THE POET – Featured Poetry – April, 2023

Daily Featured Poetry – APRIL, 2023

➡️ Xem thêm: Những câu nói của Bác về việc đọc sách cực “thấm”


By Angi Holden (ENGLAND)

First, a bright Spring with enough rain and warmth

for buds to break open,

the canopy heavy with blossom and leaf.

Then a sudden storm and the tender foliage

is coated in droplets,

each fold, each crease, holding the water’s weight

until the wind finds its weakest point,

snaps branch and bough.

Hidden beneath the bark, a network of fine tunnels,

a web of fungi, hollows riddled with worm.

This bold tree, sturdy through the decades

and a symbol of steadfastness, of resistance,

brought to its knees by unimagined decay.


Angi Holden is a retired lecturer, whose widely published work includes adult and children’s poetry, short stories and flash fictions.

Twitter @josephsyard


By Adiela Akoo (SOUTH AFRICA)

How long shall we wander

through the scorching heat

of this arid desert,

yearning for a quenching drop

from the cooling cup of the oasis?

How long before

all the tears we cry

are enough,

to turn the tide

in this ocean we’ve bled dry?

And how long before

that Dove of Peace

heals its broken wings,

and finds a sprouting olive

in this burnt forest?


➡️ Tìm hiểu báo la gì trên Facebook? Thành phần này có nguy hiểm không?

Adiela Akoo is an emerging South African poet and author and has been published in a variety of anthologies and journals worldwide. Her debut collection of poetry has recently been released.FB: @@AdielaAkoo

instagram: @adiela_akoo on


By Dr. Sarah Clarke (ENGLAND)

Time marches on

There’s no stopping her

Change inevitable

Tick tock

Tick tock

Three minutes to midnight

What was once deemed good

Turns out to be bad

Again and again

A world littered with the unintended consequences

Of incrementally harmless actions

The big picture overlooked

Again and again

Nature knows

She soldiers on

Though her knees drag along an unnatural path

She doesn’t give in

Sending warnings

Again and again

A ripple here

Creates a tsunami there

A gentle breeze

Blasts through as a tornado

Sweeping away all

Yet we repeat the same foolishness

Again and again

Headless of the warnings

She will take it all back

Tick tock

Tick tock

And thrive

Without us


Sarah Clarke is the Founder of a non-profit program using pet dogs to enhance the life and social skills of children with communication difficulties. Her poems have been included in a number of international anthologies.

FB: @Baloosbuddies

FB: @@sarahclarke888


By Aurélien Leblay (ENGLAND/FRANCE)

Yes will sink the man of the touched sea,

wounded ripples on the shoulder.

He who rolls and stumbles,

on the narrow steel stripe

that keeps from empty heights.

He pours out and sways on the various sides

and stains the crying sea with impunity

and a dubious choreography.

An ocean drying out, as dry out humans’ tears, as dry out

the very last clamours, the very last regrets,

the very last efforts, and the very last sobs of unrepentant dome.

We rise and we sail

in the air same as gods,

wheel around epic masts and whimsical mounds

that defy the sky.

We unwind and furl the thread of our wants

around their shapes,

around their golden sparkling wrecks,

we finally get close, scorning the danger,

come against, bang and rebang in them,

and surge assault again,

an assiduous charge at the glint of doubles,

inlaying palaces with a long string of steel.

When the marvel city elopes from the dim ground,

the vain and powerless clay reins it back with a sigh.

But the swarms are many, they’re Darius armies,

they leave after them nothing

but a vast immense swamp,

that silently howls

in unison with the global pain.

The sublime kingdom thrown to voracious winds,

it slowly sinks in the molasses sea.

Ravaged wills are like gigantic ships

Ravaged wills are like fabulous ships,

stranded in the middle of the earth girth.

They end up in some pit,

eaten by the rust of a time

that doesn’t even lapse



Aurélien Leblay has worked in various fields such as; gypsy music production, opera audience analysis and concerts descriptions writing, as well as publishing over 30 album reviews. His poetry has been featured in a number of publications.

E: [email protected]

Instagram: @tension4000


By Monica Manolachi (ROMANIA)

Small rivers too have a personal life.

We often do not even know what their names are

or where they come from or where they go.

We insult them with cigarette butts, bottles, dull pics.

Sprung out of the blankness of mountain snow,

they embrace the rubbish we leave behind

with even more love. No more innate ignorance!

No more anonymity, no more tons of books

from elsewhere. No more great rivers

in which small rivers flow.

Is there anyone who has not heard of the Amazon

or the Mississippi, the Nile, the Volga or the Yangtze,

these names, synonymous with splendour,

with the planet’s past? I am not thinking of them now

when I want to be a beer cap, slightly rusty,

assaulted by an army of busy ants,

on the bank of a tributary with playful waves.

On this Sunday afternoon, I want to pray

for rivers shorter than 200 miles:

Bega, Bistrița, Dâmbovița, Putna, Vedea.

Later, I am going to pray for even smaller waters,

streams that flow past dirty markets

and through gardens, past ruins and railway lines.

Pray for them not to dry up. I want to take my kids

to banks of unknown waters, to hunt for funny rhymes

for each source, to ride our bikes and play

with lasers under the starry sky.

I am going to call their names every day,

Cotorca, Delea, Gologan, Sitna, Turcul, small affluents

whose desire for unity only birds still sing.


➡️ Xem thêm: 2000 năm nay bao nhiêu tuổi, học lớp 1, 6, 9, 12 năm nào?

Monica Manolachi is a lecturer of English and Spanish. She has published poetry three collections, and co-authored two bilingual collections. Her poems have been widely published.

FB: @monica.manolachi

Twitter: @MonicaManolachi


By Pankhuri Sinha (INDIA)

End of the rainy season

Mild to scorching heat

Temperatures can rise

And sometimes, thus

They cause rainfall

Rain, beautiful rain!

Come September

Heat should have mellowed

Rains subsiding

The earth should have been green!

But, Alas!

Behold! The water logged fields!

For this year, my friends!

The great Indian monsoon

Has decided to be kind

It has drenched the rich

And has submerged the poor

And instead of bringing

A great harvest

It has brought havoc

Houses have risen above

The rivers that suddenly flew

Overnight, into the lives of people

River management

Water policy

Is a parliamentary debate

That has scarcely taken place

Or will probably

Not really take place

We will be left

With news and pictures of

Drowning lives, cattle,

Fields, crops

When September

Was when all of these

Could have bloomed

Blossomed like Jasmine

Kachnar, Malti

Flowers native to the soil

Are fragrant indeed

In the middle of floods!

On higher grounds




Pankhuri Sinha is a bilingual poet, story writer and translator. She has been translated in over 27 languages, and published in many journals and anthologies, both in India and abroad.

E: [email protected]


By Helen L. Knoll (USA)

These rocks were once alive.

An artery deep in the earth ruptured,

Pulsed magma up to the clouds,

Poured lava atop more ancient flows.

Cooled, died, hardened

Birthed pumice and basalt.

Polished by wind and rain

Their smooth faces desecrated

By graffiti of unknown people.

Their crazy symbols

Mutely plead, call, exhort

their joys, prayers, woes and warnings.

Not decades or centuries – Millennia!

Their messages lost for eternity.


➡️ Xem thêm: Những câu nói khiến chồng hết giận, dễ dàng làm lành

Helen L. Knoll was born in the Bronx, and received her BA in English from the City College of New York. She specialized in small business and not-for-profit accounting for over forty years, and currently volunteers her financial skills with small not-for-profit organizations.

E; [email protected]


By Prafull Shiledar (INDIA)

Translation by Santosh Bhoomkar

This tree has witnessed

So many summers and rainy seasons

This river has witnessed

So many summers and rainy seasons

This soil this hill

Have absorbed so many summers and rainy seasons

Summers and rainy seasons

Witnessed by this tree, river, hill

Are not the same summers and rainy seasons

We have seen through our glass window

However overwhelmed we may become

For the dry trees, bald hills, dry rivers

By offering our summers and rainy seasons

The leaves will not grow again on the dried out tree

The bald hill will not smile, and the milk will not

Make the breast of the river heavy again by our rains

Saving our skin we wonder vehemently

In their summers and rainy seasons

We actually vertically slash the stomach of their summer

and rainy season with a sharp knife


Prafull Shiledar is an eminent Marathi Language poet-translator. He has published four poetry collections in Marathi, one in Hindi, and translations of his poems are published in a large number of other languages.

E: [email protected]

FB: @prafull.shiledar



If globe regained her balance, who’d be first to go?

What if earth shrugged and shed its skins?

Why do they treat nature as if it were their foe,

As they skate furiously on ice too thin?

Would they have any right to seriously complain,

If planet were to recycle them, or to consume?

Why shouldn’t other species call them vain, or insane?

Aren’t they accelerating their impending doom?

If humans went extinct, so many could be saved,

Would anyone mourn homo sapiens’ demise?

About themselves alone haven’t humans raved?

Have hens or cows ever bought their lies?

Though planet’s been handed to them on a plate,

Their gorging, culling, ripping we’ve silently observed,

As no amount of flesh their hunger sates.

Fate of billions of species don’t they all deserve?

If bacteria could curse, would they still breathe?

Will trees remain like robots, predictable, safe,

Though, with anger, most beasts don’t seethe,

Yet, at our judgement, would they all chafe?

Industrialists unbalanced our scents and songs.

A ‘non-destructive’ species? Have their morals plunged low?

Though overwhelming now is their list of wrongs,

Will their souls defreeze with our melting snow?


Sultana Raza’s poems have appeared in numerous international journals. She has also written fiction and over 100 articles on subjects including art, theatre, film, and humanitarian issues.

E: [email protected]

FB: @sultana.raza.7

Instagram: @sultana.raza.7


By Deepti Shakya (INDIA)

Have you ever heard?

Screams of trees by hit of axes.

How mercilessly do you cut down forests?

I feel the aches of their muted cries.

Have you ever heard?

Screams of shattered stones by hit of hammers.

How mercilessly do you break mountains?

I feel the aches of their muted cries.

Have you ever heard?

Screams of weeping rivers in the silence of night.

How mercilessly do you pollute the rivers?

I feel the aches of their muted cries.

Have you ever heard?

Screams of the sobbing winds by fear of being poisoned.

How mercilessly do you make pure air poisonous?

I feel the aches of their muted cries.

I am Nature who gives you everything,

And I never complain to you all.

But I feel sad because of your deeds,

And I also sometimes do muted cries.


Deepti Shakya has a Bachelor degree in English Literature & Sociology. She started writing poetry in 2021. Her poems have been published in a number of international magazines, and has received several accolades for her work from international literary platforms.

E: [email protected]

FB: @Deepti Shakya


By Megan Diedericks (SOUTH AFRICA)

From the crib to the crypt –

the bouncing knee to crippling joints –

time ticks on –

clouds glide in everlasting skies over unending love, to unwelcome youth trotting the lawn.

In the same space

year in and out; in an outdated race

to be fulfilled in ways

impossible to be tethered to numbered days.

Windows stained by hourglasses

breaking over numbers ongoing, in what childish eyes imagined to be castles.

The regime remains the same –

whether you dream of blooming daffodils in daylight, or fame –

eyes always look upon wanderlust

behind barred rust.

Time leaves weathered lines on leather faces,

while the weather continues to lapse outside our caged cases.

The regime loops as eyes turn to glass,

and the righteous claim a savior in mass.

History repeats;

energy never depletes.

The cycle tick, tick, ticks –

the world needs a fix, fix, fix.


Megan Diedericks’ work has appeared in a number of literary journals, and her debut poetry collection has just been published.



By Ariane Caruso-Kern (AUSTRALIA)

Oi says the bird

Bam says the tree

Boing does the kanga

Itch does the bee

Nature is all around

And it’s talking to me.

Take notice it says!

They are hurting us!

With their chemical drifts,

Their sprawling houses,

And plastic debris.

Nature is all around

And it’s asking of everybody

Could you change your ways?

You just pretend to care …

Your COP negotiations’ adrift,

And your empty promises

just more noise and politics.

Forever digging the earth,

Clearing our lands,

Melting our glaciers,

and combing our seas.

It seems, for humans

Enough is never enough

Enough will never please.

Oi says the bird

Bam says the tree

Boing does the kanga

Itch does the bee

Nature is all around

And it’s begging us

Save the earth, protect our planet!

Empty slogans falling on deaf ears.

Temperatures continue to lift,

Overfishing unhindered, plus

Many animals becoming extinct.

Oi says the bird

Bam says the tree

Boing does the kanga

Itch does the bee

It seems for nature

Enough is enough,



Ariane Caruso-Kern has been writing for many years, mainly as an outlet for herself, but she recently ventured in the public with some pieces published by Poetry for Mental Health, and is currently finalizing her first collection of poems.

E: [email protected]


By David Hollywood (REPUBLIC OF IRELAND)

We angst a fear, foreshadowed fate,

Bout weathers path, as perils bait,

Our climate, like a demon’s gain,

Whose future hails degrees of flame.

And measured glance towards the past,

Denies our destines futures cast,

As dry, and what shall come to pass,

Reflects the doom that’s seen at last.

A catastroph, will become our shock,

When slipping on a submerged rock,

We see beneath, the sea has died,

And all above the earth has dried.

While washed with tempests nightmares moan,

We drown in stagnant waves of foam,

And seas discover, we’re to blame,

As storms freeze rain on arid plain.

And empty will the visions see,

A sphere with landscapes not to be.


David Hollywood has contributed to a large number literary and poetry editions, plus various international magazines. He is passionate about encouraging other poets to develop their skills, and encourages the development of opportunities for poets in his native country of Ireland.

E: [email protected]

FB: David Hollywood’s ‘Waiting Spaces


By Louis Faber (USA)

As the rivers dry up

and lakes become ponds

we are finding things we

never thought we would see.

An old warship in Europe,

dinosaur footprints, cars

and, sadly, the bones of some.

We stop momentarily to marvel

at these discoveries, then

withdraw to our homes where we

hope we can escape the heat,

our air conditioners working overtime,

the power plants strained.

Yet we never stop to think

that the day may be too soon

coming when it will be

our bones littering the landscape,

victims of our own abuse

of the planet we thought that

we held dominion over.


Louis Fabar is of Lithuanian, Scottish, Irish, English and German heritage. His work has been published internationally.

E: [email protected]


By Christopher Martin (ENGLAND)

Apples, pomegranates, mandarins, plums

in the blue, blown glass bowl

on the dining table.

Trees I will never pass under

or feel reflected deep on the in-breath.

Whose furthest blown leaves never reach

the other shore of my front door,

distant abscissions falling like stars,

I live by the kindness of strangers.


Christopher Martin is a poet and Buddhist. His work has featured in various publications and competitions, and his first book is due out early 2024.

Instagram: @martintimations

Instagram: @theblackcatpoetrypress


By Katherine Brownlie (FRANCE/ENGLAND)

If we know that we exist

because we can think

it has fallibility stripped through

those wretched self-obsessed thoughts

hell bent to wreak torment and

countless destructions

blooded by anxiety

racing horrors in the egocentric mind

to fight or fly

focussed on the I

the importance of the I

the consumption of the I

the mean spirit of the I

and thus we have become disconnected from

all natural forms and species

the them and those

because perhaps they merely respond

procreate and replenish

in harmony

until we changed the seasons

Human-centric thinking has snuffed even its own

to favour the male and the material

and yet the worthlessness of it all

the utter absurdity

is only realised if at all

in old age

when the material gain

is contained in a bed space

and a call button

thinking then romps

in the world of illusion and delusion

reality colliding

with missed lines

florid with irrelevance

nature is suffering as

users make everything useless

machines are the efficient thinkers

we must connect not merely for distraction

to learn to see

to learn to respect

before the heat fire and storms

make living only possible in the clouds

and our breath irrelevant

love completely lost

disassociated from the corporeal mess

of fragile biology

travelling on the vibrations of other dimensions

leaving the earth and seas

fauna and flora to

recuperate from us.


➡️ Xem thêm: 199+ slogan về rèn luyện sức khỏe tạo động lực mạnh mẽ

Katherine Brownlie is a British writer currently living in northern France. For Katherine, poetry needs to be heard and seen in performance, as well as envisioned in the sanctity of the private mind.

FB: katherine.brownlie

YouTube: @molly3557


By Mary Anne Zammit (MALTA)

How can I ever escape her cries?

Echoing across the winds.

Hammering in my ears.

She cries.

Because everything is changing, and all is not like before.

And even when I look at the sea.

I see change.

It has moved away from that crystal dream.

Of clear waves dancing freely.

What is happening is unspeakable.

Many humans are throwing all sorts.

The sea is totally heavy, with narratives of lost souls.

Because the sea is swallowed by tears of women who escaped from floods, from high temperatures.

Changes in climate.

All I know that the poetry of nature is lost.

Because we are at war with the world.

She is dying now, the sea is dying.

Souls scattered in dust.

And I carry their tears in my heart.


Mary Anne is a Probation Officer. She is also author of four novels in Maltese and two in English, and her poetry has been published in various international anthologies and publications.

FB: @mary.a.zammit


By Katrin Talbot (USA)

A barefoot swirl

on the green,

the taste of

Wisconsin summer

with aftertaste of


The puzzle of Season

is falling apart,

pieces marching off,

drunk with flooding or heat,

seeking a new identity

I call my friend with

the solar panels to

find out more


Katrin Talbot ia a poet, photographer and violist with the Madison Symphony Orchestra. She has published a nine chapbooks, and her poetry featured in a number of publications.

E: [email protected]


Instagram: @ktalbot21


By Patricia Smekal (CANADA)

Our Mother is deathly ill.

Despite all the priceless gifts

she has bestowed upon us

since our birth —

verdant lands,

generous seas,

marvellous fellow creatures,

sunshine, flowers, and a thousand reasons for joy,

we, her children,

have sorely neglected her

over days, years, and millennia.

Our inflated egos,

relentless greed

and desire for power

have so weakened, sickened her,

that she now appears to be dying.

For this New Year,

and for years to follow

we must resolve

to change our selfish ways,

to do all that we know

will cure her ills and ensure

the enduring good health

of our beloved birth Mother,




Patricia Smekal has been writing poetry for about twenty years, during which her work has appeared in over 70 anthologies, magazines and other print publications.

E: [email protected]



Mirrors are disappearing

Though they’re cold and seem unwanted

Though they’re hard, they’re useful

People like me and you are breaking them

Broken – we try to fix them but

cut ourselves for no real reason

The blood that comes out isn’t ours

It’s the blood of our Planet

The mirrors are glaciers that we melt every day

The day we melt them all

Our blood will come out


Benjamin O is a songwriter, poet, guitar player, and chess player. He has written many songs, and a number of poems, but, up until now, has not had any published.

E: [email protected]


By Shakti Pada Mukhopadhyay (INDIA)

A nightmare swallowed me on a chilly wintry night.

Captive I was in front of the Nature, proclaiming judgments

to mankind who had committed misdeeds in daylight.

The complaints she started reading for the ailments

of her children like the Sun, the Moon

and others. “For me a limit is there to sip the soot created

by pollution. A dead planet the earth will be very soon,

lest global warming caused by you is abated”.


“Emission of burnt diesel, paper from trees, industrial extraction,

use of pesticides, wadded papers, broken glasses, high temperature,

yellow fumes from mills and mobile towers are bringing destruction.

Fatal are the Jet fuels and diminishing Ozone layer for the living creature.

In a hot chamber the earth is sizzling. Microchips with ‘rare earth’ elements

are death knells for the earth, already wounded by global warming.

Uses of plastics for saving the trees are producing sediments.

Drought and famine around the globe are really alarming”.

“Every year, tsunami, typhoon and hurricane are renamed.

Roots, barks, stems and leaves of the trees are crying everywhere,

but human beings take pride in progress and aren’t blamed.

Dark sky, hazy stars and brown ocean-sands are now common here.

Burnt up barns, retreating glaciers, silent birds, heavy rains,

valley deserts, melting ice caps, raucous sounds, blowing gale,

concrete jungles and delving and hewing the soil are causing my pains.

Felling of trees for pompous homes will paint a bitter tale.”

“Jet fuels and plastics are helping in reducing the powers

of seagulls, whales, sharks and dolphins. Moonlit trips,

rippling streams, floating swans and flowers

pollinated by the bees will soon be in memory chips.

Earthquakes and erupting volcanoes are directors

in promoting catastrophes and in helping their dominions to enhance.

Will Noah and his Ark be your protectors?”

I was awake suddenly and resolved to pay the penance.


Shakti Pada Mukhopadhyay has been published in a number of international magazines, journals and anthologies.

E: [email protected]


By Carol Seitchik (USA)

Today is the winter solstice.

A group of us follow a path

strewn with broken seashells,

the scent of deep woods,

of oak and beech. An honoring here

of what the earth gives.

We take photographs to record,

to witness. We toast to the turning,

one notable, noble day shifting

over the distant rim, the precipice,

where light falls into the quickening

darkness and in the solemnity

of the moment, we note so much fugitive

when the predictable is no longer.

How to claim this earth as it readies itself

to turn off when the creation buzz goes flat?


Carol Seitchik had a career as a visual artist and art curator for over thirty years. She is the author of one poetry collection, and her poems have been published in a number of publications and anthologies.

E: [email protected]



By Judy Jones Brickner (USA)

I, Mother Earth, ask only for a loving hug.

My climate needs to realign.

Now is not the time to environmentally unplug.

Please don’t turn your head with a shrug—

denial is an unforgivable crime.

I, Mother Earth, ask only for a loving hug.

Aloofness and apathy are worthless drugs,

but action and concern could merge and combine.

Now is not the time to environmentally unplug.

It seems, you, my appointed keepers, have run amuck.

Don’t leave future generations without a design.

I, Mother Earth, ask only for a loving hug.

Paying attention could reverse your luck.

An alchemy of intervention could happen in time,

so now is not the time to environmentally unplug.

Please don’t make my heart strings tug.

My hope is for you to make this place a shrine.

Now is not the time to environmentally unplug.

I, Mother Earth, pray only for a loving hug.


Judy Jones Brickner has found that retirement has provided the luxury of having all the time in the world to write poetry. Her poetry has been published in a number of publications and anthologies.

E: [email protected]



The Jenga tower of skyrise buildings

Does a real well, swell job at covering

My crown from lightning bolts and ice hailstorms,

Away from millions of natural harms.

All that, but none of these drab city flats

Compares to our initial habitat

—the otherworldly Earth who’s so grounded

And divine, the Roman Gods feel threatened.

But we have failed to honor Her greatness.

Today, we face deadly consequences

For taking nature’s gift for granted.

The sweet humming of the leaves, the air planted.

Though, fret not, for we have time in our hands

To undo our wrongs, to breathe a last dance.


Caila Espiritu was born in the Philippines and raised in Hong Kong, and is a recent Contemporary English Studies graduate. While she has been writing privately for some time, she has only begun publishing and submitting them for contests in recent years.

Instagram: @arcai.vz

Medium: @caila.espiritu


By Cynthia Bernard (USA)

The Pacific inhales overnight,

then, shortly before dawn, begins

crooning her love to the hills nearby.

Her fog-song caresses the beach,

sashays up the hillside,

tucking in between houses,

weaving through bushes, around trees,

seeping down to greet the gophers,

gliding up to tango with the crows.

It’s a relationship renewed each morning,

fertile and productive—

nurturing coastal redwoods, who would not survive

without the moisture they sip from each morning’s mist,

and salmon, who swim streams

kept alive by fog-drip.

She’s begun to develop shortness of breath,

fog barely making it beyond the bottom of the hill—

and there’s no inhaler we can offer her,

no chemotherapy that will cool things down,

no radiation that will stop the spread.

We can’t advise her to quit smoking, either;

we’re the ones who feed the flames.

Less fog … even less fog …

The hillside weeps dried leaves, dead branches,

as his beloved’s song fades away.


Cynthia Bernard is in her late 60s and finding her voice as a poet after many decades of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a spiritual mentor, her poetry has been published in a number of journals and anthologies.

E: [email protected]


By Alshaad Kara (MAURITIUS)

Let us join the small turtles following the polluted waves,

I will be the damaged corals and you, the earth, the dead crustaceans,

Both in a dancing symphony.

Let us plunge our pencils in those polluted clouds,

I will be the painter and you, the earth, my canvas.

Let us go to the lighthouse on the shore,

I will be the ships and you, the earth, the port.

Both in synchrony.

Let us plunge our garbage patch following the ocean,

I will be submerged with wastes and you, the earth, you shall drown in oil.

Both with no sensibility from humans.


Alshaad Kara writes in English, French and Italian, and his work has been published in a number of international journals and publications.

Instagram: @alshaad_kara

Instagram: @teamalshaadkara


By Susan Notar (USA)

Not expecting the jellyfish

floating bulbous innocuous at first glance

and not seeing them

I dove into the cool escape of the Ligurian Sea

from my perch in the heat

Solo in the water

I sculled as I do

floating on my back

wondering at my weightlessness

Then I saw a mother and child

pointing from the safety of their beach mat

and realized I was alone in the water

as other potential swimmers sweated on the sand

She took a child’s plastic beach toy

and scooped up a jellyfish

dumped it on the shore

where it lay

gelatinous shifting purple-tipped

like a part of an eyeball

or a grandmother’s pudding

Looking into the sea then

I realized they were everywhere

how had I escaped being stung

dangers lurking every day as

shooters at

grocery stores


elementary schools

once in a generation floods

fires threatening homes and ancient trees

No wonder we are tempted to linger

on the shores of our lives

unsure whether to dive in


Susan Notar works for the U.S. State Department with vulnerable communities in the Middle East. She is a Pushcart prize nominated poet whose work has been published in a number of publications.

Twitter: @susanpoet


By Vanessa Caraveo (USA)

Oh how Mother nature withers into nothingness.

Clouds dried of tears scorched under a fiery sun

become casualties of extreme climate change

by cataclysm’s serenade disrupting tranquility.

Extinction feasts at the table of creation like

a buffet of animals prepared for its slaughter.

The ozone layer salivates at the Antarctic

dialing the thermostat ripping a hole through

the crumbling windows of the earth’s soul.

Humanity wears the veil of ignorance that

blinds their actions rooted in carnal desires as

blooming fruits of chaotic repercussions ignite

carbon footprints imploding upon all existence.

Seconds plummet like a shooting star into

oblivion and we smile at the signs of our demise.

Choice is our fate; change or inevitably perish.

Even destruction’s carnage can be poetic

and ours would be a beauty painting the skies

until earth is cleansed of leeches on its soul.

Maybe then we’ll awake from our slumber and

do something more than nothing to save our world.


Vanessa Caraveo is an award-winning author, published poet, and artist. She is involved with various organizations that assist children and adults with disabilities, and enjoys working with non-profit groups and volunteering in the promotion of literacy.


By Lynette G. Esposito (USA)

When the tributaries seek an ocean that no longer

takes its tears

and all becomes dry and arid,

and fish no longer swim,

man still walks the dry earth


Salt fills the cavities of his face

like wayward streams,

The earth changed

and he did not notice

on time.


Lynette G. Esposito has been published in a large number of US and international publications.

E: [email protected]


By James Aitchison (AUSTRALIA)

The rain is drumming down

On every outback town;

Every street the waters hide,

Rooftops poke above the tide.

The whole east coast in flood;

Our farmers’ sweat and blood

Lost beneath the rising rage.

We watched the creeks and rivers fill,

We saw huge dams begin to spill;

Highways vanish, the surge claims all,

Rising faster, records fall.

Livestock drowned, no harvests now,

We must survive — the question’s how?

We’re living in a deadly age.

Isn’t this climate change?

No, no, deniers say:

Scientists have got it wrong,

it’s always been this way.


James Aitchison has had over 270 poems published in Australian anthologies, and poetry journals in the UK, Ireland and the US.

E: [email protected]


By Ewith Bahar (INDONESIA)

A nightingale’s beautiful song

Signing spring’s presence

Overlays mother earth’s lamentation

As if life is wholesome

The chorister keeps singing

With philosophical verses

Encourage crimson forests and arid deserts

They pretend life is wholesome


Ewith Bahar is a published author, poet, novelist, translator and essayist. She has had a long career in the radio and television industry, and has published eleven books.

E: [email protected]

FB: @Ewith.Bahar

Instagram: @Ewith.Bahar


By Cordelia Hanemann (USA)

what can we make of weather

a mirage of what we can and cannot see

simmer of white suns bending light

distant objects that shimmer

roots that reach through air for tenure

three black birds flapping across the windblown plane

flood waters swamping our landscapes

glaciers relocating into our bad weather

deserts and droughts / fires / tsunamis / hurricanes

in our neighborhoods / under our feet

in our closets / under our beds

volcanoes once sleeping now dragons in our night

oceans their currents ripping at diagonals to our shifting shore

known only by the universe itself

or by the earth curving off into its extremities

swallowing up all the colors

all the lines of trees birds their silhouettes

the ocean its line the horizon.


Cordelia Hanemann is a writer and artist, and currently co-hosts Summer Poets, a poetry critique group. Her poems have been performed by the Strand Project, featured in select journals, won awards and been nominated for Pushcarts. She is now working on a novel.

E: [email protected]


By Lucilla Trapazzo (SWITZERLAND/ITALY)

Listen. It does not thunder

it does not rumble the voice of the glacier

in checkmate of chattering

and chains. It floods instead

in timeless white

and carries on its shoulders

unconquered the sky.

Pierced by miasmas and penknife

the parched tongue

(hiding trace of ancient water)

waits for a light

of hope. The day beyond the sleep

of the minds. Beyond the implosion

of a species in yearning for itself

lingering like an ancient star

on the abyss.

– Falling, it still wonders why –

And life will return without edges

renewed. The golden eagle

with outstretched wings

in whirlwind will chase the hare

of the snows. We will be trees

and water and chlorophyll of fertile land

in harmonious doubt: is it still life

without a conscience to contemplate it?


Lucilla Trapazzo is a Swiss-Italian poet, translator, artist and performer. She has published five books of poetry, editor of the poetry section of two journals, and co-editor of several international anthologies.



By Hussein Habasch (GERMANY/KURDISTAN)

Let’s celebrate the fertile soil,

the roots of wild plants,

the white mushrooms,

the yellow corn, the green beans,

the beets,

the wheat seeds and their golden ears,

the lentils scattered in the lands of the farmers.

Let’s celebrate the rose fence

and forget the iron fence.

Let’s celebrate the jasmine on the walls

and forget the walls.

Let’s celebrate the ingenuity of the red roses

in spraying perfume.

Let’s celebrate the yellow dandelion flower,

God’s free poem on the face of earth.

Let’s celebrate the grass

and shiver of basil when the hands of the wind touch it.

Let’s celebrate the rounded walnut accent

and ripped fig shirts from the excess of lust.

Let’s celebrate the redberry and its berries,

the slender poplar trees like the stature of young girls,

the gracefulness of the pine that endures hardships,

the reeds, the maker of the most skilled music,

the bamboo, the singer of the river and its strange lover,

the anemone blood group that delights the imagination of bees.

Let’s celebrate the exciting pomegranate flowers,

the orange pumpkin flowers,

the precious mint sticks,

the watercress,

the coriander,

the hawthorn,

the sesame,

the saffron,

the hot pepper,

the ginger, the preserver and tonic of lust,

the cumin before and after grinding,

the fragrant green thyme on the slopes,

the daffodils on the sides of the valley.

Let’s celebrate the quiet iris,

the chunky carnation,

the dahlias full of joy and tenderness,

the fragrant lily

and the red tulip that speaks the tone of lovers’ hearts.

Let’s celebrate the fleeting encounters between the sunflower and bees,

the linden emerging from the field dress,

the pampering acacia,

the swaying iris on the trunk of the apricot tree,

the camellia coming to life,

the jasmine that melts from tenderness,

the sultry lotus,

the eucalyptus, our beautiful guest from the Andes,

the willow and its combed hair,

the cactus and its thorns on the hearts of lovers.

Let’s celebrate the courage of the chrysanthemum

and the oleander flower that blooms carelessly on the branch of bitterness.

Let’s celebrate the joy of nature,

its beauty,

its delicacy,

its sweetness,

its spontaneity …

And save it from the mouths of monsters

before it’s too late.


Hussein Habasch’s poems have been translated into over 15 languages, and has had his poetry published in a large number of international anthologies.

FB: @hussein.habasch


By Joan Lunsford (USA)

“Please, please, don’t be a litterbug

‘Cause every litter-bit hurts?”

Remember the ad we heard on TV?

Way, way back in 1953?

I took that to heart and you’d never see

Trash thrown out of a car by me.

But it’s common now to see debris

On sidewalks, roads, and in the sea.

Do they think things thrown from afar

Magically disappear, without a scar?

Plastic’s a real hazard, as you may know.

Tons of it pollute our oceans with nowhere to go.

Fish and other sea life think that it’s food

So they eat it; we eat them; not good.

Or is it fitting, somehow, that we become obsolete

From the food we have thrown in the sea and the street?

Yes, every litter bit hurts, even more than we thought

So let’s turn this around and do what we were taught.


➡️ Xem thêm: Những câu nói gạ tình người yêu (trai, gái) hiệu quả nhất

Joan Lunsford studied piano and violin, and taught string orchestra for over 30 years. Every week she produces a poem and shares it with her poetry workshop, where it is critiqued.

E: [email protected]

Trả lời

Email của bạn sẽ không được hiển thị công khai. Các trường bắt buộc được đánh dấu *