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Welcome back, poetry fans and thanks for stopping by! Today, SHINE international poetry series casts the spotlight on Indianapolis-based poet Rhonda Yates, and her social issues poem Signs of the Time. Thank you, Rhonda, for sharing your words with SHINE! Signs of the Time The signs of the time Elapsing The image of equality It’s importance shifting Between races Between sexes Between parents and children Between social classes Between political parties Between hearts And minds Intertwined Evolving and weaving The fight for power An ever-widening axis With opposing forces And enduring forces Dynamically misaligned  Rhonda Yates is a poet, artist, musician and self-published writer who resides in Indianapolis, Indiana. She cherishes her loving relationship with words and believes that the beauty of creation is one of our most valuable gifts.
As we head into the Easter weekend, SHINE has one more feature for this week...UK-based poet, Kev McCready. Kev brings us "Weirdo," "Raison D’etre," and "Unspoken (for Liv)." Thanks, Kev, for being a part of SHINE international poetry series! Weirdo If you’re grieving, hide. It’s not hard when you feel yourself defined by bones that are (but aren’t) in your own soul. Follow these instructions. As if you were in The French Resistence or Winston Smith on a Spring picnic. Take a train on a cold Monday. Those laden down with their luggage will not notice, it’s their baggage and students hooked on train WiFi (I didn’t know it existed) leave the station by the side door. Walk across town, go against traffic. Get a supermarket meal deal. You’ll find a faded cinema. Buy a ticket for a film that you were keen to see, no-one was. You’ll be one of fifteen weirdos. You’ll sail through the car and beer ads. The delicate strangeness of the film will soothe your aching, tired soul. For the three hours in the darkness nothing will matter except the silver screen and your own weirdness. Raison D’etre Why do you do this to yourself? Chasing trains through the chill, night air? Walking down the dark motorway? Spilling your guts to random strangers? Rhetorical questions linger. Search in the back of your attic mind find the answer, in sepia. School talent contests. That careers officer, who told me to be a lorry driver as ‘it’s what your dad does’. Corner table child, an absent brother writer. The lure of bright lights and loud laughter. Bitten by a mythical muse hidden under a nom de guerre. All this leads to you being quoted thirty-five quid for a taxi on a Saturday night. Unspoken (for Liv) I write on my phone or tablet’s notes the notebook is there for emergencies. You don’t have to learn poems, but love them. The days when you don’t write, are precious. You need (sometimes) to just let your mind and fingers rest. Just be you. Yes, you. On stage, look straight down the barrel of the microphone. Maintain eye contact. Intros should be shorter than poems. Stick to your four minutes. Don’t overrun. Get a decent meal before the gig. Please don’t get drunk before your own slot. (Feel free to get drunk afterwards) Shake hands with all the other poets. Go home, or to your nice, cheap hotel. Look up at the stars. Let them see you. Your gift is to speak the unspoken.  Kev The Poet is originally from Liverpool, but now resides in Devon. Kev’s work has featured on BBC Devon and weekly on Shaun Keavney’s show on Community Garden Radio. Kev gigs regularly across the South West.
Today SHINE is honored to introduce West Coast artist, Mary Coleman, with her debut poetry publish. Please enjoy Mary's evocative poems: Apologies, Limbo, and In Remembrance of My Mother. Thank you, Mary, for sharing your work with SHINE international poetry series, and here's wishing you well on your writing journey! ApologiesI’m sorry I never bought you a poppy to pin on your dick. I’m sorry my heart beats in rhythm with my breasts. I bind them with bandages until they turn blue, yet they bob all the same. I’m sorry we never jumped off a bridge together, 100 feet to the river’s shit-brown surface where we’d break through to the stars. I’m sorry I never screamed at you while you were trying to shave, straight razor poised at your neck as my voice shook the house. I’m sorry I never gave you my kidney, IV’s intertwined like rat’s tails, the surgeon wearing a tutu, dancing to Chopin. I’m sorry you never said sorry, we might have shared an ice cream together and forgot about the attic. Watched the sun swallowed by the horizon as the cancer devoured your bones. LimboStill in all places. The grass is brown. Perhaps a breeze. The houses you pass are stamps, each inked in the same lines, painted muddled tones, so that grass and house meld into one. And above, in the narrow trees, all the birds are screaming. In Remembrance of My Mother I was near when a seagull swooped down and took you to the moon. Maybe he left you there, bones piled in a crater, ash smeared across the Milky Way, where a dozen of your favorite boats set course for the stars.  Mary Coleman is a writer and painter living in Portland, Oregon. She obtained her Bachelor of Fine Arts and a Master of Art and Design in New Zealand where she lived for 11 years. Her poetry comes to her early in the morning when she’s barely awake and still half dreaming.
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SHINE - International Poetry Series
From the international poetry community, we have a "luxury of stars," as Sylvia Plath might say, and it is my honor to provide a home for their words through SHINE Poetry Series.
NOW IN PRINT!
Stars Over the Dordogne
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