Blog Posts

Dec. 15~ A SPECIAL CHRISTMAS SPOTLIGHT

12/15/2025

Welcome back to SHINE, where today we're shining the spotlight on not one...not two...but three different writers!!! I hope you enjoy these Christmas-related pieces from Josh Gonzalez, Doug Stoiber, and Richard McClellan (and thank you, Josh, Doug, and Richard for sharing your words!).

PLUS...this week, SHINE has a few more Spotlights for you ahead of a planned holiday hiatus, so stay tuned, and be sure to come back in January for a full line-up of new Book Reviews and more amazing poetry from our contributors around the globe!

JOSH GONZALEZ
The Snow Queen

Once upon a winter twilight I sit once more in the void spaces. Where time runs together like colors bleeding down a canvas, all blending into different shades until they shade to grey: yet, not black, not white, but a blankness. A nothingness that’s as still as virgin snow in December morning-night; each snowflake silently drifts ever downward from the steel bright sky: a midnight afternoon where all life has stopped.

A glittering wonderland romanticized from frosted windows, heaters, and four-wheel drive. An isolation so alluring we are blind to the bite, to the thorns amidst the roses, to the smiles hiding the pain, to the cries now silent. For like an iceberg that split we now drift apart, detached from empathy; we are detached from all emotion like the grass frozen and buried beneath those rolling white hills.

I see myself in a mirror that reflects the past. The reflection ripples like a drop in a lake: a distortion through their eyes, and a cancer taking root from a child’s need—all alone in that forest wilderness. Not in those European forests of fairyland, but in the dense evergreens of the pacific west. Yet, in the frosting of the world that once was, in the shimmering of the mirror like Ozma in the throne room, and in the shattering like the devil’s mirror as it grinned near heaven—all emotions and memories scatter. They like tiny pieces of glass float across the child’s inner world like pollen. They twinkle like wind chimes, like how we believe the glittering of the snow should sound. And in the lulling I fall into a daydream: into the stillness.

For like Kay the glass freezes in my eye and in my heart. And like the Snow Queen my inner world kisses my cheek till all is forgotten; my features all sparkling blue with ice. There is no malice here but a warm embrace like a bear skin cloak; the sinking into a snow drift. A protective envelopment from the cold winter world outside. A heart frozen yet safe.

For in those dreams all these fears can be romanticized too, so I can drift in the true fairyland and the reconstructed lands for the nursery. Frozen in that past reflection. Preserved forever in a cryosleep. And that me that wanders in that wonderland can be Gerta too. Adventuring in search of who I once was, wandering across lands unknown.

Hoping for spring to come again. Where the ice shall melt to tears on my cheeks.

DOUG STOIBER
Whither Tinsel?

When I was a lad and still believed that Santa Claus came down our flue,
I’d wake at dawn on Christmas Day and take the stairs two at a time
Fling wide the door to the living room and marvel at a dream come true
Our Christmas tree, bedecked in silver, a vision brilliant and sublime

No Fourth of July rockets match the flashing shimmering sparks
Thrown off by tinsel’s mirrored strands, each pine branch clad with silver streamers
Throughout the room, reflected sparkles rift the air like flaming darts
Surpassing brilliance even of the brightest of the Christmas dreamer’s

What has become of tinsel now? Its ubiquity far in my past
Consigned to memory, not in style for trimming trees at Christmas
Not found weeks later, curbside on forsaken husk (it couldn’t last)
Not flailing at our wintered eyes for one last smile as we get back to business

The bane of brooms and vacuums, tinsel fought them to a maddening draw;
Fingers scooping up the rogue remains could wad a veritable ball of lead
We, tasked with “redding up” the Christmas-littered living room, revealed our labor’s flaw
When certain siblings flung these dense projectiles at another’s head

Ah, Tinsel! You were always so; that swish of energy and light
Despite our parents’ reprimands, we jollied in the fun of chucking handfuls at the spruce
Indeed, the pre- and post-Yule flinging of your strands brought pre- and post - delight
Ah, well. You made my Christmas dazzle ere you fell into disuse

JOSH GONZALEZ
Oh, Little One

Oh, little one
Where have you been?
Leveed across the great divide.
I grasp now that I wish you were near
For inevitable do you hide,
Peeking from the corner of a tear.
Now, I am close, yet still so far from you.
You shocked us all when you appeared.
We can laugh about it now, their mouths agape,
Their presence, blue and white: a teenage family.

Yet, you bravely came forth.
You made your presence known.
A gripping in my lower back: a diaphragmatic sob.
The tears—not mine, but ours.
Tears that write stories;
Water calligraphy drawn down our cheeks.
Tears that transcend time and space.
Tears that time travel, each drop a window,
Each drop a mirror. For you come from before,
Preserved as that boy I long to be again
When I knew myself.
Oh, little one how much you carry all alone.

Oh, little one I’m here now.
We are here now.
It’s ok, you can cry now. We can cry now.
You place your burden in a jar: all our grief.
For in that time long gone, the first time we froze,
We lost one we loved so much.
Oh, how he shined like a star.
Out in the dusty sagebrush fields of the west.
Driving along in his work cleaning van,
And we’d stay the night,
Lounging on a well worn leather couch.
A pitch black night outside the window.
For when it’s dark it’s dark in the desert.
The coyotes yip yip would herald a story,
And his wide animated eyes would scare us too.
But oh, how fun the spine chilling tale would be:
An invisible line woven tight in loving thread.

Oh, little one how precious that loving thread.
A love as loyal as a band of outlaws.
A Kraft single for each sorrow.
The crinkle of plastic announcing his return.
A slice of block cheese for each worry.
For like a film reel my memories replay:
Siamese, little shop, and yellow bricks.
All buried in a box.
Silenced for more important adult pain.
An isolation on the small couch in the kitchen.
Our shocked wide eyes dry in obedience.
A stone statue drifting through the funeral home.
This outlaw was left alone in the emptiness.

Oh, little one how long you held on to that star.
Each point bent and worn, held close in tiny
Arms. Now, you cradle the jar,
Like the animal friends all an audience
Under the bunk bed, scooby doo sheets hugs,
And a white black rat: all friends in a daisy field.
Now, vacant like that wooden porch,
The side shed, and the empty golf balls.

Oh, little one you shoulder an adult burden,
Not one star, but a constellation.
A whole universe captured in your arms.
Handled with care, each one precious.
A head tilted on a pillow—tilted and tried.
A pain made for many, yet held by a child.
We all realized, oh, little one.
When you climbed onto that couch,
Hands and feet first,
Where all that hidden sorrow lies.
That sorrow that’s just on the edge.
That the one who fell can’t feel.
Are you with him too, oh, little one?
Only two years apart.
All the time lost.
All the time spent with a broken heart.
We all knew and we all felt.

Oh, how compassion can flow.
How abundant the waters of love,
When true and fragrant with humility.
Love crumbles the high walls and washes away
Riches. Love rinses eyes of glass shards,
Until all are seen as is: beauty in what is,
As it is, when it is, and how it was.
So, that we can be loved unconditionally.

For oh, how lucky we are,
In how the world was created.
For those fall evening drives,
In your embrace, oh Jesus.
Holding me up, my arm across your shoulder,
Our faces sore with joyous laughter.
Love! An ever babbling fountain of cool water.
That was all it was ever meant to be.
You and I a relationship.
The flowing breeze between the leaves.
The purpling of the clouds.
And like a mirrored reflection our inner family
A relationship too. A well of love so deep,
That even I a ten-year-old child with a jar of stars,
Will never be alone.

For I, a ten-year-old child with a jar of stars,
Can find a place in that room in my mind.
On that couch where I hugged myself.
The I that kept us going when we fell.
You all see me now.
The three or four, all blue and white.
The kind father who loves us so.
And now I see so clearly why you love us, Jesus.
And I can lay back safe and let these tears,
Write the stories untold.
For freeze was not a cold winter night,
But a house, warm with a fire.
Surrounded by my family
Within their embrace.

RICHARD McCLELLAN
The Old Country Church

The church bell tolls
Down by the river,
Where the water's awfully cold,
And that river keeps rolling along.

The congregation mourns
A deacon that passed the other day.
It was raining on this world
With rolling black clouds that look like grey clay.

A gravel road greets the church's entrance
Where wheels bring the people on Sunday,
To sing along to the gospel,
How Great Thou Art.

Precious memories follow the congregation
As the choir harmonizes.
Singing, I hear rolling thunder, and
My Savior God, to Thee.

BIOGRAPHIES

Josh Gonzalez is a gay Christian writer. He is an emerging writer, who has been writing and emerging for twenty years now. A series of unfortunate health issues and crippling childhood trauma created unforeseen obstacles, however, simultaneously giving him a wealth of material to write about. He has an Associates Degree in English from Truckee Meadows Community College, and a Bachelor's Degree in English Literature from University of Nevada Reno. His short fiction piece “Summertime” has appeared in the online journal of Two Sisters Writing & Publishing. He is currently working on a collection of queer fairytales, his memoir “All My Life”, and a poetry book on dealing with the freeze fear response and his trauma healing journey through IFS (internal family systems). His work is inspired by classic fairytales, myths, and legends. You can also find him researching CPTSD, complex trauma, and homophobic trauma in the hopes of better understanding himself and others. In his free time, he can be found collecting more books than he can store. Plus, when the time comes all the books that couldn’t fit on his shelf can be constructed for his coffin.

Doug Stoiber is a poet and short story writer, and a member of Mossy Creek Writers in East Tennessee. Fifteen of his short stories and twenty-nine of his poems have been published in magazines, journals and anthologies.

Richard McClellan served in the U.S. Army, and has travelled the world including Japan, Korea, Portugal, Italy, Canada, and most of the lower 48 United States and Alaska. His favorite place that he has visited is the Azores Islands in the Atlantic Ocean. Richard’s hobbies include poetry, genealogy, motorcycling, crocheting, and knitting. Prior to an injury sustained in 2007, he enjoyed playing billiards, 8-ball, and 9-ball competitively. His 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. He has been writing poetry since 2011.

Dec.12~ SADIE MASKERY

12/12/2025

Poetry lovers, I'm thrilled to bring you brand new poetry for your Friday evening...from Scottish poet Sadie Maskery. Thank you, Sadie, for sharing your words with SHINE international poetry series!

Gran

She thought she was haunted,
there were voices all the time...
I heard her freaking scream,
came running, what voices, where?
and she said there, it's telling me...
Telling you what? It counts the hours.
Until I'm gone, dead, every night
it counts in my head every breath
through the bed, this shrill,
tinny bell a waking dream.
She thought she was hearing Death
and the toll of time running out.
Bloody hell, I said, it's the watch.
Why do you have a speaking watch?
You can see the time, you aren't blind.
She said oh Ron got it cheap.
Some deal and I liked the fancy dial.
A bloody speaking watch.
Thanks Ron. Who's he trying to kill?

It's All Too Much

Muzzle the thirsty, sir.
Your stinklike whine's
a constant auditory itch -
less pedigree twink
than mongrel bitch.
Learn to emulate the wallflower -
shrink. Enigmatic ennui
is a better line
to assuage the ensemble
than this rattle tattle
unabashed prattle.
I'll not deny your peachy baba is
beyond baroque,
ricocheting into rococo,
as wah la, you display toots
les delectable sticky fruits;
but then it's sour at the finish.
(Such a disappointing little dish.)

Is This The Love That I've Been Searching For?

She is a pro at making chat to patch
social fails with a swathe of patter
in which nothing is said
with devastating relevancy.
A dolly looking dolly
with a nose of whimsical turn -
deliciously crumpety,
delectably strumpety -
and she hit me in the face
with rosebud lips,
left me a shell of a human being.
Might as well try, see what happens
long-term.
That snog was way beyond taste buds.
She pierced my soul by flicking
her tongue tip, then licking.

Sadie Maskery lives in Scotland by the sea. She has collections publishsd by Erbacce Press, Alien Buddha, Mariscat Press and Red Ogre Publishing, and has a short story collection in production with Acid Bath Press.

Dec.11~ KIM BARSAMIAN

12/11/2025

Poetry fans, welcome back! Today we're shining the spotlight on Rhode Island writer, Kim Barsamian, with her ethereal poem "Underwater Kiss." Thank you, Kim, for sharing your words with SHINE international poetry series!

Underwater Kiss

Time is
measured
by the breath
we share
as we sink
into the abyss
with fluidity,
immersed in a
frothy fizz
lightly dancing
across our skin
holding us in stasis
as we grasp onto
the moment
and we sink together
and we think we can
make a moment
last forever
and we are everything
there is nothing else
our lips meet
our eyes close
a little bubble of air
escapes us
like a dream
a lifetime of
wanting
has us
holding on
holding on
but we slowly
rise to the top
gasping for air.

Kim Barsamian is a recently retired school librarian from Cranston, Rhode Island. She has been writing poetry for years because of the joy and purpose it brings to her life. She writes poetry about people and nature and how they intertwine. She participates in poetry readings and poetry groups in Rhode Island.

Dec.10~ SANDRA BETH LEVY

12/10/2025

Poetry lovers, I'm ecstatic to bring you three introspective poems by Sandra Beth Levy! Today, we're shining the spotlight on: Harvest Moon, Renewal Wish, and (my favorite of the three) Write Me Unforgotten. Please enjoy! And, thank you, Sandra Beth, for sharing your words with the SHINE international poetry community!

Harvest Moon

was a glowing circle of honey
rising slowly over Narragansett Bay.
I made sure not to miss its regal eyes
glance upon my silhouette
but wrestled for hours with a ghost
feeling pasty, sunken, silenced
by a haunted past.

My father died fifty years ago
the night of Harvest Moon.
There were no more chances
to reach him with my childhood
love I preserved in the candy jar
of my heart, no more chances
to experience redemption
of his crimes.
He became a moon
stitched in my chest
too large for my ribcage
crushing me with tragedy -

I climb a steep ladder
in the night sky
reach for sweet honey
from Harvest Moon, taste it
on my tongue mixed with ginger
inhale its seductive aroma.
If I lick this golden liquid
suck it down my throat to my gut
raw and weeping
will I reach the moon’s dark side
to touch my father’s face,
be renewed with gratitude?

Renewal Wish

I wish to be a lullaby, to rest
my gentle tune upon a cushion
soothe a throat on fire
cradle a child within
bake a cake from my womb
sing celebration songs
in a cathedral of loving trees
populated by people frosted
in sweetness.

If I wander into my silhouette
will I return to darkness
or to a rising sun?
Will return offer renewal
of silken skin
or accounting of my sins?

I might see myself as shadow
in glowing water
or dive beneath indigo waves
of time. Should my love triumph
over shattered dreams for humanity
will my tattered tissues
tied together with beads
of sweat sparkle like jewels
or crimson eyes of wisdom?
Will I then be closer to God?

Might my mouth become a fountain
my legs stalks of birch
that reforest a land beyond doubt?
If I keep writing myself into existence
will I live forever
or will veins infused with venom
destroy my chance for renewal?

Write Me Unforgotten

Remember me
as forest green summer light
turned radiant orange
while rain drenched leaves dangle

in the deluge of my spirit
desperate and delicious
cacophonous catastrophes

my sculpted tissued skin waving -
a windblown witness of time.

Yes, I still want to be elegant,
youthful, a bare shouldered beauty
who beckons our world
to drop to its knees

but as night approaches I wish
the forest air to cool and calm me
carve my legacy into trees

write me unforgotten

cast moon beams between branches
illuminate each syllable
of my story. Remind me

to write myself into existence
so I will be read by morning light
mourning only the passage of seasons.

Sandra Beth Levy is a retired psychologist who passionately practiced the healing art of psychotherapy for over forty years and is now pursuing her dream of immersion in creative writing and spoken word performance. She raised two biracial poet sons while honoring her Jewish-feminist identities. Her unique social and personal histories weave their way through her writing as she explores intricacies of love, loss, aging, the power of relationships as transformative agents, and her awe of nature. She has won local poetry slams and published poems in four collections with Anomaly Poetry, multiple anthologies with Small Gems Press, Roots and Ruins anthology with Arcana Poetry Press, and the September 2025 issue of A Curious Moon. Her first poetry collection, Unfurling The Scroll Of Seven Decades, is in preparation for release in 2026.

Dec.8~ LIZE dU TOIT

12/8/2025

It's a new week with fresh poetry, SHINE community! Thanks for stopping by as we shine the spotlight on emerging poet, Lize du Toit who brings us her striking poems: Vignettes of Suburbia, The (un)Birth of Venus, and The Valley of Desolation. Thank you, Lize, for sharing your work with SHINE!

Vignettes of Suburbia

I. Cul-de-sac

there are no wrestled sheets
no cigarettes or spoons to lick
no cozening postcoital cats
no 2 a.m. round-robin and legs on patios

only the breeze and grass at night
crickets protruding from acidic soil
beady ants that graze through grout
and 5 a.m. irrigation: fft-fft-fft-sssssss

warm is the inside
somewhere below the lungs
the bed for the head
the dog’s chin on the knee
sweet snores of little children
whose socks are gathering dew

there are only the words imagined
only the single-storey house
only the shamanic skylight
and the pontifical gathering of moths
who anoint all hundred-pound eyelids
with dim-time narcosis

II. Parking Lot

there are no lullabies or curfews
no exegesis of a baby heart
only the fluorescent humming
the jaundiced baylines empty

only the restless hungry night
and the penumbral gesture of strays
castors blinking spectral scavengers
in the turning of an endless carousel

warm is the inside
somewhere behind the cradle
under blankets, the repository of lost things:
car keys, pacifiers and headless minds
fathers that cry in the sediment of punts
very sorry

there is no domestication of the soul
only the presence of lizards
they rest diagonally these days
and the light never lands but hangs
low in the visionary wasteland glow
of gilded driveways across the road

III. Public House

a guy walks into a bar
not a joke; with books and pen
sits down in Plato’s greasy womb
under Baudrillard’s lambent neon buzz

at the gateless checkpoint
there is no clarity of stars
only the coherence of the cyclops
the glaucoma of a Last Supper tableau

warm is the inside
below the cockloft’s curling words
defrosting twigs and synapses
of some private mythology
historically floating women
reaching for shape in a second draught

there is no regulating the silent work
of our insane imaginations
only the perpetual metronomic swing
between death and decadence
nothing but the ache of elsewhere
over which the least of the gods preside

The (un)Birth of Venus

how female it felt to be unborn --
nomadic nous nearing both god and ground
barefoot and ambulant, in backstroke beneath the stars
those goldfinches cached in shaking black hedgerows
a million vermillion poison blooms in quivering flow

when I was born, I was noosed in a biddable pose
to perform my girlhood in lipstick-heart mirrors
to be every Venus rendered by Florentine masters
a docile and wingless odalisque, ready to yield
to be cloaked in pink flora by the Hora of Spring

they give us heavy-lidded wells and ivory curves
cascades of tresses that guide eyes to thighs
as we float on shells to motherless shores in aquamarine
we, the objects of longing, mutely longing ourselves
but, Viewer, I am homesick for a canon of trees

give me nature — a garden of earthly delights
my own Aphrodite soul — thick like blood, and dark
beseech the cosmic gods that make our being young
for bodies at rest, tangled hair in wildflower beds
and to grant my desire its own mother tongue

The Valley of Desolation

my days are filled with wondrous triviality,
with laundry and cooking green string beans,
and nights with stars and possums and bats,
butcherbirds hacking and roosting above
where I sit in my chair in the dark
and uphold our armistice with muted tongue.

I go to sleep in an Australian bed
and darkly coast into a fever dream
that wakes me lonely in the Camdeboo
(you wouldn’t know the place
but it’s the landscape of my mind,
a mountain cathedral from where I can think).

in these death hours I scope the Valley of Desolation
tracking staggered, sloping sandstone and piled dolerite,
to count and weigh the reserves of everything I’ve lost,
where I learn to match the resilience of parched grass,
while vervets, genets, and bat-eared foxes stalk and ululate,
amplifying unawares this mutual silence of ours
as it spins – reverberant and loud –
and adorns the desert with abandoned exchange.

it’s your absence – distinct and acute –
that ties me unforgiven in Karoo-like Perpetua;
your ghosting face and locks, the loss of your words
that sail me off into these dreams adrift,
until dayspring lightens the weight of sadness
and I ease once more into sweet mundanity.

Lize du Toit is a South African artist and aspiring poet residing in Australia. While she wears many creative hats, all of them are storytelling hats, and her interests centre around the human condition — specifically the effects and causes of loneliness as part of a larger inquiry into identity, social constructs and the visual landscape. Lize holds a Masters Degree in Art and Visual Studies and works as an editor of legislative and non-fiction work. In her spare time, she writes, paints, reads, and reviews fiction writing.

Dec.7~ SHINE QUARTERLY's 1-year anniversary

12/7/2025

Poetry lovers,
SHINE Quarterly, Issue 5 is NOW AVAILABLE! Today's launch marks the 1-year anniversary of the lit mag. It's an honor and a privilege to share the work of so many writers from all around the world.

What began as a simple call out for "trinitas" poems (an experimental form) three years ago this month, has become an international community of poets and an ongoing anthology series. In 2022, with only two responses (a shout-out to Merril D. Smith and Robert Frede Kenter!!), the original call out for poems did not result in enough material for the planned anthology. However, by switching gears, Merril and Robert became SHINE's very first contributors to what is now SHINE's online "Spotlight" series. From there...SHINE Quarterly was eventually born!

As a poet myself, I can sincerely say indie publications are a vital part of the publishing community. What you may not know is that many of these publications, SHINE included, are volunteer-driven and officially or unofficially non-profit endeavors. Therefore, your ongoing support is honestly appreciated.

SHINE Quarterly, Issue 5 is available here: https://tinyurl.com/36hehcme and a launch video is available here: https://youtu.be/ADqjbsKe1YM?si=NgteTt9QSxEWchLw If you're willing and able, please join me in celebrating the one year anniversary by sharing this news on social media, personal blogs, or as you see fit.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being a part of the SHINE international poetry community. Here's wishing you a safe & pleasant holiday season, in whatever way you may celebrate. Keep writing, keep shining!

Samantha Terrell, EIC
SHINE International Poetry Series

Dec.4~ DEREK THOMAS DEW

12/4/2025

Hello, poetry lovers and thanks for joining me. Today we're shining the spotlight on New York City-based writer, Derek Thomas Dew who brings us two poems: "Small Outs" and "Pigeon," written in an experimental form with original notations, The Inmate and The Voter. Thank you, Derek, for sharing your work with SHINE!

Small Outs

She was panting, wheezing to catch her breath

as she muscled the big case of bottled water up the stairs.

She placed the case of water down on your neighbor’s doormat.

You became aware your hands were the wrong kind of dying

for staying. She glanced at you and one of her eyebrows arched.

Suddenly she had been there throughout your entire childhood

and you remembered you had been different before, feeling things

all the time. All the words were the wrong hands for forgetting,

for climbing out.

The young man who never left the top bunk lay inches from the ceiling
as if the other inmates would have forgotten he was there and his name
would have begun to fade in the steam from the shower that had washed the body
he assumed was his though it was odd his body was there in a cold building
that erased him by holding him there while insisting he had never been there
under the lights with the others whom he imagined he might make laugh
with everything he could have told them and reminded them of
which was not far past the barbwire that surrounded them
and surrounded his voice which might have made them forget
he was one of them or even where they were
within the cement at that exact moment.
--The Inmate

Pigeon

The discarded beer bottle’s label

sun-bleached white as a continent

that is once again becoming an empty place

and the never-humiliated graffiti weeping

perfect fragrance says summer comes for we

the always added who are forgiven for starving

in the luster and the plumage across the ivied limb

of plastic candy wrapper and the headstones if you see

anyone coming then whistle soft and low.

As I stand in the sun hosing off a square
of cracked sidewalk, I am hunting the end
of the world, like you are, while the sirens
mount in the street. The tide from the hose
crawls toward the curb, a line of shimmering
lip leads, slowly twitches over pebbles,
silently fills each cement pore until it reaches
the rounded edge and fountains into the street
to trickle through the rubble onward, towards
a man whose every breath is the canopy
of his heart’s absence.
--The Voter

Derek Thomas Dew (he/she/they) is a neurodivergent, non-binary poet currently living and teaching in New York City. Derek’s debut poetry collection “Riddle Field” received the 2019 Test Site Poetry Prize from the Black Mountain Institute/University of Nevada. Derek’s poems have appeared in a number of anthologies, and have been published widely, including Interim, ONE ART, Allium, The Maynard, Azarão Lit Journal, Two Hawks Quarterly, Ocean State Review, and Overgrowth Press.

Dec.3~ OSIAN LUKE

12/3/2025

Today SHINE is delighted to share the work of Welsh writer, Osian Luke. I particularly enjoyed lines such as, "It's very, very hard to be right / To philosophize with a hammer." Thank you, Osian, for sharing your words with SHINE international poetry series!

Little Deer

Canny Ape and Artifice Incomprehensible

Philosophy vs Dream Therapy

Osian Luke is a trilingual Welsh writer writing predominantly in English. He describes himself as a silver-tongued doom-monger who can (occasionally) sugarcoat the doom with humorous levity and peculiar optimism. His poems explore themes of grief and transience, hope and despair, masculinity and mental illness, and how to love in a world that sometimes feels like it’s ending. In recent months, he has been turning his creative attention towards writing about tyranny and anti-fascism. In terms of writing goals, Luke is an aspiring novelist and is also currently working on his debut poetry collection: Grieving, Roaming.

Dec.2~ LEIGH THERRIAULT

12/2/2025

Welcome back to SHINE, poetry lovers! Today we're putting the spotlight on Canadian writer, Leigh Therriault, who in addition to being a published poet, has a debut novel for young readers forthcoming from Orca Books (2027). Please enjoy her poems: Evanescence, Galactic Rescue, and You Do Not Exist. Thank you, Leigh, for sharing your work with the SHINE international poetry community!

Evanescence

Galactic Rescue

You Do Not Exist

Leigh Therriault writes and wonders from Ottawa, Canada, where she scans the skies for comets and constellations. Her poetry has appeared in Hearth & Coffin, Consilience, DarkWinter, Polar Starlight, and elsewhere. Her debut novel for young readers, THE DARK SHINE is coming Fall 2027 from Orca Book Publishers.

Nov.20~ SPECIAL JOINT FEATURE

11/20/2025

Today SHINE has a unique opportunity to share a pairing of poems from two different writers, former contributor Michael Whitehead and friend, Sue Ann Kuhn-Smith. (Learn more below.) I think you'll readily understand the nice Autumn match-up of these two poems, and the tribute to tables and chairs feels particularly appropriate as we approach Thanksgiving here in America -- a chance to 'slow down' and sit together at the table (as a sort of 'temple') with loved ones. May we all 'leave full of stories' & warm hearts! SHINE will be back after Thanksgiving with more brand new Spotlights. Until then, wherever you are, be well!

Tiny Red Chair

As I sit and listen

to the rain fall

I am amazed

at all the sounds around

The car tires rippling

over the cement grids

Slow down, slow down

Splattering of the cool raindrops

on old stone pavers

Squirrels gnawing away

at green pecans

Gus at my feet, grooming

his long splendid tail

What a miracle I am,

I am, I am

This tiny red chair holds me up

and the rain drizzles on

with melodies of love

Coffee With Patti

I always come back to my table.
It means coming back to Patti.
I had my table before I read her
But she made me understand
that what I inhabit every day
is not just a table, but a temple
of conscious grace
where I draw in the breath
of fellow customers
and leave
full of their stories

Sue Ann Kuhn-Smith is a native of Wisconsin and a veteran of the Atlanta and national photography-world, having worked alongside several luminaries of the profession. She has resided in Covington, GA for a number of years where she is fortunate to spend much of her time observing and enjoying the natural world. Her poetry finds inspiration in that environment where moments of quiet reflection allow her to focus on simple, sensory details.

Michael Whitehead's "Coffee With Patti" sprang from mornings at a table in his local coffee shop, musing over and gaining perspective from the writing of a favorite artist. Michael read Sue Ann's "Tiny Red Chair" and gave her a nudge to submit the poem to SHINE. Finding Sue Ann's "Tiny Red Chair" and Michael's "Coffee With Patti" a delightful complement to one another, SHINE was happy to accept both poems for a unique Spotlight feature.

Thank you, Michael and Sue Ann, for sharing your love of words with SHINE international poetry series!

NOV. 18~ SYLVIA GREEN

11/18/2025

Welcome back, poetry fans! Today I'm shining the spotlight on my dear friend and previous SHINE contributor, Sylvia Green, with three poems that explore the journey of loss and recovery. Thank you, Sylvia, for sharing your words with SHINE, once again!

Midst

Being with someone as they prepare to pass
So thankful they were not alone
How long does it take
To shed the last image of them?

To replace it with
Past memories of
Happinesses
Accomplishments
Unrepeatable moments
Their sayings
Lessons
Smile
Laughter
Habits
Jokes.

It requires intense constant effort,
The resurrection of their wonderment
From the tomb of grief.

After

And Now?
He is gone.
Tucked away, safe, sound, whole.
The void he leaves is vast.

“This is going to take some getting used to,” she whispers.
Worry wanes from her mind.
Fear ebbs from her soul.
Her mind slowly expands after
The crushing pressure of
Keeping track,
Keeping watch,
Holding up
Hoping on.

How to use the inner energy that remains?
Will the adrenaline that has kept her guard up
For so many hours, days, months, years
Finally dissipate?
Where to funnel all of the loving concern?

May he peacefully rest in his eternity.
May she patiently prosper in her transformed future.

Latent Potential

Look around
Sense
Dormant wonder vigilantly anticipating emergence
From countless sources:
Fabric on a bolt
Yarn on a skein
Paint in a can
Infant in an isolette
Food on a shelf
Cleaning products in a cupboard
Yeast in the warm water
Music on a staff,
ALL hopefully expectant that
Energy
Talent
Initiative
Facility
Loving care
Will cultivate them into their greatest possibility.

Mary Sylvia Miller Green is a retired elementary teacher from Upstate New York. She won a New York Times Award for her high school newspaper column. Writing poetry has given her a delightful outlet for her love of language, expressing her feelings, and describing her observations of all things important to her. Mary lives with her husband and enjoys camping, reading, and spending time with their two grown daughters.

Nov. 17~ ROYAL RHODES

11/17/2025

Poetry lovers, it's a new week with brand new poetry here at SHINE! Today I'm delighted to shine the spotlight on Royal Rhodes, who brings us two poems: The Magic House, and Passing. I particularly enjoyed Rhodes' closing lines. Thank you, Royal, for sharing your words with SHINE!

The Magic House

Passing

Royal Rhodes is a poet who lives in a rural village, surrounded by a nature conservancy and Amish farms. His poems have appeared in literary journals in the U.S., the U.K., Canada, Singapore, and India.

Nov. 13~ HELEN LAYCOCK

11/13/2025

Today it's a pleasure to shine the spotlight on the evocative work of Helen Laycock. Helen shares three poems: Watercolour in the Rain, Mindquake, and Going Deep. Thank you, Helen, for sharing your gift of words with the SHINE international poetry community!

Going Deep

Mindquake

Watercolour in the Rain

Helen Laycock, winner of Black Bough Poetry’s Chapbook contest and shortlistee of The Broken Spine’s Chapbook competition, has nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her collection FRAME has featured as Book of the Month at the East Ridge Review, her spoken word poetry was showcased in September’s edition of iamb, and she has recently been celebrated in a ‘Silver Branch’ feature with Black Bough. Publication includes After…, BBC Upload, Reflex, Ekphrastic Review, Lucent Dreaming, Popshot, Black Bough, The Storms Journal, Broken Spine, Fevers of the Mind, Cabinet of Heed, The Winged Moon, The Caterpillar, The Dirigible Balloon, Flash Flood, Three Drops Press, Visual Verse, Onslaught, Frazzled Lit, Paragraph Planet, CafeLit, Literary Revelations, Blink-Ink, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Dark Winter Lit, and Rough Diamond, with imminent publications in the pipeline. She also had a 2025 poetry spotlight at The Starbeck Orion.

Nov.12~ Michael DuBon

11/12/2025

SHINE is pleased to put the spotlight on bilingual poet Michael DuBon, with his poems: Mañanas Ambientes, Ambient Semiotics, and Ambient Season. Thank you, Michael, for sharing your words with SHINE international poetry series!

Mañanas Ambientes

Good morning is an early morning sweat
chased by a blueberry spinach protein shake.
Buenos días es un deseo de ti
para mí sobre el desayuno de huevos

con tomate y cebolla. Good morning
is the dawn twilight for we the crepuscular
ones who steal our moments under the sun and moon
simultaneous. Buenos días es el agua, la agua,

elagua, laagua, de nosotros juntos, dos
cuerpos de agua con una sola alma
de agua. Good morning is a Guatemalan coffee
with a sweet human tasting

of honey, rose, lavender, cacao, cinnamon, guajillo chile.
Buenos días es la ventana a tu alma renacida,
a tu espíritu de limón-amor. Good morning
is the relief from the great weight on my lungs

of missing you while we slept, and the sweet chance
to miss you while we are together. Buenos días
es el inicio de cuando anhelo anhelarte
y claro que sí te anhelo y te deseo

y te extraño y te adoro
y te amo. Good morning
is a drive where we chat
about cats and Hoagland and Seuss and house

of our dragon and feline selves and us and we
and us and we and we laugh and laugh
and laugh together all the way to work. Buenos días
es una comunión y commute con el cielo

y los árboles. Good morning is a reprieve
from a nightmare of cruel words and tragic goodbyes at CMH.

Buenos días es el amor feroz y salvaje sobre
la pila limpia sin platos–

rosa y sal y yogur, tan rico, tan lindo, tan so us.
Good morning is the very best part of my day–I always
await para thee, para thee I await,
por thine belleza y por thine brillo y por thine brillantez.

Buenos días son millones y mil millones y billones de besos
y besos y besos, cada beso más delicioso y más delicioso–
Bésame por favor,
para siempre, mi amor. Por la mañana, siempre,

kiss y kiss y kiss,
dear one, sweet one, mi mejor, mi última.
Buenos días y good morning, querido amigo.
Good morning and buenos días, querida amiga.

Ambient Semiotics

How wild we grew in middle age,
like a sweet and thorny blackberry
bush bowling fence after fence.
Yet all this only in the wake of a state
of para-stasis where we felt like cracking
icebergs and overripe red dwarf stars over
heat we had expended long ago, the interpersonal labor
of doing dishes, the fuchsia of our patio bench,
the house and property taxes and all the taxes
unseen in the course of a day.

We emerged from the cocoon
of one another, a metamorphosed metaphor for time
abandoned without abandon, so high school
in each other's whiskered words and scaly arms.
Marry, kiss, or kill held the only options,
for the centre overwhelmed
from friction, from fragmentation, from our atoms
splitting at the seams from the gravity of the hour.

And so we toss our car keys into some elementary park boxwoods, drunk in the middle of the morning night on Kirkland High Noons, learning to recognize the selves we do not recognize any longer–yo ya no soy yo y tú ya no eres tú–buzzing as neon gas through newly configured shapes of light, something that flashes MCDB, a humming like a podcast about being seen, some synesthesia of what our brains tell our body that love is–a taste, a touch, a sound, a sight, a smell all blended into us together at the same time–all spicy on our lashes like a freshly cut jalapeño, all pungent on our eyes like a wheel of cotija cheese. Something like all these things and things and things, but also some thing entirely different, some thing newly reconfigured, some thing removed from the first and second and 119th things.

Ambient Season

Oh the summertime is gone,
and I wonder when this wuthering longing

will leave me; oh, so like the molten ghost
of my bonnie love to leave me

sweating awake by night, twixt dreams where thou art the christened
vision of the one for whom great deeds are done. The leaves sweetly turn

and turn and turn again, their rustling
and rustling and rustling

shifting an echo of pigment
change and brain change and change change,

and I cling like a purple orchid to her windswept petals,
sinking ever over a stone fountain of grey blue cat eyes.

Three seasons of unparalleled warmth relived
ad infinitum, such mirth and honey mead, such echoes

of heartfelt laughter among our stone corridors, such flowers
of paradise never lost were we who bloomed and bloomed and bloomed

for ‘nother, a conflagration of pollen against
the hoary rapture of the world beyond in our beflowered tower

by yon cool cosmic waters, and now thee, lassie gone,
hast been raptured away and so I must touch the vibration

of thine touch in the hollow
crunch of prickly pinecones

falling to rest upon their pine
needle beds. Thou art the purple heather crying

in the gales that there will be wild violet mountain
thyme and verde que te quiero verde time.

I smell thee, mi amor de chocolate
y chile perfume, in the prism

of an amethyst rose, an unfound key, leading to other worlds than this–
Some in which we are together and have always been together
and will always be together–cleaving like the green ivy to the purple heather.

Michael DuBon is a first-generation US citizen of Guatemalan descent and a first-generation college graduate. His poetry has appeared in The Meadow, Rising Phoenix Review, and The Museum of Americana, and others, and his creative nonfiction has appeared in The Plentitudes, Heartwood, and Under the Gum Tree. He holds an MFA from Saint Mary’s College of California and an MIS from Southern Utah University, and he is currently Tenure Track English Faculty in the English Department at Everett Community College. He also volunteers as a board member at large for WTAW Press. He is working on publishing his memoir: The DuBonicles and his poetry book Ayersterday y el Arte de Free Dissociation. At his most natural, he is laughing and smiling like no one is watching—because he’s usually by himself anyway.

Nov. 6~ EWEN GLASS

11/6/2025

Poetry lovers, thanks for stopping by SHINE to read the latest in a series of phenomenal writers from around the world! Today, we're shining the spotlight on Northern Ireland poet, Ewen Glass. Ewen brings us his prose poem, "I Finished All the Podcasts," and a short but poignant poem, "Making Up Stories." Thank you, Ewen, for sharing your words with SHINE!

I Finished All the Podcasts

True Crime exhausted truth and crime; I was exhausted by two people discussing something like it’s the first time they’ve encountered it; the edgelord comedian fell off the edge (the earth is flat after all); with no people left to interview, hosts turned to pets, albeit articulate ones; Couch to 10k ran out of legs; the history shows reached now; and I did the dishes alone. Walking the dogs became an everyday tragedy. I finished all the podcasts and all I’ve been left with is me. And I’m awful.

Making Up Stories

It’s a rare kind of joy
making up stories
for your kid, building
a world every night,
peopling it with characters,
and resolutions, just
as your kid develops
their own world.
In our stories, people
are flawed but kind,
lessons are learned,
there is justice.
These stories aren't
for the kids.

Ewen Glass is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise, and a body of self-doubt. His poetry has appeared in the likes of Okay Donkey, Maudlin House, HAD, Poetry Scotland, and One Art. Ewen is on BSKY/X/IG @ewenglass

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JOSH GONZALEZ​The Snow Queen

DOUG STOIBERWhither Tinsel?

JOSH GONZALEZ​Oh, Little One

RICHARD McCLELLAN​The Old Country Church