Blog Archives

Jan 31~ WILL STEFFEN

1/31/2025

Welcome back! As we switch away from SHINE's recent book feature series, I have the pleasure of shining a spotlight on American poet, Will Steffen. Will is a Shakespearean scholar and educator who writes from his home in Holyoke, Massachusettes. Today, please enjoy his two poignant poems, "Oscar's Hand" and "A Wider Berth." Thank you, Will, for sharing your gift of words with SHINE!

Oscar's Hand

You’ll never guess what Oscar has in his hand,
Concealed by layers of skin that grew
Over the shard that got lodged in his hand
From broken glass the boy crawled through.
Somehow, it made it deep into his hand
Like it was a part of his hand, somehow,
And the older he grew, the more that his hand
Itched, so he scratched it with a penny.
And then his hand turned purple and fat
So your mother and I put him in the car
And drove him to the doctor’s, where he sat
In her lap with his little white toy car.
And he showed her his hand, pointed and itched,
And scratched at it until warm blood came.
With her knife she incised and removed it, stitched
The boy back together.
But he wasn’t the same.

A Wider Berth

“Main cabin, this is your captain speaking,”
Was probably not your penultimate thought,
As you stared up from the pool’s bottom, eyes
Bloodshot.

Mo had shuffled off without getting out of bed.
Her eyes turned yellow and after that she died.
And after words and for the next two days
You cried.

Your step-daughter’s children enjoyed the pool;
Bean-shaped, heated; water might close the gash
Your years of angry parenting let fester.
Splash!

“Who was that actress who was such a cunt?”
You asked between breaths. The children, elated,
Ignored your swears; the red airplane toy
Inflated.

You took a breath and pushed all your hot air
In the balloon, whose fuselage took (slowly) shape;
Your white lips, after every breath you blew,
Agape.

But later on, when company had gone,
You thought of Mo once more and drank and drank
And kept on drinking till you took a dip
And sank.

And did you find her there, I wonder,
Swimming in your mind, your wife, water-logged?
In a bottle? In the bath? Beside the drain,
Clogged?

“This is your captain speaking,” you may have thought.
They say you’re still alive after you drown,
Long enough for hope to rise, and then to sink
Back down.

Your will nearly finished, your debts almost paid,
All your affairs Mo’s behavior upended;
All of the love you meant to bequeath, behold:
Suspended.

Metastatic cancer, Diabetes,
HIV, Parkinson’s—you lamented
Your lot in life till you died and your guts
Fermented.

“This is your captain speaking,” you may have heard
As you reached for the edge of the rift
Between blood and water. Bow. Strain. Stretch. Strive.
Lift.

“Jesus is my co-pilot!” you farted back,
Your death not in vain, your lips not yet white,
Sunk in elevation, at last, your bloated body
Took flight.

You stayed there for two days and two whole nights,
Your loyal bitch barked black and blue and chose
To keep you company until, on the third day,
You rose.

And you and the toy sailed across the surface,
Skywriters practicing, accelerating,
Your sour breath still, some saturated plane
Deflating.

William Steffen is an associate professor of English at American International College in Springfield, Massachusetts, where he teaches courses in creative writing and Shakespeare. Though mostly new to publishing poetry, his short fiction has been featured in Last Girls Club, Deal Jam Magazine, and a number of anthologies. His short story “Melissa’s Ring,” was one of the winners of the Fall 2023 fiction prize hosted by Empyrean Literary Magazine. His creative non-fiction has been featured in Full Bleed. He is the author of several academic articles on Shakespeare's plays, as well as the monograph, Anthropocene Theater and the Shakespearean Stage. He lives in Holyoke, MA, with his wife and two children.

Jan 30~ BOOK FEATURE: Naomi Foyle

1/30/2025

Poetry lovers (and book lovers!), today SHINE concludes its short run of book features with the phenomenal work of Naomi Foyle. Naomi is a UK-based poet and novelist whose brand new collection, Salt and Snow was published by Waterloo Press earlier this month. I have already fallen in love with several poems from the collection, including two I'll shine a spotlight on today. Please enjoy the personal yet profound, "Winter Hay (i.m. of Yuri Drobyshev)," and "Ways of Seeing Trees (i.m. of John Berger)." Thank you, Naomi, for sharing your gift of words.

Winter Hay
(i.m. of Yuri Drobyshev)

Winter under cultivation
Is as arable as Spring.
-Emily Dickinson

Autumn had reaped a rare harvest –
three wise men
scythed by that dark star
which disappears when looked straight at
but burns the edge of sight.

A poet, friends, gathered in ‒
a trail of orchid pollen
Solomonic gold dust
an elephant’s last trumpet
their gifts to a cold New Year.

Surely sufficient grief
to see me through till spring.

But my homemade Christmas card
received in late reply
an unseasonable image –
mown hay from a sad Carol
her Russian sailor gone
across the night’s black sea.

My memory of his voice
an empty jar of caviar.

Ways of Seeing Trees
(i.m. of John Berger)

The tongue
is the spine’s first leaf
you wrote
and if that’s true –
which it must be
for whenever I repeat your words
to myself
I grow taller
taste sap –

then grief
that sour clench
in my stomach
at the news
of your stilled voice

is a burl in my torso
a barked knot
of injured grain
that warps the birthing ring
of this new year

but worked
by careful hand
may convert a canker
into re-enchanted Earth

and left to age
give courage girth.

Naomi Foyle is a British-Canadian poet, science fiction novelist, dramatist and essayist. Her many poetry publications include Red Hot & Bothered, winner of the 2008 Apples & Snakes 'The Book Bites Back' competition; The Night Pavilion (Waterloo Press), an Autumn 2008 PBS Recommendation; and the transatlantic Adamantine (Pasadena: Red Hen/Pig Hog Press, 2019). Her accolades include the Additional Prize in the 2012 Rialto/RSPB Nature Poetry Competition, First Prize in the 2021 Bristol Cathedral Poetry, Faith & Diversity Competition, the 2022 Brighton Fringe ONCA Green Curtain Award, and, for her poetry and essays about Ukraine, the 2014 Hryhorii Skovoroda Award (Ukraine). Naomi Foyle is a Fellow of the Muslim Institute and Reader in Critical Imaginative Writing at the University of Chichester. She lives in Brighton, UK.

Jan 28~ BOOK FEATURE: Ann Favreau

1/28/2025

Friends, today I have the honor of featuring a remarkably astute chapbook by Ann Favreau, The Dementia Spiral. Favreau's moving book was a finalist for the Florida Writers Association Royal Palm Literary Awards. Please enjoy two selections from The Dementia Spiral, "The Toast," and "Brainwork." Thank you, Ann, for sharing your words with SHINE !

The Toast

We raise our glasses for the toast.
“To your good health and happiness,” he says.
“And to yours,” I reply.

His clear glass goblet filled with red.
Mine, a blue glass flute
Sparkling with white.

I ladle the last of the leftover stew.
“Oh, this is a treat.
We haven’t had this for a long time.”

“To your good health and happiness,” he adds.
“And to yours,” I reply.
A simple bowl of stew, another toast.

He reaches for the bread to go with his salad, pauses
“To your good health and happiness.”
“And to yours, love,” I respond.

I’m happy that his health is good,
and hope his happiness will not fail
with his memory.

Brainwork

Whatever you believe, your brain confirms.
40,000 thoughts a day, the researchers say.
50/50 between negative and positive.
It’s easy to select the negative ones.
the ones the cavemen used to survive,
but if I am to thrive, I need to move beyond.
I must choose to find joy and consolation
in the day to day situations,
cast aside the off-putting aggravations,
replace them with acceptance
that his neural paths are intercepted.

Mine are capable of playing detective,
discovering what causes his anxiety or his need to repeat, then choosing a response.
So as we leave the house to do errands and he says,
“I’ll scootch down in the front seat.
That way whoever is watching the house will think I’m inside.”
Instead of responding that we have an alarm system
and enumerating the consequences of anyone trying to
break in, I say,
“What a good idea.”
He smiles.
We back out of the driveway and he sits up watching the traffic flow.

Ann Favreau is a retired educator who lives in Venice, FL. She is a member of the Florida Writers Association, Florida State Poets Association, and Past President of the Suncoast Writers Guild, Inc. in Englewood. She has self-published six books. Her writing has appeared in many newspapers, magazines, and anthologies. She has won local and national prizes for her prose and poetry and loves sharing her work with others. Contact her at [email protected]

Jan 27~ BOOK FEATURE: Any Pascual

1/27/2025

As promised, today on SHINE we'll take a look at another new poetry collection. I'm pleased to shine a spotlight on bilingual poet, Any Pascual, and her new book Caves and Forests (Cuevas y Bosques). Any has a passion for writing emotive, nature-themed poetry and is an active member of the online poetry community. Thank you, Any, for sharing your words with SHINE!

Ants.

Thoughts
can be like ants
on a rock.
Messy,
incomprehensible.
Running everywhere
as fast as possible.

And yet, all of a sudden,
a person comes along
who brings them all together.
Who unites them
into a team,
who gives them purpose
and meaning.
Even if my thoughts
are tiny,
all together
and well aligned
can move the world.

Message to a Stone.

Little girl, you'll get through this.
Soon you will be full of gold
and you will be stronger.
Break, for you will be healed.

Any Pascual (born in 2004) is a poet, blogger, speaker and HSP. She is a being of light, a soul whose purpose is to love, understand and convey love. She trusts that her poetry will help you live better throughout the year, creatively, spontaneously and without barriers. If you see yourself reflected in any of these poems, if any page has moved you, then her books have served their purpose. Caves and Forests is available on Amazon.

JAN 24~ BOOK FEATURE: Kelly Davis

1/24/2025

Welcome back, poetry lovers! Today and into next week on SHINE online series, I'll be doing a special short run of book features -- beginning with UK-based writer and editor, Kelly Davis. I adore these three poems from Kelly's debut collection, The Lost Art of Ironing (Hedgehog Poetry Press). Hope you enjoy them too! Thank you, Kelly, for sharing your work with SHINE.

If Emily Dickinson were My Best Friend

I’d visit her in Amherst,
climb the wooden stair
and knock gently
on her bedroom door.

I’d ask her to tell me her secret,
how to distil 200 words into 20,
how to capture a truth
before it slipped away –

I’d tell her the sun was shining,
book two tickets to Paris,
take her to the Musée Rodin,
suggest she unpin her hair.

We’d go to a bar in Montparnasse,
drink gin and tonic from big glasses,
talk about how women’s lives
had changed – and not changed.

I’d try to take away her sadness
even though her sadness made me love her.
I’d ask if she knew she’d become an icon,
if that was what she wanted?

Then I’d take her back to her room,
make sure she had all she needed:
a jug of water, a Bible, notebook and pen,
a choice about how to live, and when.

The Lost Art of Ironing

I usually fold things straight from the tumble-dryer
but yesterday I left some napkins in too long and they came out
scrunched as old tissues.

Nothing for it but to resurrect the dusty iron.
And I felt almost joyful, pressing down on the hot metal,
transforming crumpled cloth into neat squares.

I thought of all the women before me,
ironing each day, smoothing out life’s creases,
creating order from heaps of chaos.

My mother-in-law lived through the war
and ironed everything – dishcloths, towels, underpants,
every bit of fabric in the house.

She couldn’t talk about her feelings
but she ironed beautifully. Her children knew she loved them
because their sheets were always smooth as glass.

Editing Memoirs

Sometimes I feel like Florence Nightingale
wandering the battlefield at night,
hearing dying men calling for their mothers,
wishing I could reattach their severed limbs,
return the blood to their veins.

Looking back, perhaps it was a mistake to say
I specialised in memoirs. I never thought
so many wounded lives would fling themselves
into my in-box, beg me to heal them,
arrange them neatly on the page.

Kelly Davis was born in London, studied English Literature at Oxford, and worked for Penguin, Longman and BBC Books in the 1980s. She moved to West Cumbria in 1989, where she works from home as a freelance editor. Her poems have been widely anthologised and published in magazines, including Mslexia, Magma and The Journal. She won a Magma subscribers’ competition in 2018, and she has twice been shortlisted for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award. She also appears in the Best New British and Irish Poets 2019–2021 anthology (Black Spring Press). In 2021, she was longlisted for the Erbacce Prize for Poetry and collaborated with Kerry Darbishire on their joint poetry pamphlet Glory Days (Hen Run, Grey Hen Press, 2021). Her first solo collection The Lost Art of Ironing was published by Hedgehog Poetry Press in 2024. Find out more at www.kellydavis.co.uk

JAN 23~ Moore Ngwenya & Mehluko Smelane

1/23/2025

Today I have the honor of shining a spotlight on two Swazi poets, Moore Ngwenya and Mehluko Smelane, who have collaborated on a poem entitled, "Blinded Soul," which offers subtle echoes of Dante's Inferno. Be sure to check out the Bios of these two emerging writers, below. Thank you so much, Moore and Mehluko, for sharing your gift of words with SHINE!

The Blinded Soul

Soul’s sentimental attachment is dear to the body.
Drawing and throwing breaths of air to keep
The soul intact with its sentimental attachment.
Blinded Soul

My soul is meek and has eyes but cannot see.
The glimmer and shimmer worked out of my weaknesses,
For in their fingerprints my sanity slowly faded away.
And while weak in my ways, I lost my soul and too its sight.
As I look around roaming with wonder
I see the light slowly dimmed to near
Death.
A blackout slowly dying my soul into
Black patches of
The Blinded Soul.

I fell face first in a vast unending abyss,
With tinted shadows and cursed meadows, I stumbled,
Cause by night, my sight yearned for light but it seemed lite
As my aged hope drenched in sorrow yearned for morrow,
Slowly manufacturing shackles of evil
Blinding my soul to doom
Making me take absurd choices as my
Soul engulfed in dizziness.
The Blinded Soul.

With my back against the wall, and ducking unseen jabs,
The dark brisk wavered and swayed my emotions away.
I bellowed in a lost dungeon tortured by treacherous spirits,
And burdensome chains held me down, I still couldn't see.
Inviting friends of sorrows silencing me
To undescribed despair
As I plot and plant uprooting all goodness
In caring hearts.
The Blinded Soul.

Said to cue the hue is to cure you,
As dark illusions lingered about and bruised my subtle soul,
With a crusty knoll emerging anew, unfolding historic folds,
And hoards of darkness easily riled at their mere hail.

Seeking safety in seas of pain,
As my soul staggers in a mist of
Unclear meanders of desperation
Seen not by the world I hurt.
The Blinded Soul

As I crawled in absent sight and light, without sanity,
My mortal soul suffocated in a pool of cursed delight.
Sight is all I longed for, like a stark bee deprived of nectar.
Hope seemed remote and joy bitterly imponderable,
As my blinded soul fiercely foraged for a dignified repose.

Moore Ngwenya

Moore Ngwenya is a poet and author who started writing in 2019. He has written a variety of poetry including Christain, inspirational, and motivational poems.

Mehluko Smelane

Mehluko Smelane is a poetry writer who composes poems on an array of topics, including love, horror, sadness, and some Christian poems.

JAN 22~ VANDANA KUMAR

1/22/2025

Today offers another exciting day of poetry on SHINE. I'm pleased to welcome Vandana Kumar, author of the award-winning book, Mannequin of Our Times (2023). Please enjoy her poems "Bye-Bye From the Skies" and "The Embrace." Thank you, Vandana, for sharing your words with SHINE!

Bye-Bye From the Skies

Airport departures ring different
It isn’t like I kiss you goodbye
As you leave for work
On a Monday morning

There you are
Leaving for another country
Borders and visa stickers separate
As much as the seven seas

I wonder if we fought enough last week
I wonder if I repeated 'I Love You’ enough
As you did a last minute
Weighing of baggage

One of us is here
Ground level
Checking if we have run out of bread
Unlocking the door to an emptier home
As you sit somewhere
Stuck between two strange men
In a middle seat

Or looking out vacuously
From the window
With merely clouds around you
To taste

The Embrace

The foghorn signals
Tis my folly
I miss it
Perhaps I am a little harsh on myself
It is all of humanity that misses the cues
Unable to avert collisions on the high seas

I lay supine
As waves reach my legs
They touch the spaces
Between my toes
There is no act on earth
More intimate
More sublime

The waters now embrace my waist
They will engulf me in no time
I enjoy the sensation
As much as a dying man can enjoy
The last few moments of sin

Let it not be said
He did not live

Vandana Kumar is a French teacher, translator, recruitment consultant, Indie film producer and poet from New Delhi, India. She is also a career guidance expert in the field of poetry and is invited to schools in this capacity. Her poems have been published by over 100 national and international websites, literary journals, and anthologies of repute. Kumar’s cinema articles appear regularly in Just-Cinema and Daily Eye. She was the only Indian among forty participating poets in the ‘The Inđija Pro Poet 2023’ festival held in June ‘23 in Serbia, and the Guest of Honour at the Global Vision Summit 2024, held in Athens, Greece. Kumar is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet, and an award-winning author of the collection Mannequin of Our Times (2023).

JAN 21~ JOHN GREY

1/21/2025

Today, SHINE welcomes back Australian-born poet and former SHINE contributor, John Grey. John is a prolific and widely-published writer who is a natural story-teller. Please enjoy his two poems, "Toils of a Factory Town," and "English Teacher." Thanks, John, for sharing your gift of words with us, once again!

Toils of a Factory Town

A line of lunch-pail zombies
passes through the gate.
Among these are the one who will breed us,
passing on their weariness,
their faces averted, cast down,
afraid of the coming darkness.

The dreams of men.
are black and plain
and touch on what must be
Old gears spin inside,
grind in terror,
these cornered souls
stuck in the road
where once there never was a road.

Fathers of fathers,
industry drones,
great-booted and dark-coated
habitual smell of oil,
from hands that reach into goop
and feet, cracked and swollen,
that they try to convince
their sons can walk on water.

A small house
can only take a family so far.
The machinery is enormous.
Each joyous noise is deadened
by the clattering , the clanging,
engines gunned by fire.
In the steaming heat of the factory floor,
men clench their teeth
until their bodies break down.

It’s a perilous world
in which they find themselves.
Some lose a hand,
Others fall through glass.
They shun the ones they
thought they could have been.
They’re sick, most of them, grasping for breath,
for sanity on that concrete floor.

It’s been this way forever.
I hear thick-waisted grandmothers
in long unfashionable skirts tell it.
The retired workers have run out of ways
to say what they think,
merely wait out their days,
in intermittent dozing.

The future of machines is in the news.
One day, robots will do the work.
It’s unimaginable to some.
It’s how it’s always been to others.

English Teacher

Mrs. Busch jabbed hair-pins in her tight
wound bun like swords in children's flesh.
She demanded, “What does this poem mean?”
The gray girls in gray tunics melted into

their gray sameness. The boys snickered
as deep down in their breaths as gum in
desk cracks. Only one left standing then,
only one left standing now.

What does this poem mean? Now it's me
asking the question. I wrote it.
I struggle over what I mean to say.
Mrs. Busch is in the background somewhere.

John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident, with recently published work in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly, and Tenth Muse. Grey's latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert, and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. He has work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Amazing Stories, and River and South.

JAN 16~ DONNA BURKE ESGRO

1/16/2025

Today's poet of SHINE, is Donna Burke Esgro. Donna's poems Sanctuary, Keeper, and Mother's Day are full of substance and imagery. With lines and phrases like, "my heart chiming in its own dome of ribs / among the still echoes of lost prayers" (from Sanctuary), these poems are sure to please. Thank you, Donna, for sharing your gift of words with SHINE!

Sanctuary

I step from the fierce desert light
into darkness
rough cold stone
the airy vault of the ceiling

not a sound
except my heart chiming in its own dome of ribs
among the still echoes of lost prayers

incense, wax, and rotting wood
a scattering of votive candles

the dead in the tangled graveyard
the muddy river moving slowly north
the silence of the bell tower
the holy water of tears

somewhere far away a bomb drops from the sky
a child enfolds herself like a chrysalis
wine turns to blood

I am blind

until slowly
out of cavernous shadows
an angel appears
first just a glimmer of gold
a fluttering
a wing

then a carved hand lifted in blessing

Keeper

what toy key unlocks
the timbre of my soul tonight
opens it like a music box

rain’s metronome
against the glass
melancholy blue

lightning’s fever dream
and the runaway train of thunder
theremin wind, dervish candles

or the murmuring oak tree
who fell in love with an iron spike fence
speared to her crone heart, they are one

see how she holds the shivering birds
the tiny ones who lift their beaks in tremulous calls
close against her scarred breast

calls me to cling to her
hair and branches blowing, safe within her sinewy arms
for she knows that I am hollow boned too, singing into the wind

Mother's Day

The brightly colored bath pearls
in a cut glass jar
were a gift for our mother
coins counted out on the kitchen table
crayoned cards

I thought they were more beautiful
than anything I had ever seen
bubbles of stained glass
each holding a promise of luxury
that would never be realized

At first because they were too lovely
out of place on the chipped tile counter
or there was never enough time
for something so fanciful

But after a while
it was because we didn’t see them
gleaming softly out of the corner of our eyes
like we stopped seeing each other
growing up in this house
that knew little of pleasure

The quicksand pill bottles of our mother
our silent father’s feral cats
and we children playing frisbee in the street
in a fog so dense
we weren’t sure which way
was the way home

Donna Burke Esgro was born in the City of Angels and has been on a quest for her wings ever since. When she thought of poets, she thought of William Blake, Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson - lofty souls, while she was just a girl, writing in little spiral notebooks that were, for her, like paper anchors. She wrote to figure out what it was that she knew was urgent but that she couldn’t find the words to say out loud, or maybe it has always been a way to find the wings she’s still searching for. Her most recent works can be found in the international anthology of eco-poetry, Flora/Fauna, VOICEBOX Project, Door Is A Jar Literary Journal, Clepsydra Literary Magazine, and Persephone Literary Journal. She is overjoyed to have been nominated this year for the 2025 Pushcart Prize.

JAN 15~ LARS LOVE PHILIPSON

1/15/2025

SHINE fans, thanks for stopping by to read today's spotlighted poet -- Lars Love Philipson. Lars is a Swedish writer whose evocative poems have a metaphysical flavor. Please enjoy "Afterview" and "Tremors." Thank you, Lars, for honoring SHINE with your very first publish in English -- wishing you much future success!

Afterview

I lived my life in fragments,
the important bits like distant
planets separated by wasted
time and effort
and no matter how fine a scope
you use, can you see me as I was
pulverized into particles
spread out among
extinguished stars?

Tremors

a pain too large
is being suffered
by some body
left in a ditch

you drive away
on morphine fumes
crying blindly
through the night

but

the pain, unruly,
never done, suffered,
finds its way back
in angry notes
plastered all over your house
by the crazy neighbor
on the cul-de-sac

you read without
understanding
yet feeling
every word
as tremors
through the walls

Lars Love Philipson is a disabled writer, translator, and musician. He lives in Örebro, Sweden, with a chihuahua and seventeen drafts of a debut novel. This is his first publication in English.

JAN 14~ K WEBER

1/14/2025

Welcome back to SHINE, where today we are celebrating the work of American poet/writer, K Weber. Please enjoy two brand new poems by K, noting her lovely use of imagery. Learn more in her Bio, below. Thank you, K, for sharing your work with SHINE!

Warmth

The light misery of treacle-
thick humidity lasts an hour
before I am a pool. I have pulled

myself into the lukewarm wet
with torn feet and handfuls of hot,
sandy pebbles. The muggy water

laps my knees and sun strokes
my entire back. I have come here
with not much more than a towel

and a sandwich. I stand on this
desultory beach, wind-soaked,
as though I always lived a life

as someone tan in summer’s
distressed clothes with dampest
hair. I crave a moment alone

to put my flowering lips inside
a conch’s glassy ear to tell it I want
to kiss your ceramic petal.

Versus

That breeze brought wistfulness. But I
snatched the floor, up-end, like tornado’s

work. There was a little rain shower, too,
but I bawled my eyes raw and red until they

quenched my best shirt. A hot afternoon
yielded sweat and sunburn but I seared

myself, steely, with a simple glance
in an unforgiving mirror. Snow fell. I threw

myself down and breathed a visceral
cool. I refused to melt.

K Weber is an Ohio-based writer, and the author of eleven free poetry eBooks. She obtained her Creative Writing BA from Miami University in 1999. K writes independently and collaboratively, having created poems from 800+ words (& more!) donated by over 350 people since 2018. K has poems featured in publications such as Stone Circle Review, Stanza Cannon, Writer’s Digest, Exacting Clam, and 3 Elements Review. Her photography/digital collages appear in literary journals including Barren Magazine, HNDL Magazine and The Hooghly Review. She has enjoyed writing music-related recommendations and poems for Memoir Mixtapes over the years as well. Much of K's work (free in PDF with some offering an audiobook format) and her publishing credits are on her website: kweberandherwords.com. Find her on Instagram @midwesternskirt!

JAN 13~ MARK GAEBLER

1/13/2025

A new week, and new poetry to spotlight on SHINE! Please enjoy two poems by Colorado-based poet/writer, Mark Gaebler. As promised last week, you'll be able to note a deliberate use of rhyme again today, in these poems which feature socio-political themes. And if political poetry's not your thing, come back tomorrow for something fresh; SHINE welcomes poetry on all (non-violent, non-discriminatory) topics from poets around the world! Thanks, Mark, for sharing your words.

As the Trump-ets Sound

Lo, the Rider of Gilded Garb, astride the pale horse he rides.
His shimmering frock and fluted speech glisten in the listener’s eyes.
As the trailer’s trump-et bellows sounds of hate, greed, and divide,
the rider’s words of black and green, spell-binding in their guise,
enthrall the throngs with the trailer’s bloated hollow pomp
and trump-et’s sound of promises, never to be realized.

The rider’s shadow flows in stench of black and green,
while the aged and bloated trailer, addled by his selfish greed,
plods aimless and blinded, tied to the rider’s wasted steed,
spouting echoes of venom to the throngs, to the rider’s glee.
The throngs – they follow the trump-et’s song, betrayed and blind as he;
ever-blinded by false beckonings of shadows, black and green.

Over and again, the trailer’s song blind the throngs with hollow writhes.
“Truth be gone,” the throngs, they shout, as the rider takes it all in stride.
Shadow slithers among the blinded, its intent in venomous guise,
echoes of the trailer’s words. The throngs they spout, and rider doth abide
the black and green, who holds false temptation for the trailer’s eye.

The venomed throng, they sound, the future taken by imagined pride.
As the trump-ets sound, the future falls under his bloated stride.
The throngs still follow, blinded to the rider’s gilded guise.
The rider sings, the trump-ets sound, as the aged trailer bows,
groveling in his stupor, while Rider steals a nation’s pride.

Ship of Oars

Through the shroud of time, pours Pandora’s tears.
Greed and lies crack as thunder on the ocean of fears.
Upon the storm of sins it flows, tattered mast and sails;
The helmsman’s gleeful glare aimed at the shore of veils.
Those who have spent their moment, void of masks of their days,
Waiting with coin in hand from blood-soaked fortune gains,
Stand with chains forged of misdeeds upon the ravaged world.
They spit the blood of prey, but the helmsman hears them not;
Beckoned to seat, chains binding to ore they have wrought.
So those who are poison to humanity
Must sit upon the ship of oars and row it for eternity.

Mark Gaebler is a self-published novelist who has served in the US Army and has had a varied and lengthy career as a script-writer, medical lab worker, certified cable TV webmaster, and teacher. Gaebler holds degrees in Film/TV Production, Journalism, English, Social Studies and History, and Teacher Certification. He and his wife, Susan Lynn, have two grown children.

JAN 10~ ADEJOKE (JOJO) ADEKUNLE ALAGBA

1/10/2025

Today I welcome, Adejoke (JoJo) Adekunle Alagba, to the SHINE poetry spotlight! JoJo is a Nigerian poet who is an active part of her local and online poetry communities. Today she is sharing "Never Mine" and "My Biggest Fear." In the latter poem, note JoJo's polished use of rhyme and meter. (Next week, SHINE will be featuring more rhymed poetry...keep an eye out!) Thank you, JoJo, for entrusting your words to SHINE!

Never Mine

The world was never mine to hold,
A fragile thing, a house of cards,
Spun in the breath of a hurricane.
The universe lent me its pieces,
Let me touch its light for a moment,
Only to remind me—they were never mine.

He appeared--
Not as a gift, but a fleeting glimpse,
A fragment of joy on loan.
The universe whispered,
“Here, take this, feel this.”
And I clung to him like a drowning soul,
Grasping for something I could not keep.

He was like water in my desert,
Cool relief against my burning chest,
A lighthouse I thought would guide me home.
But even lighthouses belong to the sea,
Anchored by tides I cannot command.
He was not mine—how could he be?
When even my breath is borrowed from the stars?

I gave him all of me,
My scars, my secrets,
The armour I thought I could shed for good.
But the universe smiled,
Cruel and knowing,
As it gently took him back,
Leaving only the echo of his presence.

What was I to expect?
The universe owns everything,
Every joy, every sorrow,
Every fleeting touch of eternity.
We are only tenants of its grace,
Borrowing moments we mistake for ours.

Now I stand in the wreckage,
Pretending I had ever been whole.
Pretending I could claim him,
That the universe would let me keep
A piece of forever in my hands.
But it only lends—it never gives.

How do I breathe
When the air is not my own?
How do I walk
When the ground beneath me shifts?
The happiness I held was never mine,
Only a borrowed light,
A spark returned to the vast, indifferent sky.

And so I beg the stars,
Though they do not hear,
To grant me just one more moment.
But I know now
What the universe gives, it takes,
And I am left with nothing but the ache
Of happiness that was never truly mine.

My Biggest Fear

My biggest fear is waking up alone,
With dreams that were bright now turned grey.
A world where every chance I've ever known
Slips through my hands, like sand that blows away.

I fear the silence of an empty heart,
A hollow beat that echoes in my chest.
The gnawing doubt that tears my soul apart,
Reminding me of how I've failed the test.

Inadequacy, a shadow by my side,
It whispers softly, "You're not good enough."
Its voice, a venom, poisoning my pride,
And turning hope to something harsh and rough.

I fear the eyes that see through my disguise,
The ones that know the weakness I conceal.
Their judgement burns like fire in my eyes,
A searing truth that I can’t help but feel.

What if I try, and still I fall below?
What if my best is never close to right?
These questions plague me, never letting go,
And rob my days of peace, my nights of light.

I fear the path that leads to dreams undone,
Where every effort ends in bitter pain.
A race I run, but cannot ever be won,
With every step, more loss, more fear, more strain.

Yet through these tears, a flicker of resolve,
A fragile hope that just maybe I can rise.
For even in the places where fears revolve,
There lies the strength to reach beyond the lies.

So though my fears may tear my heart in two,
I'll face them with a courage born of fire.
For in this struggle, something bright and true,
A spark of hope, a glimpse of my desire.

Even in these fears, my strength evolves,
Yet still I wonder—will it be in vain?

Adejoke Adekunle Alagba is a writer whose work mainly explores themes of identity and human connection. With an introspective and evocative style, she crafts poetry and narratives that bridge emotion and thought. When she is not writing, she enjoys collecting books, exploring the world of wine tasting, and being immersed in stories that spark curiosity and inspiration.

JAN 9~ SAM HENDRIAN

1/9/2025

Today, it's a delight to share two narrative poems by LA-based filmmaker and writer, Sam Hendrian. Sam's mission and values in writing are reflective of just the work I aim to shine a spotlight on -- as he describes it, he's "striving to foster empathy through art." Isn't that beautiful? Be sure to check out his Bio below to learn more. Thank you, Sam, for sharing your poetry with SHINE!

The Art of Science

Said hello as little as possible
Because whenever I did
It became nearly impossible
To say goodbye.

Only embraced on special occasions
Becase each time we locked shoulders
I almost dropped the key
Into the midnight river.

She felt the same but the opposite,
Played the game before pausing it
So she could whisper “Slow down,”
“I can’t be the cure for your perpetual frown.”

A scientific realist is seldom a good match
For an artful romantic;
One will always see what’s there,
The other what they want to be there.

But if both admit to being wrong
Or at least partially right,
The chemistry lab may merge
With a pending poem.

Said hello once more than I did before,
Heard goodbye later than usual,
Then locked shoulders on the hunch
Keys would soon be irrelevant.

After the Final Chord

Watched the clock turn to midnight
While putting the 16th candle on the cake,
Then glanced over at the funhouse mirror
And saw a flicker of what she wanted to see.

Was accustomed to her outfits being praised
Plus the backhanded compliment of “You look good”
But only ever heard the words she craved
From long-dead radio superstars.

They told her she was beautiful,
That they needed her so badly
In between extended guitar breaks
To prove they were at a loss for verbal expression.

Of course, after the final chord
She was back in an empty kitchen
Reading a stack of birthday cards
From Grandma and Grandma’s closest church friends,

Which was why candles were invented,
Safe spaces for wandering wishes
Desperate to find a home
Where being nice meant more than being nice enough.

Sam Hendrian is a lifelong storyteller striving to foster empathy and compassion through art. Originally from the Chicago suburbs, he now resides in Los Angeles, where he primarily works as an independent filmmaker and has just completed his first feature film Terrificman, a deeply personal ode to the power of human kindness. You can find his poetry and film links on Instagram at @samhendrian143.

JAN 7~ CHRISTIAN WARD

1/7/2025

It's due time to celebrate the talented poet, Christian Ward, known to some as "fighting cancer with poetry" (his Instagram handle, where he frequently posts his work). Today, I'm shining the spotlight on three of Ward's fine poems: Aubade, An Honest Shade of Green, and How to Walk Through Walls. I find Ward's lines like, "This is the green worthy of the fruit bowl, a painting of a painting of a fruit bowl," reminiscent of some of my very favorite poets, such as Thom Gunn or, perhaps, Diane Seuss. Please enjoy! And, thanks Christian, for sharing your words with SHINE.

Aubade

I slip into fox in the final verse
of moonsong. Shed badger,
hare, owl. The dressing room
of night mirrors my flighty form –

undressing to reveal a threadbare
body nude and beautiful in this hour,
while I show how easy it is to lose
the harshest of skins lodged
like a pebble under the tongue.

The city passes no judgement
on my behaviour as it shifts
into cockroach, rat, wolf.
The unfinished draft of a housecat.

An Honest Shade of Green

The lawn is technicolour bright --
a shade of green enough to stop the sky,
halt the merry-go-round clouds.
This is an honest shade of green? yes.
This is the green worthy of the fruit bowl,
a painting of a painting of a fruit bowl.
This is the green worthy of the lock screen
flicked open with pride, its light
unpeeling the autumnal early nights.
This is an honest shade of green? yes.
Enough to make a sham of the moonlight
posing like a hanger on, a hand-me-down
waiting for the next recipient. The lawn
is an honest shade of green, yes.
These are the blades of grass open not
for discussions of the bet you made
or whether last night's dinner was satisfactory
as a fox’s grin. These are the blades
of grass asking you for your honesty,
your humility, for your words not to graze
them like the first mowing of the month.
This is an honest shade of green? yes.

How to Walk Through Walls

Be still like the conductor's baton of a heron
orchestrating the flow of a river.

Be still like the finale of a horse chestnut
blossom nestled in the knuckle of autumn's chill.

Be still like a pike embracing the net,
a skeleton staircase of geese sleeping mid-flight,
a robin capturing the sunset in its eye.

Be still like a freshly fallen apple being mapped
by a cartographer fly.

Always remember you are the fruit,
the earth, the cycle.

Christian Ward is a UK-based poet with work in Acumen, Dreich, Dream Catcher, Dodging the Rain and Canary, and others. He was longlisted for the 2023 Aurora Prize for Writing, shortlisted for the 2023 Ironbridge Poetry Competition and 2023 Aesthetica Creative Writing Award, and won the 2023 Cathalbui Poetry Competition.

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