Daily Verse
Week 1, October 2024
Neighbourhood Revisited
bySonia Nicholson 2nd Oct 2024
old Margaret, wild white hair
flying as a veil as a flag
of another time
/different or better/
behind her red walker
pushes on after-noon
the street pushing daisies pushing almost
Spring outside her bungalow (stucco)
1930s beauty
hidden behind the roses
and around the corner
the doddery man still plants
gnarled and stooped
against February
a row of daffodils
tulips alternating yellow and red
in his neat flower bed
a bloom for every season
a memory
tossed like seeds
(the flower bed, the bungalow
dug up now
all traces of red
under glass)
Poems on Nostalgia
by Maurizio Brancaleoni 3rd October 2024
voices of yore —
their warm clarity
effulgent gold
moon in the daytime —
everything returns
yet different from before
rainy night —
the tic of the clock
digs a furrow
Waning Summer
By Dan Hardison 4th October 2024
Shadows stretch longer
slanting across the landscape
as days grow shorter.
The evening sun
flaming in amazement
as it drops on the horizon.
Mornings awake
from longer nights
to a fine veil of pearly mist.
Garden blooms are fewer
as cornstalks and gourds
join rust-colored wreaths.
Nuts and burnished leaves
are covering the ground
as the air turns cooler.
A dazzling display
of elemental colors
as autumn beckons.
Haiku on Nostalgia
By Marguerite Doyle 8th October 2024
flicking through
old photographs
home movie
christening lace
on the baby
her wedding dress
dewdrops
on white lilies
anniversary
Late summer Storm
By Belinda Behne 7th October 2024
Thunder cracks
The sky opens
We dance barefoot
thru the wet grass
Laughing
Pelted with rain
Our open mouths
become fountains
Mother whistles
Calling us in
with just two fingers
between her lips
Loud and shrill
We don’t want to hear her
but we do
And we come
Tracking mud and rain
into her kitchen
We are soaking wet
and thrilled to the bone
Still laughing, giggling, sliding
across the slippery wet floor
With mud squishing between our toes
we are electrified
Transformed
by the storm
Biographies of Poets
A native of Tennessee, Dan Hardison now lives in Wilmington, North Carolina where he is a writer and artist. His artwork is inspired by Japanese woodblocks and ink painting (sumi-e). As an artist and writer, he is drawn to the Japanese haiga – a combination of image and poem. Dan Hardison’s writing has appeared at The Wise Owl, The Ravens Perch, Frogpond, Cattails, Contemporary Haibun Online, Chrysanthemum, and other print and online journals. His self-published book Quietude is available from Lulu Press. His work can also be found at his website Windscape Studio and blog Some Tomorrow’s Morning.
Belinda Behne grew up in the midwest, but she has spent most of her adult life in the vibrant culture of New York City. Her first career, as a teacher of special education, led her to the love of art, literature and theatre. She has pursued her passions of acting, writing poetry and performing professional voice-overs for more than three decades. She currently lives on the edge of a salt marsh, where life continues to inspire her in new ways. Her poems can be found in LEAF Journal, The Wise Owl, Scarlet Dragonfy and Cold Moon Journal.
Week 2, October 2024
Footsteps...
by Ketaki Mazumdar 9th Oct 2024
in a constant wandering
I flow with the clouds
in moments of realisation
am the lotus
in the moonlight
at your feet
am the peacock that dances
with the sound of the rain
and the strains of the Dark One's flute
I return to You over and over again
I burn in an ecstasy
waiting for that unity
we shared every lifetime
in my soul's journey
Poems
by Robert Witmer 10th October 2024
dew on her grave
the many eyes
of the sun
rosebush
a raindrop
on every thorn
the old pier groans
so many come and go
syllables of salt
A Mom's Note on the Counter
By Biswajit Mishra 11th Oct 2024
“Good morning little one,
Happy birthday,
live long, and
always be happy.
Your breakfast is on the kitchen table,
eat all, don’t leave anything,
your lunch box is in your backpack.
Dress properly, don’t forget the jacket,
wear your cap too, it’s getting cold,
ask Nani or wake up Papa if you need help.
Remember to eat the ginger juice with honey
in the little stainless steel bowl
on the counter,
your throat doesn’t sound good.
Go carefully my dear,
I will see you after I am back,
we will have your birthday special in the evening.
Be a good boy, love,
and stay blessed, always,
my treasure.
Mama”
The sun woke up.
Haiku on Nostalgia
By Marguerite Doyle 8th October 2024
flicking through
old photographs
home movie
christening lace
on the baby
her wedding dress
dewdrops
on white lilies
anniversary
Late summer Storm
By Belinda Behne 7th October 2024
Thunder cracks
The sky opens
We dance barefoot
thru the wet grass
Laughing
Pelted with rain
Our open mouths
become fountains
Mother whistles
Calling us in
with just two fingers
between her lips
Loud and shrill
We don’t want to hear her
but we do
And we come
Tracking mud and rain
into her kitchen
We are soaking wet
and thrilled to the bone
Still laughing, giggling, sliding
across the slippery wet floor
With mud squishing between our toes
we are electrified
Transformed
by the storm
Biographies of Poets
Biswajit Mishra writes poems and occasionally flash fiction. He also writes sporadically in his native language Odia. Born in India and having lived in Kenya, Biswajit and his wife Bharati live in Calgary, Canada.
Belinda Behne grew up in the midwest, but she has spent most of her adult life in the vibrant culture of New York City. Her first career, as a teacher of special education, led her to the love of art, literature and theatre. She has pursued her passions of acting, writing poetry and performing professional voice-overs for more than three decades. She currently lives on the edge of a salt marsh, where life continues to inspire her in new ways. Her poems can be found in LEAF Journal, The Wise Owl, Scarlet Dragonfy and Cold Moon Journal.
Week 3, October 2024
Fathers
Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca 14th October 2024
My father and my spouse’s father
Shared coincidences in stories we now tell about them
Both rose early in the Bombay mornings,
His father woke up at 5am, tiptoed zigzag around the sleeping children
Had a shower, tea, contemplated the mango tree outside
Then immaculately groomed, he spoke no words
Left without breakfast, on the motorcycle
Parked at the bottom of the apartment building.
My father woke up early too
Dressed neatly, drank tea he made himself
“Seize the Day,” he said, his only words
And walked briskly to catch the 8:15 train.
He left the house without breakfast too.
In stories we remember both fathers
as we drink our chai on the patio outside.
I had never met my spouse’s father
He had met mine many times.
Poet's Note: My spouse and I often tell stories about our families. Many of my poems are written about both families, in order to to preserve our legacies and our memories. The poem “Fathers” is inspired by Robert Hayden's poem "Those Winter Sundays." Both my father and my spouse’s father were creatures of habit. Each had a distinctive personality but there were some striking similarities as well.
Poems on Nostalgia
by Tuyet van do 15th October 2024
first spring walk
an empty swing
in the park
faded photo
on the mantelpiece
sound of wind howling
afternoon stroll
an elderly couple
holding hands
When Memories Refuse to Fade
By Sarojkanta Dash, 16th October, 2024
Dear Mukesh, every time I hear a song
We enjoyed on the radio long ago
I'm lost, deeply saddened, my heart racing
Against the wall of memories, washed clean with tears
The picture remains vivid, refusing to fade
You had no voice, yet sang to the tabla's beat
I had a voice, but never learned the rhythm's sway
That was me, and you knew it, in your own way
In your absence, life's rhythm is now a discord
I never wrote a good hand, yours was harder to read
But now, I cherish the letters you wrote from afar
The scribbles that once hurt my eyes are now softened with love
I wonder, were you born to be a rebel, wild and free?
Yet, you lacked the refinement of spirit, rough and carefree
You strayed too far, never to return, leaving me
To ponder, and remember, and yearn.
Micro Poems
By Belinda Behna 17th October 2024
a child’s glazed eyes
sweets behind glass
just out of reach
one small coin
clutched in her fist
is it enough
a host of swallows
swirl beneath storm clouds
frenzied last supper
planted pink
my poppy blooms
bright red
a mind of her own
I am in your new house
that is yet to fully become a home
and the word sliver comes to mind.
Sliver as in
a life like glass
smashed into slivers.
Sliver as in
slivers of glass
painfully embedded in the skin
Sliver as in
slivers of glass
that shine with light and hope
not from outside but within.