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Today, we turn the spotlight on Seattle native, Sophia Rollins, and her poems "The Year of the Salmon" (previously published by Poetry Super Highway and La Piccioletta Barca), "Frying Pan," and "Today, Tomorrow, Or Until it Takes Hold." Thank you, Sophia, for sharing your words with SHINE! The Year of the Salmon The summer we stopped speaking, the salmon returned to the river. Their bodies shimmered like living flames in the cold green current, scales flashing silver, pink, and that bruised, deep red of beginnings nearing their end. You watched them once, quietly, from the bridge, hands tucked into your pockets like you were afraid to touch the moment. The air was thick enough to chew, with cedar and rain, and the gulls wheeled above us, their cries were sharp enough to carve the sky. “They always come back,” you said, but I could hear the doubt in your voice. What does it mean to return when the journey costs so much? I wondered if they felt the pull as pain or something sweeter-- an ache that keeps them moving, even as their bodies break apart. That fall, I found a salmon carcass wedged between river rocks, its eye clouded over, its skin torn but still glowing faintly. I wanted to show it to you, to ask if you thought it was worth it, the struggle, the return, the inevitable end. The river kept rushing on, in its perpetual hurry, pulling pieces from the flaking body, and funneling them into the mouth of the sea, agape. Frying Pan You once told me my pupil looked like a frying pan. A freckle near my iris creating the illusion – wide, empty, a little too hot around the edges. I laughed, and you smiled like you´d just shared a secret joke the world would never hear. But I didn’t know how to take it. How hadn't anyone noticed this before? What was so funny about me? Once, I dissected myself in the mirror, my eyes too large in the dim light, wondering if I had become a skillet, ready to scorch everything I touched. We´d sit in the kitchen, fingers stained with butters and fat, your hands melting against mine as you flipped pancakes that never turned out right. I don’t know why we still tried. I would look at you, watch you stir the batter like it was something sacred, wondering if I could ever be something steady, something solid enough to fill the hollow parts of us. Something fluid and oozing that grows and rises, with edges that curl with time. Once, in the middle of the night, you kissed me on the forehead, and it felt like you were trying to warm me, pressing the heat of your lips into a place I couldn’t reach. We laughed about my frying pan pupil, but there was a silence between the words, fluid and oozing, a space that grew bigger with each passing day, until it felt like the space was all that was left. Now when I look in the mirror, I see the frying pan, the freckle, the forehead, and I feel the quiet heat that still lingers – a slow burn, a reminder of something that never quite boiled over. Today, Tomorrow, or Until it Takes Hold The hours are nothing but a scrape, a shallow wound where time has worn its edge. Each moment bleeds in measured, cruel escape, like water running from a jagged ledge. The air is thick with what I cannot say, with words too heavy to be born, too late – they sit like stones, where every Thought will stay, Unspoken, tangled, in a silent weight. This house has learned the language of silence, Its walls a hush, its rooms too wide for sound. And still, the space between us grows immense, As if the distance pulls, without a bound. Tomorrow wears its hunger like a crown, Its hands outstretched to drag the whole world down. Tomorrow, then, will trace its endless thread, A pattern drawn from something half forgotten – A tangled weave of what remains unsaid, Its pulse too faint, its edges often rotten. How can we grasp the things that slip away, That slip like water, through our fingers’ grasp? What promise holds when love begins to fray, Its trembling form unsure of what to clasp? Each passing moment marks its fading place, Leaving behind the shape of something real, A ghost of tenderness, now hard to trace, Too faint to hold, too sharp to truly feel. Today is wrapped in tattered, shifting cloth, A whisper left to wander in the broth. Or until it takes hold, as time will do, And gathers what it can from all we’ve left. It pulls us in, though we were never sure – Its hands both soft and firm, its grip adept. In this we change, in loss we´re redefined, A shape made whole by breaking, Slowly, slow. The ache we felt – still sharp and yet benign – Becomes the burden we learn to bestow. For every bruise we wear, a mark of grace, A quiet song that hums beneath the skin. What once was gone now finds its truest place, And still, the weight of it will settle in. Tomorrow takes the form of what remains, And in its pull, we find what loss sustains. So here I stand, with what I know to hold, Though it's not the weight I thought I’d keep. Tomorrow will not come as we were told, But as a shape that in its shifting seeps. What once was love is threaded through my bones, Woven into marrow, stitched into my skin. And when it breaks – if breaks it must – Unknown, It will return, the only way to win. Today, tomorrow, what we’ve learned will hold, Or scatter, still, as dust, as dreams unfold - A form that shifts, yet holds us in its fold, Until it takes us, soft and fierce, And bold. In every wound, a thread to wave and fold, Until it takes place, both soft and cold.  Sophia Rollins is a poet from Seattle, Washington, whose work explores themes of connection, loss, and memory. Drawing inspiration from past professors and the poets who have shaped her, she strives to capture the quiet, often complex moments of the human experience through vivid, reflective language. She currently resides in Asturias, Spain.
Today, SHINE online series welcomes Moroccan Amazigh Poet, Lamiae Zeriouh who brings us two poems which reflect on the internal and external struggles of life. Thank you, Lamiae, for sharing your words with SHINE. The Eternal Jest Life lies, And yet we trust its wit. It offers lessons, But we do not commit. It slaps us awake, But we swiftly omit. Its signs are clear, But we fail to admit. It grants fresh chances, Yet we squander it. When it re-lies, We trust it, still lit. “What fools you are,” life mocks, “Re-trusting every bit.” Wings Over WagesWorking hard, Waiting for a pay Much outlay of THIRTY DAYS I might not be in need of a MONTH'S pay, Instead, I need to form wings, and soar away – Sure! Soar away – Away.  Lamiae Zeriouh is a Moroccan Amazigh Researcher. She is currently a first-year Ph.D candidate in Digital Anthropology at the University of Sidi Mohamed Ben Abdellah, Faculty of Arts and Humanities, Dhar Al Mahraz, Fes, Morocco. She got her Master’s degree in Language, Communication & Society Studies with an MA Thesis focus on the Hegemony of News Media Discourse in War/Conflict times. Lamiae is a civic engagement enthusiast, with experience in language revitalization projects, a youth and women empowerment internship, and a digital narrative activism fellowship. She has also a profound passion for writing both prose and poetry, with a published short story in MonoNoAware Anthology, an Essay on “Political Communication in post-truth era” in the Culture and Identity Conference’s proceedings issue, an Eco-narrative in the international outlet Panorama: The Journal of Travel, Place, and Nature, and a Creative non-fiction paper published in the Anthology of Festive African Writing Vol.3 by BrittlePaper journal.
Today SHINE continues our recent foray into poems exploring the seasons with, "Whispers of Fall" (an appropriate one for our friends Down Under) and "One Restless Night." I hope no matter where you're from, that you'll enjoy these two nature poems by American poet, Richard McClellan. Thank you so much, Richard, for sharing your gift of words with SHINE! Whispers of FallGround covered in a haze, With a moonlight piercing afterglow, The shimmer is brazen, Filled by blowing leaves in tow. Giving hints of the change to come, Cool air creeps in at night, The Whispers of Fall migrate, Towards October's day of fright. The cordial days of fall Bring seasonal beliefs, After thy hot days of summer, With sounds of autumn relief. The Whispers of Fall, Make a joyous fellow, With the rustling of colored leaves, In their shades of Red and Yellow. One Restless NightOne Restless Night, Under a bright white moon, Live oak tree swaying, With a pesky raccoon. The night air is cool, Neath these warming stars, Getting warm in sheep's wool, Walking this trail so far. Enjoying the sights and sounds, Beneath the glowing moonlight, The wolves howl abound, Giving song with no daylight. The coyotes jabber in the distance, Heckling the deer below, The herd propagated with resistance, At this coyote and wolf show. ARTIST STATEMENT: Richard L. McClellan  I was born in Yellville, Arkansas (USA). I served in the U.S. Army, and I have traveled the world including Japan, Korea, Portugal, Italy, Canada, and most of the lower 48 United States and Alaska. My favorite place that I have visited is the Azores Islands in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. My hobbies include poetry, genealogy, motorcycling, crocheting, and knitting. Prior to an injury sustained in 2007, I enjoyed playing billiards, 8-ball, and 9-ball competitively. My educational background includes a Bachelor's Degree in Electronics from Southwest Missouri State University, and an Associates Degree in Electromechanical Technology from North Arkansas Community College. I've been writing poetry since 2011.
Poetry lovers, I'm honored to shine a spotlight on emerging poet, Caleb Ogwuru, who brings us a delightful four-part poem, "Seasons." Thanks, Caleb, for sharing your words with SHINE! Seasons OneThe nights arrive sooner now. Day sketches her sky. Experimenting with whites and blacks. Oak and Birch exhausted, each leaf will be fallen, even they too tired to stand rest on sweating green. A cloud so heavy it is yet to rise adds mist and mystery, she too mourning summer. TwoLife slows itself to a wander and strolls across ice-ridden ground. Air slips in and out of view, matching these exertions stride for stride. The clouds are absent, off in search of warmth. Daylight brief, the only reminder of a sun’s existence. ThreeEverything is new here, life is yet to understand itself. Suddenly greens add noise to scenes once filled with a white silence. These hours are calm and violent. Day, unsure of season to which he belongs, concedes to each in an afternoon. FourDays find the time night had left behind and repurpose it as their own. Sunshine reflects on waves brave enough to explore what lies beyond the horizon. Behind these scenes a thunder recites, ready to play his part. Each star a distant flame scorching the darkness, until even the nights perspire.  Caleb Ogwuru is a Black-British writer of Nigerian descent, originally from Manchester and currently living in London. SHINE poetry is Caleb's publishing debut.
Welcome, Poet TB3! Poetry lovers, please enjoy this poem about the "runner's high" (not a runner anymore but I used to be, and I'm sure this poem will resonate with many!). Poet TB3, thanks for sharing your words with the SHINE audience. A Runner's Rest Rest Time to take a day off from training Rest A runner’s mind enjoys it Rest Sharpens the mind, boosts motivation Rest A runner’s muscles enjoy it Rest, now over Recovery, strength Back on the track One mile to go Breathe in Breathe out The runner pushes ahead Sees the finish – Finish line in sight, If only to endure This agony, pain Without rest In the morning Rest Time to take a day off from training Rest A runner’s mind enjoys it Rest Sharpens the mind, boosts motivation Rest A runner’s muscles enjoy it  T.E. “Poet TB3” Brooks, is a USAF Veteran’s wife, poet, and self-published author. Her first chapbook of poems, Heroism, Humility, and Honor, Poems to Thank You (2016), was written to say “thank you” to those who sacrifice their lives to serve one’s country. She wrote those poems to reflect what heroism, humility, and honor mean to her. Some of her hobbies include writing, music, traveling, and digital creations. She resides in Virginia with her family. Connect with her on social media on Instagram: @poettb3
Welcome back, poetry lovers! This week I'm shining a spotlight on Irish poet, Kieran Beville, who brings us three seasonal poems perfect for the Spring/Fall Equinox that rolled around again last week. So whether you're in the Northern or Southern Hemishpere, thanks for your interest in SHINE international poetry series. And a hearty thanks to Kieran, for sharing your gift of words! Spring Will Come and GoThe pregnant earth will birth flowers – Crocuses and bluebells will run wild around the feet of the fragrant pine trees clustered in the lower field. There, crows squabble and mallards seem to laugh. In the pond swans descend shattering the mirror of morning sun. Daffodils will stand proud again blowing their trumpets until they bend to the soil. We too will bow in due season and all our pride will be covered in the creeping ivy of forgetfulness. Autumn Evening Sitting on my swing-seat, a candle lantern glowing in the dark. Autumn sidling up to me like a cat. The last of the roses droop their heads for the long sleep. There is something soothing about the gentle swaying – a boat on a lake. No music, no reading just the city breathing – a slumbering lover in this sacred space. Autumn MelancholyWhen hooded hills loiter in the night And branches bend with sloes, Something lurks in dwindling light Amongst the whispering shadows. Then melancholy glides, Silent as an owl, Its wings moist with mist – To perch in nocturnal thoughts And stare into the heart's abyss.  Kieran Beville is an Irish author, poet, and journalist. He is author of Write Now – A Guide to Becoming a Writer (Limerick Writers Centre, 2019). Beville has had a substantial number of poems and articles published in various newspapers, journals and magazines, as well as five collections of poetry (Revival Press).
SPOTLIGHT ON...prose poetry by Abigail BrownBeehive Have you ever wondered what it's like inside a beehive where there is pure honey made with hard will and strife that we put on our biscuits and taste so yummy whether human or bug life is about the determination we all love so next thought you think make it a thought like a bee making honey in the beehive above. Heartbreak Sharkbait Heartbreak shark bait want to eat your heartache our mistake welcome to the garden Gates of spells no one here to tell so I freaking yell just want to rebel what's the purpose heartbreak shark bait I just freaking hate how they all discriminate what's really ours to take go ahead break down the heartache just call me shark bait retaliate wondering about my fate eventually disintegrate f***** around now it's too late we all get a little taste of heartbreak just call me shark bait delegate the crowd with love being loved what's your purpose asking myself why do you deserve this you know you're worth this lame's dismissed themselves ringing dinner bells steady screaming yells heartbreak shark bait casted out your line caught in rewind heartbreak shark underlined.
SPOTLIGHT ON... PreetamDas Kirtana Verse & Vine Consider the lilies but consider this, too, when we “toil or spin”, it could be we’re rooted no deeper than self, We don't lack seed but soil, not shade but sun beyond what we alone can grow. We have supply and demand but not desire, to lose privilege, feed everyone, protect, serve, educate, eradicate war, quench every single thirst with community wells. We have Ways but not will, to water thirst, that isn't our own, to offer assistance unearned, to not victim-blame, to not sink in shame, to acknowledge - we hold the key to changing a certain and avoidable end hinging on understanding the difference between domination and dominion, between being born “very good” or “in sin”, between starting with chapter one or chapter three, between Presence and power, and how both are soft and strong, soaring, still, rising grounded, disciple’s heart, joyfully seva bound. The Beatitudes could guide us, that one sermon we have but we don't want to risk taking them literally like the stone tablet ten, and they're not rife with comforting legalism or ego return, they don't inspire envy in disciples’ craving power without compassion, but God's power without God's compassion, as it turns out, isn't God, at all, it's just self-seeking on a pilgrim path, all me doing me, cheering me, rooting for ourselves and believing God does, too, and, of course, It does: God cheers us to return to our roots, to consider our soil, Source, and light, to be honest about our will and ways, and desire and how aligning those three, can be the Home we never left, Eden restored, no border, no bouncer, no blame. Daily Brew It was a two storm tide that swallowed mother before my eyes, dad and me, funnel clouds fuming, double dog daring your landmine or mine held down too long, too tight too wet two small foul tides, both rising, barren bosom, dry heartland drenched to drowning by a two storm tide turning against mother, father, and son, and the Holy Ghost, who comforted all but saved none. Sunlight, Moonlight, Star Gate Child I often don't regulate well, I sometimes praise too loudly without carrying a single note, I often risk trusting too much when the evidence says don't, so rather than rooftop proclaiming, I embedded my thanks here in my open palm recognized by your portal palm pressed to my passing witness planted, by the same riverside, sharing network of roots that shall not be, shall not be moved but whose pipe branch sent wind song will be moved, across the face of the waters and tides of time, of storms stilled, yet waters troubled by difference drowning wholeness, desiring, healing rising and healing does rise prodigal, prophet, seer, beggar, saint, come near, press your palm to my mirror, my holy breath held in your own, heart open by a song unrehearsed, a tune known by trusting hearts and mirrored hands tracing glory, trailing love, revealing wings in our shared human story.  Preetam’s work has been featured on Semantikon/Three Fools Press website (under previous name ‘Patrick Sebastian’) and archived with other authors at The Weston Gallery, Cincinnati, Ohio documenting Ohio arts and media at the turn of the 21st century. His nonfiction has been serialized in The Dayton City Paper. His poetry was included in the 2024 Ohio Bards Anthology. He taught creative nonfiction at Stivers High School for the Arts and co-chaired a Men's Writing Group in Santa Fe, N.M. His 2016 Essay, "Why Survive a Plague?" is featured on "35 Years of AIDS" at Indolentbooks.com.
Spotlight on...Texas-based poet, J.E. Deegan! I Knew You were dressed in blue that day, Your hair a lovely amber tide Spilling in waves Upon your shoulders. And I knew. You were smiling softly, Eyes bright and dancing, Your face a shining beacon To all who passed your way. And I knew. I watched from the shadows, Well beyond your notice And fully aware Of my privileged place. And I knew. Enthralled, my heart swelling, I could but stare at you And humbly thank God That you had finally come. And I knew. Though we had yet to meet That I would spend The rest of my life Loving you. Yes, I knew.  Holding a B.A. in English from Colgate University, J.E. Deegan taught Language Arts in public and private schools for twenty years. He also worked as a communications specialist in advertising and public relations. Sports have been an important part of his life; he played football and baseball at Colgate and coached football and track at the high school level. Deegan has written a novel, two screenplays, short stories and poetry. His published works to date are: THE MOMENTS IN BETWEEN, a volume of poetry; LIMBOLAND, a collection of SFFH short stories; WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GUY, a collection of children’s stories; and CHRISTMAS POETRY FOR JUNE, narrative poems written for his wife. A number of his short stories and poems have been published in anthologies, in print magazines, and online. Additionally, he has had over fifty articles on a variety of subjects published in trade journal magazines. Deegan and his wife, June reside in Spring, Texas. They have three children and eight grandchildren.
Today SHINE welcomes self-published writer, JoyAnne O'Donnell, who draws poetic inspiration from the natural world. Please enjoy her poems "Dandelion Dust" and "Sky of Grace." Thank you, JoyAnne, for sharing your work with SHINE! Dandelion DustThe wishes' soft white breeze Calls to the seven seas A good wish dream Drawn into a blue sky Sun captures the honey gaze Little angels sing your name Stars blowing flowers To the great path where lighthouses Tower to the great day – tomorrow and today. Sky of GraceA high place To fly with blue calm Like a wonderful hymn's psalm With unity From shades of light, Warm then bright.  JoyAnne O'Donnell is a self-published author of five poetry collections. Currently living in Maryland, JoyAnne loves to take walks to muse with nature and embrace its flowers and sweet sunlight.
Poetry fans, I'm so pleased to welcome my friend and fellow Upstate poet, Dodie Jones, to the SHINE family. Please enjoy two of her short form poems: "Belly of a Whale," and "Oak." Thank you, Dodie, for sharing your gift of words! Belly of a Whale Oak   Dodie Jones has found solace, hope, and strength in words for most of her life. Poetry has been a quiet and steady friend that has both given her space to absorb the depths of the world and connect to its heartbreak and beauty. After years of working and writing in the public policy sphere, she is focusing more and more on the impact of art to truly understand and realize our human condition as a means for lasting connection and change.
While there is a place for direct language and dialogue, giving a voice to the intangible may be what saves us. Welcome back, poetry lovers! After a few days off for vacation, that segued into a few more days off with the flu...I'm back with more great poetry from the international community. Today I'm shining the spotlight on British poet, Jazz McCoull. Please enjoy "A Constant State of Explosion" and "Tomorrow." Thank you, Jazz, for sharing your words! A Constant State of Explosion  Tomorrow   Jazz McCoull is a non-binary writer of prose and poetry born and based in the North of England. Their work is broadly concerned with themes of embodiment, identity, grief, and nostalgia. They have previously appeared in Spectrum (2022) and Kinship (2023), both published by Renard Press, as well as OUCH! Collective's second and third volumes. This week, SHINE welcomes emerging poet, Shilpa Chakrabarti, who brings us her poem, "The Night Beckons Me." Thank you, Shilpa, for sharing your words, and best wishes on your continued poetic journey! The Night Beckons Me Thoughts, brimming with the memories of bygones Creep silently to raise an emotional turmoil - The solitude of the night, then, beckons me To vent out my lonesomeness, wrapping me in its dark foil. Into a tormented mood and baffled mind This loneliness would have left me; But, the softness of nocturnal zephyr dries my tears, And the sky magnanimously shares its vastness with me. How will I return night’s selfless favours? They rekindle in me, a zeal to walk towards light. Never expected hope to reach me Amidst the gloomy darkness of the night!! Thoughts soaked in depressing bygones Intend to drag me into emotional turmoil, I see. The dark night beckons me, to absorb my pain; With positive vibes, towards bright light, it pushes me.  Dr. Shilpa Chakrabarti was a medical writer for a couple of years before she took to freelance content creation. She has worked for several publication houses, in preparing book chapters, questionnaires, and study materials. She has written blogs and articles on various topics related to health and education. Of late, writing poems has become her leisure pleasure. This is just the beginning of her spiritual journey, and she hopes to walk more in search of solace through poetry.
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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 SYLVIA PLATH
Stars Over the Dordogne Stars are dropping thick as stones into the twiggy
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