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Poetry lovers, today I am pleased to shine the spotlight on Frank Finney. Frank brings us a clever piece entitled "Pulcinella del Giorno." For context, according to online sources, Pulcinella is a character who is a self-interested opportunist and social climber. Thank you, Frank, for sharing your work with the SHINE international poetry community! Pulcinella del Giorno  Frank William Finney is the author of Birds in a Boneyard (Bainbridge Island Press, 2025), The Folding of the Wings (Finishing Line Press, 2022), and two collections published in Thailand. His poems have appeared widely in international journals including Blood + Honey, Dark Winter Literary Magazine, Four Tulips, and Poetry Habitat. His collections Wormwood Punch (Bridge House Publishing, UK) and Preludes to Lethe (Kelsay Books) are forthcoming.
This Friday we're shining the spotlight on Virginia-based writer, Steve Bucher, with "Scattering Like Leaves" and "Sotto Voce" -- bringing a flash of winter coolness to this hot upstate New York day. Please enjoy! And, thank you, Steve, for sharing your words with SHINE international poetry series! Scattering Like LeavesA scattering of leaves Nut-brown and brittle Skittering briskly in Breeze bucking bursts across Flickers of morning frost Dawn dancing Melodies unheard That wait and wait Whispering winter loss And memory undone Memories once shared A raised glass A moment’s kiss Summer sun glistening Like tears wept Off glaciered peaks Days gone hand in hand Slipping from our grasp A scattering of tears Choked-back and brittle Flickers of morning frost Behind desperate masks Breathless to join The dolent flow Acheron my heart’s grief That waits and waits Whispering like leaves Nut-brown and brittle Whispering like comfort Desperate like masks Taking care Taking care The gentling touch Slipping from our grasp A loving blush from Winter’s waning sun A scattering of love Lies bleeding Tears and leaves As yet unfallen Held fast in comfort lofts of Memory and memories Dawn dancing in Lethe’s lost oblivion That waits and waits Whispering melodies unheard Desperate melodies Slipping from our grasp In comfort cold And cries unheard That wait and wait Each tear a trinity Held in check Wept in grief A moment’s grace Fallen to forgetfulness Scattering like leaves Sotto VoceAngels whisper I am lost No words are left While I stand stammering At distant sycamore Spell cast against wooded hills At pasture’s edge Lone sentinel Laying stark claim Blanching in December Slanting sun Childhood memories Climbing old sycamore By bending stream Massive girth and bough Mottled bark shedding Burgeoning life Laying bare the paling Under-bark beneath Hard to climb Hard not to No words are left… Even with claim laid Hard upon my heart To give quiet voice My emptying self Emptying at pasture’s edge Amid blanching tufts Grown winsome wild Heart-felt claim While I stand clinging Desperate as ground retreats Beneath my quavering feet And questions crack The crisping air With grim report What songs now are left To temper winter’s Cold caprice Angels whisper I am lost Left breathless Desperate voice gasping Into December tufts Grasping naked stems Grown winter hollow paling Into life grown winsome wild December thick Implacable claim Breathless as the sycamore Blanching in late slanting sun Branching desperate light Off mottled bark and bough Paling as my icy breath No words are left December orchard grass Grown wild and winter silent Silent as the sycamore Conjuring quiet voice Hard to respond Hard not to Angels whisper I am lost Shedding what little Now is left Laying bare the paling Under-bark beneath Paling song Barely overheard Fallen from my hands In desperate light  Steven Bucher is an active member of the Poetry Society of Virginia. His first collection of poetry, We Stay a Brief Telling, was published by Propertius Press in 2021. His second manuscript, My Soul to Keep, was named runner-up for the 2025 Eyelands Book Award for unpublished poetry.
Today at SHINE international poetry series, we're putting the spotlight on UK-based writer Emily Eaton. Please enjoy Emily's poems: "Somewhere Between Sheffield and Manchester," and "Herbal Delights." Thank you, Emily, for sharing your work with the SHINE poetry community! Somewhere Between Sheffield and Manchester Herbal Delights  Emily Eaton is a queer writer from Essex, England but she's found "home" in many moments and places. She adores sunsets, Thai food, and building community with other creatives. You can find more of her writing on Substack: https://somewheresoftly.substack.com
Poetry lovers, today SHINE welcomes back writer Linda M. Crate with her poem "As I Flew Past." Thank you, Linda, for being a part of SHINE! As I Flew Past  Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has seventeen published chapbooks, the latest being: only the future knows (Alien Buddha Press, November 2025).
It's a busy week here at SHINE, as we're readying to launch the 7th issue of SHINE Quarterly! It's hard to believe SHINE poetry series is over three years old (!), and our print quarterly is already gaining traction as we approach a two year anniversary in December. It's an honor to publish so many writers from all walks of life. Stay tuned for more BIG news from SHINE coming very soon! But in the meantime, thanks for being here, where today, we're shining the spotlight on a social piece titled "Time Span" by Gary Beck. Be sure to check out Gary's Bio, which follows his poem. Thank you, Gary, for sharing your work with SHINE international poetry series! Time Span  Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes, and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction, essays and plays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. His traditionally published books include 45 poetry collections, 18 novels, 4 short story collections, 2 collections of essays, 8 books of plays and 16 poetry chapbooks. Gary lives in New York City.
It's a new week (and a new month!), and you know what that means...more new poetry from the international poetry community, brought to you by SHINE poetry series. Today we're putting the spotlight on three gorgeous poems by California-based poet, Samuel Wharton. Thank you, Samuel, for sharing your words! Poem at Sunset An Eye - after Lucille Clifton Devil Grass  Samuel Day Wharton writes poems in Sacramento, CA. Recent work has appeared (or will appear) in the engine(idling), Does It Have Pockets, The Shore, Some Words, $ (Poetry Is Currency), and Villain Era.
Welcome to SHINE, poetry fans. Today we're putting the spotlight on a Bangladeshi writer who goes by the pen name, Ibrar Sami. Please enjoy his two poems: "Lost Promises" and "The Story of A Melancholy Wall." Thank you, Ibrar, for sharing your words. Lost PromisesThe sun was sinking swiftly, orange light spilling everywhere with an invitation of sorrow-- on a late December afternoon, at dusk. Then-- just as the winter migratory birds began arriving at Chikli Beel, you wished so deeply to play in the water with the birds, yet you had no friend to swim with you in the lake. You often told me of this regret. But back then we did not know each other, not even in play. One day you proposed-- let’s meet, let’s know each other, let’s speak our hearts openly, on a fog-draped December evening. On such an evening as the migratory birds stir waves on water, we would sit together on the bank watching their rituals of love all day long. Within the thick fog there seemed a hidden grace. Even the silence nestled by the hills seemed to hold a language. The unknown shadow that slips quietly under the sun-- perhaps even it holds a secret leisure. But under the bare sky, does the line of loss ever come to an end? Clouds keep moving on across the empty sky, as though the wind carries their loosened, unbound hair. On the windowpane your reflection waits in solitude, standing at the border of neglect at day’s end-- and I understand you are not coming back. Yet—you did come! And in the irony of your arrival I stopped, stunned, longing for exile in the wide horizon. Then! Then-- time passed, many years slipped by. Do you still remember me now? Looking at the sky today I see the orange glow fade, December’s last light slowly dissolving into the winter mist. And even now I stand beside the window placing my hand silently on the cold glass-- inside and out only the shadow of endless silence. With eyes like frozen peaks of pain I keep whispering the story of a closed window-- a story you will hear again tomorrow. The Story of A Melancholy WallIn the busy city on the wall of a weary building I come to write the tale of a tired day-- arriving at the late afternoon. Suddenly, seeing you, I pause-- what scribbles you have drawn on this wall of melancholy, in the language of rebellion. Sunlight ripples through the mist, the sky of fear bursts in silent cries, without a sound. Standing in the crowded street I quietly read the story of this melancholy wall-- hidden in graffiti an unfinished history. Yet, in the desert of memory unknown anxieties accumulate, even today on the wall new scars-- flooding the depths of the heart like a silent wave. One day, the damp grains dry in the sun, leaving behind a strange echo of melancholy, a long, mysterious tale. At day’s end when I look at myself-- I see, I am an incomplete wall, and on my surface the final line of language has yet to be written.  Ibrar Sami's poetry and reflective prose explore memory, time, silence, and human resilience, often through abstract imagery and philosophical undertones. A cancer survivor, his creative voice is shaped by personal suffering, recovery, and the quiet strength of intimate relationships. His work blends inner emotional landscapes with understated social and political awareness. His poems have appeared in international journals including the UK-based Ink, Sweat and Tears, the Chile-based Ultramarine Literary Review, and the US platform Navy Pen. "Endless Afternoon" is forthcoming in the US-based Gabby & Min’s Literary Review, while "The Wound of Silent Scars" earned third place in an international Flash Poetry Challenge. He has also been accepted for publication in Big Thinking Publishing’s upcoming issue of Poems, Tales & Other English Words.
Thanks for stopping by, poetry lovers! I hope you'll enjoy these two poems by the talented Charlie Brice, who hails from Pittsburgh, PA. His poem, "Silver and Lace with Eggs" is an ekphrastic accompanied by the beautiful artwork of Susan Paterson, posted here with permission of the artist. Thank you, Charlie, and Susan, for sharing your work with SHINE international poetry series!  by Susan Paterson Silver and Lace with EggsOne might imagine the doings of the night before: how cigar smoke cut the air, the amber swirl of brandy and benedictine in huge snifters, pretentious proclamations about politics and fashion, how they wax and wane like the moon. Someone set this table with care, carried the coffee carafe, egg cup, silver spoon, and gleaming egg coddler and gently arranged them on linen that smelled fresh from the iron. The silver service honored the hours spent to shine it. And yet, what we see is disarray—a broken shell, a spoon about to slide off the table, eggs ready to slip from the the safety of their silver bowl and splatter across oak floors or priceless Persian rugs. One might imagine the next morning, at breakfast, a man and a woman watch the servants leave. The man cracks an egg while his wife’s anger rises like steam in the coffee urn. Why, she demands, was she excluded from the conversation, exiled to the sewing room with the other women while the men pondered the important issues of the day? His smug shrug provokes her angry yank on the breakfast clothes-- sounds of crashing silver and cracking eggs—her way of enlivening endless days of boredom and distress, the nineteenth century plight she was born to. Or One can imagine a clandestine couple watching hotel maids leave after spreading breakfast on the linen draped table. Even after a night of wicked love, they cannot subdue their wanton desire—their needs so urgent that lace, spoon, and egg crash to the floor with the throb of their writhing bodies. Is this the conundrum of la condition humaine, the confusion between violent love and hate? Could it be that only indifference contains clarity, that little is safe beyond the sterility of piety? Or One might imagine the old man’s last breakfast-- children far away, wife gone, friends lost behind life’s curtain, draped in illness and death. Everything in his life shines, but for no one. There are no reflections. One imagines that he only ate that one egg before he rose, clutched his chest, watched his knees buckle. Still, as his collapse became inevitable, he grabbed the linen, clung to the lace. One can imagine that he held on. DustWhen I saw dust in the corner of the coffee table in my mother’s living room I thought, She’s old now. Her home was usually immaculate. Thirty years later, our small plates, the ones my wife and I eat lunch on, are chipped. Who cares? There’s just the two of us, no one else sits with us to watch seething shards of fascism creep along the streets of our country. The cups I use to serve my wife iced tea-- her gnarled arthritic hands can’t hold the tall kitchen glasses I bought several Christmases ago are also chipped. I look at those plates and cups and think, We’re old. Once we hosted parties where crystal glasses held cocktails and porcelain gleamed under tiny meatballs, cheese and crackers, served to friends. Those were days of hope, of kinder, of gentler. Now our country is torn, worn—democracy chipped away bit by bit, cracked to silence. How did we get here, dust in every crevice of our country?  Charlie Brice won the 2020 Field Guide Poetry Magazine Poetry Contest and placed third in the 2021 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Prize. His tenth poetry collection is A Brief History of the Sixties (Alien Buddha Press, 2026). His poetry has been nominated for the Best of Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Atlanta Review, The Honest Ulsterman, Ibbetson Street, Chiron Review, The MacGuffin, and elsewhere.
Thanks for being here, poetry fans! This Friday we're shining the spotlight on American poet Jason Ryberg. Please enjoy two tanka poems: "A Million Years Ago" and "Windchimes," and a third poem, "Either Way, Not Much Is Happening." Thank you, Jason, for sharing your words with SHINE. A Million Years Ago (Tanka) Wind Chimes (Tanka) Either Way, Not Much Is Happening  Jason Ryberg lives part-time in Kansas City, MO
with a rooster named Little Red and a Billy-goat named Giuseppe, and part-time somewhere in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also many strange and wonderful woodland critters. Welcome to SHINE, where today we're putting the spotlight on two fabulous poems by Nova Scotian poet, Joe Couture. Thank you, Joe, for sharing your gift for words with SHINE international poetry series! Thirst Funerals  Joe Couture is a writer living in rural Nova Scotia. If you want to connect with him, try here: @rjcouture.bsky.social
Welcome poetry fans, today SHINE has the pleasure of putting the spotlight on work by the talented J.B. Kalf. Please enjoy "Frogs" and "Depression," two short form poems that pack a punch. Thank you, J.B., for sharing your words with the SHINE international poetry community! Frogs Depression  J.B. Kalf is currently slipping on ice. Best of the Net nominated and has been published in Beaver Magazine, The Shore, Timber, Roi Faineant, Prosetrics, Impossible Archetype, Does It Have Pockets, #Ranger, and elsewhere. Prefers limes to lemons and can be found on Instagram @enchilada_photo and Bluesky @enchilada89.
Thanks for stopping by, poetry fans. Today we're shining the spotlight on Reed Venrick, who brings us a two part poem called "Half-Sisters." Thank you, Reed, for sharing your words with SHINE! Half-SistersNo, to be honest, there are Several things I like about Reading Spanish writing Over French writing, and Portuguese as well; I can get Into that later, since you Mention it—however, there is Something I rather like about French over Spanish, and Over reading Portuguese For that matter, and that is: French keeps the subject Of the sentence or the clause In actions and sequence Discussions; they don’t drop It out like the way they do In Spanish, Portuguese, or Italian, for that matter, which Is why sometimes when I read Spanish or Portuguese—some Article or something online—I get A bit lost; for that style of writing Is called a “pro-drop language,” A curious metaphor to be sure, but Dropping out the subsequent subject Makes it harder to understand who Is doing what to whom; or what The hell is doing what to whatever; Of course, I don’t deny it’s my fault In the sense that—if I knew my verb Tenses “par coeur” as they say in French Or “aprender de cor” in Portuguese, *1 If I really knew my tenses like a good School boy looking to the grade, I would Identify “from memory” the verb’s subject I’m puzzling about, but yeah, I’m just Glad French is courteous to language Learners and does not drop out subjects, And, well, English is like that as well. PART TWO Because English, it’s like French In that sense—we also tend to keep Those sentence subjects when Speaking in continuous sequence Or actions, although, frankly, and I hesitate to admit this, but personally, I, in speaking English, I do Sometimes drop my subjects from Sentences when I’m speaking on My I-phone—because, well, adding The subject slows down my rhythm, See what I’m getting at? So… Yeah I guess that’s my influence From Portuguese, because yeah, I Worked for years over in Brazil, But frankly, it’s my obsessive desire To be concise—“You must have spoken Latin in another life,” my wife laughs, She says Tacitus is my unacknowledged Favorite writer—true, he’s word-stingy *2 In a language that was already military- Frugal with words, but no, as I say, I worked As a carpenter with the service corps In the Amazon; there we built island bungalows Made from bamboo poles and palm fronds; And, if you think about it, there’s no Excuse for extra boards or extra nails when Building bungalows. as well as building sentences, But yeah, all this is to say, and I want to make This bell-clear, why I maintain English and French are “sister languages”—despite Objections of those “cafe et cigarette” Doubters in Montemartre, or a cafe I go To over in the Latin Quarter on “la rive *3 “Gauche,” those who will exclaim in that Manner…how can I say? “Descartian way” Of conversing: “Oh no! French is older! Much older than English! Check out The timeline!” But as I said in response: “Have you ever noticed that sometimes Siblings in the same family can be far Apart in age? See what I mean? I don’t See how the “older than thou argument” Counters my assertion!” And by the way, there Was an event called the French invasion Of 1066, and I’ve heard a rumor that There was a bit of incestuous-word-mixing, But okay, if you wish, call us “half-sisters,” Because hey! For the sake of clarity, Which is the greatest virtue in any language: We’re both “non-pro-drop languages!” *4 FOOTNOTES: 1. By heart 2. Noted for concision, Tacitus Often dropped out conjunctions and Prepositions that would show clarity. Few careful writers would advocate dropping Those connecting words that show The precise relation between clauses, But if that’s not enough, Tacitus Is known even for dropping out Verbs, which will create even more Confusion in the reader than dropping Subjects, which is common in romance Languages—except for French; still, Tacitus’ brevity is a good contrast to Cicero Who often wrote overflowing—extending Sentences with confusing multi clauses, Multi phrases. 3. The Left Bank 4. Yes, this clumsy phrase actually exists In linguistics to classify French and English As those languages that maintain their subjects In an extended discussion about whatever.  Reed Venrick resides near Marseille, France; writes on French themes and things.
Hello and happy Friday, poetry lovers. Today at SHINE, it's a pleasure to share the work of UK-based poet, Jonathan Chibuike Ukah. Please enjoy his imagistic poem, "My Mother's Food." Thank you, Chibuike, for sharing your work with the SHINE international poetry community! My Mother's FoodMy mother was a thousand years old today; she lived long and young until she dropped, growing like a palm tree planted by the sea, like a coconut tree groomed by the mountain. She quickly reminded those with long beards that grow hair on the jaw and everywhere else that there is a secret to longevity if we wanted to hear. When she was ten years old, she looked like five; at the age of twenty, she passed for a ten-year-old. At thirty, my mother seemed fifteen, though she graduated from the university and had my sister. Now, she and Celestina could pass for sisters, the envy of the young men for whom charm was electric. My mother had always eaten whatever she wanted, not what her mother cooked nor what was possible. She grew up in a village known for mushrooms; it did not help her eat vegetables or fruit or fix her mind and body on delicacies, but on those things that captured her imagination. In the secret of the night, when everyone was in bed, my mother sneaked out into the pond to look for snakes. She would capture a live snake and cut off its throat, and before anyone approached, she ate it in a jiffy. She neither cooked it on fire nor warmed it in a microwave; she did not roast it in an air fryer or fry it like termites, as my elder sister fried millipedes during the war. Among her few remaining pleasures was her obsession for places damp and lonely, dark and sombre, where no sane man would go, no animal would hide, but such were the hideouts of vipers and pythons, which awaited my mother’s nocturnal visitations. Whenever she arrived, she dangled a little lizard, and danced like the snake worshippers of Nembe, who wore green leaves as eyelashes and asparagus as earrings, who celebrated the Year of the Snake as their birthday. When the vipers crooned their curved necks in a coma, accepting my mother’s worship as coming from the heart, she leaned forward for a kiss, her knife inside her mouth. How she sliced the throats of these snakes is a mystery, but such is the grace of a woman whose beauty was no barrier to murder the innocent, whose blood she drank for eternity.  Jonathan Chibuike Ukah is a Pushcart-nominated poet from the United Kingdom. His poems have been featured in Propel Magazine, The Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Atticus Review, Tab: The Magazine of Poetry and Poetics, The Silk Literary Magazine, Sublimation, and elsewhere. Literary achievements include: the Poet of the Month Award for December 2024-January 2025 from Literary Shark Magazine; third-place winner of The Hemlock Magazine Poetry Contest (2025); and the Pierian’s Alexander Pope Poetry Award 2025.
Welcome, poetry lovers! Today we're shining the spotlight on American poet, Margaret Kathryn ("Maggie") Warren. I particularly appreciate the line, "Grief is contortion," from this moving poem, "Elegy to a Young Friend II." Please enjoy! Thank you, Maggie, for sharing your work with SHINE international poetry series. Elegy to a Young Friend II |
SHINE - International Poetry Series
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From the international poetry community, we have a "luxury of stars," as Sylvia Plath might say, and it is SHINE's honor to provide a home for their words with the online Spotlight series as well as SHINE Quarterly. Click on the logo above to learn more. And...keep writing, keep shining!
In poetry, Samantha Terrell, EIC SYLVIA PLATH
Stars Over the Dordogne Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
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