by Hannah Whitman

I feel the cold embrace
of these sullen shadows
thats all thats left of my reflection.
Reaching out to touch my face
I feel your cheeks are sallow
yet you’re still the picture of perfection

Hannah Whitman is 16 years old. She has loved writing short stories since she can remember, and as she grew, she started writing songs and poetry, also. She loves songs that make her “have to think long and hard” and that she…

by Cynthia Beecher

They switch places
To learn what the other knows

She usually leads
Her arrows ready
The gold dipped tips
Sharp and intuitive

It’s her turn to ride in back

He rides forward
Free to lead her
He can no longer say
I only went along

She never before saw his flowers turning into butterflies
Nor felt the breeze of wings
Never tasted the nectar drops carried by the flower Read the full article »

by Patricia McCaron

Hey, Listen to this.
The poetry of story.
A poet tells a story about stories.
Poetry, gossip and the pursuit of
Pleasure.
Is there any other way?
Now what do you think of me?
You’ve got to stop and be there
for the poem as long as it takes.
Just stand still.
Wherever you are is called here,
and the song goes on.
The time will come when you can
feast on your life.
We sit by the fire…

by Peg Alford Pursell

Even the stars collect in families.
No body is alone in space.
Astral pearls of light -
strings of sisters – glow,
Father the brilliant medallion
marks the mouth of a black hole,
A hydrogen web Mother spins
and weaves her nebulous net,
the Old red ancestors fade
but never defect:
Gravity.
We don’t have the same
laws or attraction,
other more subtle forces
constrain us
in these painful arrangements.
We scatter. Maintain
our distances,
pray to transcend…

by Lucy Simpson

“I am perception and knowledge, uttering a Voice by means of thought. I am the real Voice. I cry out in everyone, and they recognize it (the voice), since a seed dwells in them.”
─ Nag Hammadi Library, Trimorphic Protennoia, translated by John D. Turner

Back in the garden of eden
when leaves were holy
every vein a beatitude

everything was possible
for these monkeys
for these little Hanumans

The light sang beneath the boughs
little fish shadows darting
and god walked in…

“Moon” by Miles Ranno

Lying on damp grass

Orion writes on my heart

Tears sparkle like stars

___________________________________________

Sharon Walling has published a number of editorials and is a member of Christian Writers Guild.

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More Articles by Guest Poet

• I Feel the Cold Embrace – June 29th, 2010
• A Breeze of Wings – June 29th, 2010
• Friday in Novato ~ by Patricia McCaron – March 3rd, 2010
• Families ~ by Peg Alford Pursell – December

…

White winged wonder navigating the celestial cosmos
gathering stardust from dwarfed red stars,
and descending to sprinkle the powers
of inspiration on earth’s artistic population.
A bit of yellow on Van Gogh
before his easel in a hayfield,
green on Hemingway in his emerald hills of Africa,
gold on Isadora Duncan’s toes,
a rainbow mixture on a playwright on Stratford on Avon,
and behind the Great Wall in the courtyard
of Li Po, particles of orange,
then a shade of love’s blue sky
on a poetry dancing…

by Colin James

The smallest of inadequacies
left a taste of salt
and splattered its tangibles
unexpectedly.

Read the full article »

(for Michael)

by Lucy Simpson

If I knew you were light
I would’ve peeled away the layers
to your glorious mouth
many years ago

Read the full article »

I wait for cold, rain drenched week-nights when everyone is inside warming up to each other after work and the streets become as hollow and sad as a drained can of Coca-Cola. I like to wander down to 59W and 44th, to stand, hip cocked in the middle of the intersection, flipping a dripping pink Gerbera daisy lazily at my side. I often simply stand and stare pensively up towards 6th. I like to experience types of love in extreme conditions because my mind has a funny way of making my body feel insulated from the world when…