SAMANTHA TERRELL - POET / EIC, SHINE Poetry Series
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Aug. 26~ A.M. HAYDEN

8/26/2026

 
  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
(A Trinitas for Tori Amos, Mother Version)

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Fire and Flame
(For P!nk)

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A.M. Hayden served as Poet Laureate for Sinclair College (2021-2025), is a Tenured Professor of Humanities, Philosophy, and World Religions, and received the League for Innovation Teaching Excellence Award (2020) and Distinguished Faculty Scholars Award (2024). With two full length poetry collections (American Saunter and Old World Wings) and one chapbook (How to Tie Tobacco), published by FlowerSong Press and Wild Ink Publishing respectively, she is a River Heron Editors' Choice Winner and twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She lives on a windy farm with her family and many rescues including a blind, three-legged dog.

August 21~ KEV THE POET

8/21/2026

 
Another week is wrapping up here at the SHINE poetry series desk! Today, SHINE is pleased to welcome back British writer, Kev the Poet with two new poems that speak to recent social events in America. Thank you, Kev, for sharing these poignant pieces. Have a pleasant weekend, all~

Shoes

Trump reportedly gifts cabinet members and White House visitors with Florsheim shoes - The Guardian

He buys them shoes to
gain their loyalty.  
Guessing their size 
(always incorrect)
they wear these Oxfords 
hand-stitched, £100 a pair. 
Showing fealty
to a senile king. 
Heels swimming in them 
like kids on their first day 
at infant school. 
Leaving them wriggle room
to say, when justice comes 
‘a big boy did it’. 
The boxes pile up high 
in The Oval Office.  
Like coffins from an 
Iranian girls school. ​

​The Death Of A Poet
(for Renee Nicole Good)

When you kill a poet, it is 
not the end. Their blood becomes ink
seeps into cold earth, whispers resistance.
They become merely animistic
beyond paper, or peppered air. 
Poets, poems are both extremophile.  
Whether ranted, dictated to daughters 
dismissed, devalued or destroyed
they outlast any tyrant, move faster 
than any agent or sly bullet.  
Whilst we will forget the moustaches,
salutes, the evasions, the baseball caps, 
the mouth, like a lazy basking shark 
a poem, once written, just runs wild. 
Dictators graves grow wild with weeds
whilst the grave of a small poet 
is covered in fresh flowers daily.  
Their legend grows longer in death.  ​
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Kev The Poet was born in Liverpool and began writing poetry in the early 90’s, after reading The Mersey Poets and a bout of unrequited love. He began again in 2022, as a response to the incipient rise of fascism. Kev's work has been called poems of ‘angst, disdain, and scorn’ and has been performed across the country. He has also appeared on BBC Radio 2, BBC Devon/Cornwall, and he contributes a weekly poem to Shaun Keavney’s show on Community Garden Radio. Kev has been published twice in the US poetry magazine SHINE Quarterly, and Urban Scrawl (which is devoted to poetry, stories, art and photography about cities).

August 17~ RICHARD LeDUE

8/17/2026

 
Hello, dear poetry lovers! It's great to be back at the SHINE poetry series desk, after a week of hiatus. Today we're shining the spotlight on regular SHINE contributor, Canadian poet, Richard LeDue! Thank you, Richard, for once again sharing your words with the SHINE poetry community.

Late Night Realism

If you have a light bulb
burned-out,
you’re better off philosophizing
with the assistant manager
at a hardware store than this poem
because these words
have more in common
with unwanted darkness
than 100 watts blasting
from a 60-watt max socket.

While Being Immortalized by the Census

I wish I could find victory
in a mockingbird’s song
or at least empathize
with the defeat
living in a dead bird
inside a cat’s mouth,
but instead I complain
about turning the oven on
in a heatwave,
expired milk during a blizzard,
and the sounds of children
playing outside.

We Can't Afford A Parachute, Even In Our Dreams

​Whether it’s AI or the co-worker
who never says “hello,”
too many fear for their jobs
like someone scared of heights,
yet happily dreaming every night
of flying,
without realizing the way
people fall each day
is a lot quieter
than any dreamscape splat.
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Richard LeDue (he/him) lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He writes poems. His last collection, “Existential Drunk,” was released from Alien Buddha Press in May 2026.

August 5~ JAMES AITCHISON

8/5/2026

 
SHINE poetry fans, today it's a thrill to put the spotlight on work by Australian writer, James Aitchison. Please enjoy his thought-provoking poems:  dada graffiti, Epiphany, and What is life in dada? Thank you, James, for being a part of SHINE!

dada graffiti

loyal but insincere redemption
written descriptors in the mouth
piquant, taste to reach
   heights upon which we dwell
sycophant’s words I forgive you
earth channels through Tzara’s country rivers
sorrow a baseless emotion
our primary means of communication

Epiphany

the beast that should be free
absolutely a cinquain Roman arch
in fearful mellowness
feet born again for victory parades
through terror affordable and shady
the sunlight on which we stand
the sonnet cannot be pricked
Shakespeare’s boketto elephant


EDITOR’S NOTE: The Japanese philosophy of ‘Boketto’ is a practice rooted in the art of non-doing and peaceful reflection

What is life in dada?

crawling up golden drains of stagnant ideas
frothy bubbly importance floating on political incompetence
learning nothing because there is nothing to learn
archaic men in cosseted stupidity croak formulaic wisdom, no thanks
confused trajectories of mortgaged wilderness
aliens invading the second drawer in my cupboard
myths of hurdy gurdies swallowing angels
i am wearing only one shoe
you’ve just won a trip to Somalia
Amyl is the capital of Nitrate
cakes have urinary tract infections
all parallel lines eventually meet
hum comes before ho
life is irrelevant so is Ikea
virgins have joined the air force
I want to be Gregory Peck
the idiot in charge is the mouth of the world
stupidity conquers all
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​James Aitchison is an Australian author and poet whose work has appeared in the Australian Poetry Anthology, Aesthetica, Quadrant, Shine Poetry Series, Literary Yard, Adelaide Literary Magazine, and many others.  As James Lee, his children's horror stories became the Netflix series Mr Midnight: Beware the Monsters.

    SHINE - International Poetry Series

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    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
    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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