new start. 



Faith and wings 

Are the most beautiful things.  



Richa Sharma



In paradise, all lovely things come to be

Shining lights and, perhaps, angels to see

Some people’s ideas of paradise is different

perhaps earthly, irreligious, irreverent

spirituality found in the smile of an urchin

lost cause of mother earth to fight for and win

activism beyond the hapless keyboard

cleaned up space, to declutter and unhoard

smile first thing, every morning, to none

leisure walks in the woods, a stroll, or a run

paintings to draw and projects to try

tears of happiness and buckets to cry

fragrant nights of drizzles and petrichor

cups and cups of endless tea to pour

to wake up in the arms of love

even if my own, that is enough

finding pareidolic solace in the clouds

a lone raft of assurance in a sea of doubts

my mother’s hands cupping my cheek

good hair days and eyebrows on fleek

silly laughter I share with my brood

a novice’s baking or experimental food

Gratitude after a long hard day

These are a few, I daresay

Favourite things are blessings to count

Treasures to be cherished and memories to be found

Keep them close and simplify the wants

The ‘Cans’ don’t challenge as much as the ‘Cants’

Favourite things are relegated to a ‘later time’

Why not ‘now’ is your time to shine?

Come now, give yourself more reasons to smile

Life’s running all this while

That walk in the park, that meeting with friends

That hunger to read which never ends

Own it now, live this life in your favourite things

Tomorrow too late for the delights it brings



Vidya Shankar



I ate the chocolate without sharing it with him. It upset him. I know he was pretending, yet I felt bad about not sharing the chocolate with him. But that was the last piece of chocolate in the fridge. And, it wasn’t such a big piece. Moreover, it was my favourite chocolate. 

“Dear ________, Please find attached the video recitation of my poem for your anthology. Hope it comes up to your expectations. Regards, __________”

I shouldn’t have eaten the chocolate all by myself. Maybe he wasn’t pretending to be angry. I have never known him to make such a fuss about chocolate. He knows I love those sweet treats.

I am not going to think about this anymore. It is making me feel miserable. And it diverts me from this email I have to send out.

We made my recitation video together today. In the little space we have in our cosy, one bedroom apartment, he arranged for me to sit as if in luxury and placed the tripod so cleverly, that the light fell full upon my face without creating shadows. I read my poem like a queen. I had let my long hair down, untied, not in its usual braids. 

After the recording, we sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the finished video. He took my hand in his, snuggled his face in my long tresses and proclaimed he was falling in love with me all over again. 

Little did we know we would quarrel over the chocolate in a while.

Beyond childishness

And seductive philtre cascades

Love's magnificence



Lakshman Bulusu

United States


(On Robert Frost farm in Derry, NH)

Derry farm bears a boy’s will,

as he poetized his experiences on this farm.

It retains its originality along with the verses.

The kitchen with old cups and plates,

The dining table with forks and spoons,

the bedrooms, and more--

each sight of them seems to evoke a verse.

And complementing this,

the ink bottle and beside it the pen with its nib.

Each sight surrounding the farm

seems to capture the light of those days,

of a strolling bard of New Hampshire,

on this farm.

This homestead with its farm,

bordered by a rocky fence,

breathes an air of fragrant yester years,

to immortalize itself as the best memorial,

as ageless as the poet and his poems.


My three-year-old grand-boy, moody from his nap, drags his blanket to the patio, sits down to wake up, watches me watering flowers. Suddenly he jumps up, points, no longer half asleep, “Papa, you’re making magic!”



Carl “Papa” Palmer

United States


garden hose rain

showers flower baskets

spraying pastel prism mists

onto rays of summer sunshine

papa painting rainbows in the sky

papa painting rainbows in the sky

onto rays of summer sunshine

spraying pastel prism mists

showers flower baskets

garden hose rain



Jane Fitzgerald

United States