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Poetry lovers, thanks for stopping by SHINE, where today we're putting the spotlight, once again, on two poems by American poet, Richard McClellan. Here are: "The Sanctuary of Bee Life" and a haiku, "Black Coffee." Richard, thank you for being a part of the SHINE international poetry community! The Sanctuary of Bee Life Black Coffee (haiku)  Richard McClellan's poetry has been featured in SHINE, A Village With A Poem, Stars In Our Hearts, Famous Poets of the Heartland, The Best Poets and Poems of 2011, and Great Poets Across America. His poem, "Whispers of Fall" was a semi-finalist in Eber & Wein's yearly contest and published in their poetry book Magnets & Ladders 2025 Fall/Winter Edition of the online magazine.
Poetry fans, today we're shining the spotlight on Lynn White with two new poems. Lynn, who hails from Wales, is a previous contributor to SHINE and today brings us the very moving, "Colonel America Calling" and "Some of Them are Brave." Thank you, Lynn, for sharing your words with the SHINE international poetry community. Colonel America CallingThe dove sat carefully on Liberty lining her nest with down. A few feathers fell free a few loose feathers fluttering down to feather the nests below. She cooed sweetly but her new chick said ‘coo-ark’ mimicking her, then ‘quark, then ’yawp’ as it grew stronger, she saw her cuckooed dove hatchling was a mocking bird, calling in New-Speak straining to be understood, straining for more space, more gas, more gold, more like a colonising colonel, whose eagle’s eye preys south then north. East then West are following next if we don’t clip his wings. Some of Them are BraveEveryone knew it was happening the unheard story the tens of thousands dead, the millions displaced, the decades of rubble, the destroyed schools. hospitals, universities everyone knew. Everyone knew it was happening the unheard story even though the journalists were dead or expelled and banned everyone knew. Everyone knew it was happening the unheard story of the hundreds or thousands, or tens of thousands who had disappeared uncharged with any crime or misdemeanour everyone knew. Then three Israeli workers blew their whistles loud and everyone heard what everyone knew.  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. She has been nominated for Pushcarts, Best of the Net, and a Rhysling Award. Find her online at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
SHINE poetry fans, welcome back!! It's been a bit of an IT adventure here at SHINE this week, as our website was down for several days. Shout-out to Bernsie (?) at Weebly/Square for sorting this out. (Never underestimate the power of human beings! Sorry, but as I often say, AI is an abomination & I will die on this hill.) Nevertheless, here we are, back again with two new poems by return poet, A.M. Hayden -- the first of which is written as a Trinitas, and both of which are dedicated to some of Hayden's beloved lady rockstars. Mandy, thanks for being part of the SHINE international poetry community! Incidentally...the Trinitas inspired the creation of SHINE international poetry series in 2022, as an effort to share the form and publish the world's Trinitas poems. (For more information on the Trinitas form, please click HERE.) However, as fate would have it, SHINE ended up taking all forms of poetry, which has been a lovely journey thus far. As we approach the second anniversary of our print quarterly, I'd like to thank the hundreds of poets who have been a part of SHINE, both online and in print. SHINE Quarterly, Issue 8, launches Friday, September 4th, this time as both a paperback & a commemorative 2-year anniversary hardcover! Smudge Sticks up Her Sleeves |
 | Peach Delphine is transfemme from Tampa, Florida. Former cook, work in Ballast, Some Words. |
Today at SHINE, we putting the spotlight on Florida-based writer, Jack Carenza. Jack brings us three poignant poems: She works nights--, Self-Checkout, and Forest Road 26. Thank you, Jack, for being a part of SHINE poetry series!
She works nights--
labeling blood
tubes in a basement
clinic where elevators
nictate like jet-lagged planets.
At home, she steeps
hibiscus in worn porcelain,
knowing reds should
stem from petals,
not apheresis.
Now thirty-eight,
she’s perfected
the art of staying
seated after
disappointment.
A neighbor practices
trombone from the terrace,
the same three notes--
loose cutlery tumbling
down the bulkhead.
Every Thursday at 3:30
she calls her mother
and lies with LinkedIn-
level puffery:
yes, eating healthy
yes, sleeping plenty
yes, loves me tenderly
The lead physician told her
stress starts in the liver--
algae bloom in stagnant liquor.
She pictures Midori
over ice.
The tea cools.
A thin skin spans it,
delicate as tempera.
She remembers being eleven,
pinning Chelan cherries
to chapped lips
to look glamorous
for no one.
Now, glamour means
paying rent by the first,
ignoring lewd 2 a.m. texts,
peeling a Satsuma
in late fall.
The Shetland pony beside her
cup is a Tuesday table
scrap. She means
to scrape it off,
to sketch it over,
but she needn’t beat
a dead horse.
She has loved men
with dazzling opinions
on thumbtacks.
Men who owned
one butter knife.
Men who said
you worry too perfectly.
tubes in a basement
clinic where elevators
nictate like jet-lagged planets.
At home, she steeps
hibiscus in worn porcelain,
knowing reds should
stem from petals,
not apheresis.
Now thirty-eight,
she’s perfected
the art of staying
seated after
disappointment.
A neighbor practices
trombone from the terrace,
the same three notes--
loose cutlery tumbling
down the bulkhead.
Every Thursday at 3:30
she calls her mother
and lies with LinkedIn-
level puffery:
yes, eating healthy
yes, sleeping plenty
yes, loves me tenderly
The lead physician told her
stress starts in the liver--
algae bloom in stagnant liquor.
She pictures Midori
over ice.
The tea cools.
A thin skin spans it,
delicate as tempera.
She remembers being eleven,
pinning Chelan cherries
to chapped lips
to look glamorous
for no one.
Now, glamour means
paying rent by the first,
ignoring lewd 2 a.m. texts,
peeling a Satsuma
in late fall.
The Shetland pony beside her
cup is a Tuesday table
scrap. She means
to scrape it off,
to sketch it over,
but she needn’t beat
a dead horse.
She has loved men
with dazzling opinions
on thumbtacks.
Men who owned
one butter knife.
Men who said
you worry too perfectly.
Self-Checkout
Forest Road 26
Jack Carenza is a South Florida–based copywriter whose lyrical works explore memory, history, and their movement through time and space. His poems carry a keen attention to sound, shaped by years as a hip-hop artist. Jack’s poetry has appeared in Constellations Journal of Poetry and Fiction and Inscape Literary Journal, with upcoming pieces in the engine(idling) and Sunday Mornings at the River.
Thanks for stopping by SHINE this Friday, where today we are treated to three poems by the talented Uruguayan poet, Laura Cesarco Eglin. Laura's language skills have assisted her in translating multiple award-winning books. Be sure to check out her Bio below. Thank you, Laura, for sharing your gift for words with the SHINE international poetry community!
Hemispheres of Distance
Efishencies
Kneading Language
Laura Cesarco Eglin is a poet and translator from Uruguay. She is the author of six collections of poetry, including the chapbook Break a Part (Finishing Line Press, 2026). Her poems and translations (from the Spanish, Portuguese, Portuñol, and Galician), have appeared in many journals such as Asymptote, Zócalo Public Square, Figure 1, Eleven Eleven, Puerto del Sol, Copper Nickel, SRPR, MAYDAY, International Poetry Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Columbia Poetry Review, Timber, and more. Cesarco Eglin is the translator of claus and the scorpion by the Galician author Lara Dopazo Ruibal (co•im•press, 2022), longlisted for both the 2023 PEN Award in Poetry in Translation and the 2023 National Translation Award in Poetry. She is also the translator of Of Death and Minimal Odes by the Brazilian author Hilda Hilst (co•im•press), which was the winner of the 2019 Best Translated Book Award. Her latest translation is Sardine by Miriam Reyes (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2026). Cesarco Eglin is the publisher of Veliz Books and teaches creative writing at the University of Houston-Downtown. More at: lauracesarcoeglin.com
Welcome back, poetry lovers! Today SHINE is putting the spotlight on haiku poetry by Iranian poet, Ali Shalkouhi. Thank you, Ali, for sharing your moving words with the SHINE international poetry community.
a knock at the door--
moonlight on the slippers
I go barefoot
autumn night--
stirring the warm ashes
with the last stick
full moon--
worth a chandelier
tonight’s blackout
moonlight on the slippers
I go barefoot
autumn night--
stirring the warm ashes
with the last stick
full moon--
worth a chandelier
tonight’s blackout
Ali Shalkouhi is an Iranian poet from Rasht, Gilan. His haiku have appeared in international journals and organizations including Ginyu, Haiku International Association, and the World Haiku Association. His Persian-language haiku collection Wandering in the Fog was published in Iran in 2021. Since 2020, his work has appeared regularly in the World Haiku Association annual anthology.
Congratulations to Kyla Houbolt on the launch of Mapless, the winner of SHINE's "Come As You Are" Book Prize! See the description below, and pick up your copy on any Amazon marketplace.
Mapless, by American poet Kyla Houbolt, is a collection for both the wanderer and the guide -- with poetry that speaks to the core, and poses questions we need not feel obligated to answer. Houbolt's Mapless is the winner of the 2026 SHINE poetry series "Come As You Are" book prize.
--
Advance Praise for Mapless:
"The first sleight-of-hand I ever learned was how to make a toothpick disappear, by way of a little piece of hidden scotch tape and some patter. Kyla Houbolt’s poems in Mapless work a similar magic: woven in & through the ordinary, they are possessed of a guileless voice whose levity and directness of address belie the book’s sly treatment of serious themes, too, from alcoholism and climate change to intractable political gridlock and the “horrible numbers” we live with daily. Houbolt’s poems harness the imagination hopefully, carving out a collectivity however flawed it, or we, might be: “We’re all magical trailer trash / setting the world to rights / or on fire, / whichever comes first.” I love being in the ambit of Houbolt’s “we” — even if the tape unsticks and the trick fails, there’ll always be sunlight." -Tom Snarsky, Author of MOUNTEBANK
--
Advance Praise for Mapless:
"The first sleight-of-hand I ever learned was how to make a toothpick disappear, by way of a little piece of hidden scotch tape and some patter. Kyla Houbolt’s poems in Mapless work a similar magic: woven in & through the ordinary, they are possessed of a guileless voice whose levity and directness of address belie the book’s sly treatment of serious themes, too, from alcoholism and climate change to intractable political gridlock and the “horrible numbers” we live with daily. Houbolt’s poems harness the imagination hopefully, carving out a collectivity however flawed it, or we, might be: “We’re all magical trailer trash / setting the world to rights / or on fire, / whichever comes first.” I love being in the ambit of Houbolt’s “we” — even if the tape unsticks and the trick fails, there’ll always be sunlight." -Tom Snarsky, Author of MOUNTEBANK
Welcome back, poetry lovers! Today we're shining the spotlight on Richard Braco, my fellow poet and "neighbor" here in Upstate New York. Richard has had a successful and varied writing career, and is active in the local poetry community. Richard brings us "Pole Star Child" and "Imminent Collapse." Thank you, Richard, for sharing your words with SHINE international poetry series!
Pole Star Child
(for daughter Marin on her 38th birthday)
Imminent Collapse
(what I remember about being forced to leave the womb)
Richard Braco studied in the Creative Writing Program at Oswego State, and later did graduate work at Binghamton University. He became a newspaper editor, columnist, and cartoonist for several newspapers and magazines in Central New York. Braco now works for Head Start in Johnson City, NY, where he also participates in a writer’s group called The Grapevine Poets.
Thanks for stopping by SHINE international poetry series, where today we're spotlighting Yucheng Tao, with his poems: "Dark Waiting" and "Blood and Ash" (previously published by Ink Sweat & Tears). Thank you, Yucheng, for sharing your work with us once again!
Dark Waiting
chains bind us tight in a desert of green vines.
green liquid slips in liquid darkness.
if we ride a spaceship upward,
we become waxen statues, congealed like jelly,
trapped in place, in the desiccation of time,
our brains devoured by bio-chips;
when they return from afar, seated in UFOs,
we remain technological guinea pigs,
is this our fate,
gliding daily through the iPhone-lit city?
perhaps the UFOs are our past yet to come.
in times without technology,
what are the images hanging in churches?
what binds us more; the vines or their whips?
trying to escape, but we cannot,
sucked into their gaping maws, swallowed by outsiders,
into the dark of a huge body; blue man-eating flowers emit
a strange smell to us, like our news
leading us to seek everything through lies.
is this another paradise rearranged,
or just a forgotten history
where our ancestors turn their guns
into flowers that devour the blood of the Indians?
the dreadful scent of blooms lets us see God in dreams.
waiting for the rescuers of the interstellar alliance --
are these saviors, or more colonists?
afterward, we see green vines again.
Eden lurks in our souls, rising like shadows of insects;
are our heart’s spells fulfilled by our own desire?
do we return to a prehistoric, unpolluted land?
or do we wait once more for another species’ colonization,
or do men enter the eternal cycle of global history,
another flood yet to come?
green liquid slips in liquid darkness.
if we ride a spaceship upward,
we become waxen statues, congealed like jelly,
trapped in place, in the desiccation of time,
our brains devoured by bio-chips;
when they return from afar, seated in UFOs,
we remain technological guinea pigs,
is this our fate,
gliding daily through the iPhone-lit city?
perhaps the UFOs are our past yet to come.
in times without technology,
what are the images hanging in churches?
what binds us more; the vines or their whips?
trying to escape, but we cannot,
sucked into their gaping maws, swallowed by outsiders,
into the dark of a huge body; blue man-eating flowers emit
a strange smell to us, like our news
leading us to seek everything through lies.
is this another paradise rearranged,
or just a forgotten history
where our ancestors turn their guns
into flowers that devour the blood of the Indians?
the dreadful scent of blooms lets us see God in dreams.
waiting for the rescuers of the interstellar alliance --
are these saviors, or more colonists?
afterward, we see green vines again.
Eden lurks in our souls, rising like shadows of insects;
are our heart’s spells fulfilled by our own desire?
do we return to a prehistoric, unpolluted land?
or do we wait once more for another species’ colonization,
or do men enter the eternal cycle of global history,
another flood yet to come?
Blood and Ash
But look here, I turned my head
and discovered the Denver Museum
waiting,
a ghost that stood out in my sight,
telling me that their land was spring--
grass above flowers.
Today, they lay in an Indian exhibition,
silent；
Their faces were a sentence:
to strip them of survival
was as simple as pulling out corn.
The natives of the Arapaho
like me, watched how blood spread,
crossing
from the past into the present,
toward some corner of the world
where an unjust war burned,
buried under black moonlight
by fire.
Their bones could not be read,
as their remains were covered
under the ash of death,
silent,
floating like a ghost.
Denver’s rain is absent,
but rocks are red, like their blood.
The people of the city forget
as quickly as fish,
and sleep as deeply as rocks.
and discovered the Denver Museum
waiting,
a ghost that stood out in my sight,
telling me that their land was spring--
grass above flowers.
Today, they lay in an Indian exhibition,
silent；
Their faces were a sentence:
to strip them of survival
was as simple as pulling out corn.
The natives of the Arapaho
like me, watched how blood spread,
crossing
from the past into the present,
toward some corner of the world
where an unjust war burned,
buried under black moonlight
by fire.
Their bones could not be read,
as their remains were covered
under the ash of death,
silent,
floating like a ghost.
Denver’s rain is absent,
but rocks are red, like their blood.
The people of the city forget
as quickly as fish,
and sleep as deeply as rocks.
Yucheng Tao is a Chinese poet and the editor of The Argyle Literary Magazine. He serves as a reader for Palette. His work has appeared in Strange Horizons, White Wall Review, Wild Court, Ink Sweat & Tears, NonBinary Review and is forthcoming in Black Fox, StarLine*, I-70 Review, and North Dakota Quarterly. He has twice received an honorary award from the Dark Poet Club Contest.
Welcome back, poetry fans! Here's one last post before we head into the holiday weekend, plus a week of vacation for me. (SHINE will be back with more brand new poetry the week of July 13th, so don't go far!) Today return SHINE poet, Michael Whitehead, brings us: "Belmont Blues" and "Belisha Queens." Thank you, Michael!
Belmont Blues
Belisha Queens
Michael Whitehead was born in Lancashire, England and has lived in the Atlanta area for over thirty years. He enjoys observing the comedy and absurdity of the quotidian aspects of life and then tries to find a settled place for language between dark and light.
Today it's a pleasure to put the spotlight on the accomplished, UK-based writer, Gary Bills. Gary brings us three poems: Tactus Humanus, Night Skater, and Amati. I've been reading some Louis Untermeyer lately, and I can't help feeling Gary bears some resemblances -- with his gorgeously composed rhymes full of meaningful imagery. Thank you, Gary, for sharing your work with SHINE international poetry community!
Tactus Humanus
Night Skater
Amati
Gary Bills was born at Wordsley, near Stourbridge. He took his first degree at Durham University, where he studied English, and he has subsequently worked as a journalist. He is fiction editor for Poetry on the Lake. Gary gained his MA in Creative Writing at BCU, with a distinction. He has been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize, including for his post-modernist epic poem, “Bredbeddle's Well”. Gary's poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including The Guardian, Magma, HQ, Outposts, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Pomegranate, and New Lyre, and he has had three full collections published, namely – The Echo and the Breath (Peterloo Poets, 2001); The Ridiculous Nests of the Heart (bluechrome, 2003); and Laws for Honey (erbacce 2020). In 2005, he edited The Review of Contemporary Poetry, for bluechrome. His work has been translated in to German, Romanian and Italian. Translations of his work appeared last year in the prestigious Romanian journal, Vatra.
SHINE - International Poetry Series
Click here for submissions and more
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
In poetry,
Samantha Terrell, EIC
SYLVIA PLATH
Stars Over the Dordogne
Stars Over the Dordogne
Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
Picket of trees whose silhouette is darker
Than the dark of the sky because it is quite starless.
The woods are a well. The stars drop silently.
They seem large, yet they drop, and no gap is visible.
Nor do they send up fires where they fall
Or any signal of distress or anxiousness.
They are eaten immediately by the pines.
Where I am at home, only the sparsest stars
Arrive at twilight, and then after some effort.
And they are wan, dulled by much travelling.
The smaller and more timid never arrive at all
But stay, sitting far out, in their own dust.
They are orphans. I cannot see them. They are lost.
But tonight they have discovered this river with no trouble,
They are scrubbed and self-assured as the great planets.
The Big Dipper is my only familiar.
I miss Orion and Cassiopeia's Chair. Maybe they are
Hanging shyly under the studded horizon
Like a child's too-simple mathematical problem.
Infinite number seems to be the issue up there.
Or else they are present, and their disguise so bright
I am overlooking them by looking too hard.
Perhaps it is the season that is not right.
And what if the sky here is no different,
And it is my eyes that have been sharpening themselves?
Such a luxury of stars would embarrass me.
The few I am used to are plain and durable;
I think they would not wish for this dressy backcloth
Or much company, or the mildness of the south.
They are too puritan and solitary for that--
When one of them falls it leaves a space,
A sense of absence in its old shining place.
And where I lie now, back to my own dark star,
I see those constellations in my head,
Unwarmed by the sweet air of this peach orchard.
There is too much ease here; these stars treat me too well.
On this hill, with its view of lit castles, each swung bell
Is accounting for its cow. I shut my eyes
And drink the small night chill like news of home.
~~~
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