"Temperance" by Patti Dietrick; https://www.flickr.com/photos/pattidietrick/
About this image: "I photographed my sister in a channel that ran near the house. She represents the transition to balance and harmony. She is self-healing as she stands in the cold water with stars in her hair." —Patti Dietrick
On the Precipice of Long-Distance
by James Croal Jackson
The universe ends or is supposed to. It lives in your bed—mornings tangled
with laughter. In a week you will move to Florida. A week ago we swayed on swings away and toward each other.
A fling from disorder, we are no longer bound to orbit. Still, I swat the air in your fourth-floor apartment
overlooking the river to follow its movement to determine when a body is real and to what mouth it goes. For you,
it’s an airport. Until then, we hike through forests building tree forts to wooden-house our hearts.
At night, I search the stars for words but can’t make sentences you tell me are there. All I find is the slow motion of time,
then distance—since time’s beginning, the universe took many small steps toward us so let’s walk that way together.
If you lose me from great distance, I will build a bridge so short you’ll be right here from that far away.
Rotational Quantum States
by James Croal Jackson
We have so far to fall.
Excited electrons weaken in descent.
Photons of longer wavelength are fluorescence.
Do not wait for morning to end. Allow its gradual mean to untangle
the phosphorescence of a lover’s vine, complex and intimate.
Coefficients teach us probabilities for absorption and emission are the same.
We take what we give.
The initial absorption puts electrons in a more stable state.
Hold light for as long as you can.
Bio: James Croal Jackson is the author of The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017). His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in FLAPPERHOUSE, Rust + Moth, The Bitter Oleander, and elsewhere. He edits The Mantle and is a former winner of the William Redding Memorial Poetry Contest. Find him in Columbus, Ohio or at jimjakk.com.
by Beate Sigriddaughter
there is a genus of spider
she gives birth to hundreds of little ones then she lies still for them to feast on her for strength to make this life their own and they do and she dies
that too is part of the beauty of life but not all and not yours and not now
Why I Am in Love
by Beate Sigriddaughter
Because he drove back to show me a snake on the road I had missed. He herded it off into forest grass. That's when we noticed its dead mate curled at the edge of the pavement. Minutes later he drove back again to move the dead one, too—still soft, he said, with recent life—in case the living snake returned for it and had better not lie in the middle of traffic.
by Beate Sigriddaughter
I want to love you beyond reason.
I read this dreamy story of a woman waiting for her husband with body and soul spilling open, bathed and scented with anticipation. How treasured she must have felt to let her love blossom like that. I wish I could be her.
What am I saying? I used to read more than a thousand and one tales, many stirring with that kind of love.
I told you one time I didn't learn love from my parents, no. I learned love from fairy tales.
But those are fairy tales, you cautioned. No more intangible than God or money, though, I said, and we reasonably live in cynical obedience to those.
I want to take you beyond reason. If you follow me into the fairy tale, I will one day go to the forest with you and we will sleep together under the stars where we belong. I promise.
Bio: Beate Sigriddaughter is poet laureate of Silver City, New Mexico (Land of Enchantment). Her work has received several Pushcart Prize nominations and poetry awards. In 2018 FutureCycle Press will publish her poetry collection Xanthippe and Her Friends and Cervená Barva Press will publish her chapbook Dancing in Santa Fe and Other Poems in 2019. www.sigriddaughter.com
The Study of Metaphysics
by David Anthony Sam
He stands chest deep in the full flood tide of falling white moonlight
knowing the pale crescent as streaks across infinities of black water.
As far as his eye discerns, there are only this crescent, some weak stars, and eternities of nothing.
He sails the universe on waves of reflection paused in forever flight from an ancient center
and faces east five times daily though there is no faith left in his pages.
Interruption in August
by David Anthony Sam
This closes the quarto exposes the stitching and pauses me with the act of simply turning—
The unlined mind has enough space yet to be filled with the hurry of atoms—
I am in love with the folds and cavities, the halts that cranny me with all that matters—
This moment tunes me to the staccato of a red-bellied woodpecker voicing his echoes—
I unbolt myself to stand under the impossibility of the blue sky decoding his percussion—
A feathered knowing is there—and I am— here inking myself in this illusion of difference—
Bio: Born in Pennsylvania, David Anthony Sam has written poetry for over 40 years. He now lives in Virginia with his wife and life partner, Linda, and serves as president of Germanna Community College. Sam has four collections and was the featured poet in the Spring 2016 issue of The Hurricane Review and his poetry has appeared in over 60 journals and publications. His chapbook Finite to Fail: Poems after Dickinson was the 2016 Grand Prize winner of GFT Press Chapbook Contest and his collection All Night over Bones received an Honorable Mention for the 2016 Homebound Poetry Prize.
by Judith Ann Levison
Once out of an awkward need for approval, I picked ragweed, goldenrod and wildflowers For my father’s place at the table, spreading Them in a cracked blue glass jar.
When you give you are happy, a primal Essential yearning even if you are not Sure of its reception.
From the worst July heat, he came in for lunch Mopping his face, shaking off sawdust. The minute he sat down, he swiped the bouquet Off the table yelling, “Hay fever!” He was Not drunk and I realized at last, I did not exist, Was more a bothersome insect than a child. Later, I Never gave anything away without a wince of rejection.
I learned selflessness could be A stamp of fake approval or none at all. Still I immerse myself in wildflowers as if They were insulted.
Bio: Of Micmac Indian descent, Judith Ann Levison was raised in a logger’s family on coastal Maine. She holds degrees from Mount Holyoke College (BA), Hollins University (MFA), and Drexel University (MS). Under her maiden name, Judi Croxford, she was published at fifteen in The New Yorker. Chosen as the first woman Poet Laureate in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, she is also an abstract water colorist.
Her poems have appeared in Agni, Blue Unicorn, California Quarterly, Evansville Review, Hollins Critic, New Millennium Review, The New Yorker, Portland Review, Mudfish, Painted Bride Quarterly, Caveat Lector, Paterson Literary Review and more.
She has published two chapbooks: Oak Leaves and Sand Castle.
by Sergio A. Ortiz
I am not poking fun at you Don Pablo, it's respect disguised as laughter, but I cannot stand it. I do not allow such forms of humiliation, such an offense: to write verses to an onion and all the while, do it right.
On the other hand, I, so new at this trade, I cannot thread together more than three beautiful lines to the man I love using qualifiers you so skillfully wasted on elephants, artichokes, dogs, salt-roses and onions.
Damn you, Neruda, for using those expressions. You leave them useless.
Bio: Sergio A. Ortiz is a two-time Pushcart nominee, a four-time Best of the Web nominee, and 2016 Best of the Net nominee. Second place in the 2016 Ramón Ataz Annual Poetry Competition sponsored by Alaire publishing house. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in FRIGG, Tipton Poetry Journal, Drunk Monkeys, and Bitterzeot Magazine. He is currently working on his first full-length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard.
by Anne Whitehouse
Once a Cooper’s Hawk settled outside the first-floor window at the back of our Manhattan apartment, perched on the wrought-iron bars of an empty air conditioner cage.
In the cold, high realms of the air it had traveled a great distance and from afar with piercing vision had spied our cage and courtyard, one protected space within another. It felt safe enough to rest surrounded by high walls, like being at the bottom of a well of air.
The hawk was so tired it didn’t care that we were inches away, separated only by a pane of glass. Its head swiveled all around, facing backwards on its neck, and with its beak it ruffled its neck feathers and tucked its head under its wing and was fast asleep while fierce-looking talons gripped the bars of the cage.
It was a Friday evening, and the peace of Shabbat was falling like a veil, shadowing the world as the hawk slept. Not wanting to disturb its rest, I left the room dark as I set the table next to the window and lit the candles, softly singing the blessing, shielding my eyes in prayer.
My husband and daughter and I blessed the wine and the bread and quietly ate our dinner by candlelight. Twice the hawk woke and stared at us. Its black pupils rimmed in gold pierced me with inexpressible wildness, as fierce and strange as God’s angel.
Like a sheet of mica clouding its gaze, the hawk’s inner eyelid slid from front to back, and again its head rotated, and it bent its beak under its wing and slept and woke and slept again. I woke in the night and it was still there, a dark form immobile against the darkness. In the morning it was gone.
Meditation by Anne Whitehouse
Alignment is the key that opens the door to concentration only when I know my body at its limits can I find balance
moving into stillness yoking the opposite tracing the well-worn paths of my scars
forming them following them forsaking them
every day I practice my death feeling the silence dappled rainbow cast by stained glass on the walls the stone floor
A field of cattle and the dead branch of a tree where cattle egrets roost at dawn,
cool sound of rippling water as a red darning needle makes invisible stitches up and down in the air up and down
Heartbeat by Anne Whitehouse
The rhythm of life is life itself, the body’s timekeeper that recedes as it advances, like the sun slipping past the horizon and reappearing on the other side of the world.
Bio: Anne Whitehouse was born in Birmingham, Alabama, and graduated from Harvard College and Columbia University. She is the author of six poetry collections, most recently Meteor Shower (2016) from Dos Madres Press. Her novel, Fall Love, has just been published in Spanish translation as Amigos y amantes (Compton Press). Her poetry, short stories, feature articles, and reviews have appeared in major newspapers, literary magazines, and other publications throughout the English-speaking world.
Recent honors include 2016 Songs of Eretz poetry prize; 2016 winner of the Common Good Books’ poems of gratitude contest; 2016 RhymeOn! poetry award (first prize); F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald Museum poetry award (second prize), and 2015 Nazim Hikmet Poetry Prize. Last July Garrison Keillor read her poem, “One Summer Day on the Number One Train,” on The Writer’s Almanac. “One Summer Day on the Number One Train” was recently selected for an ELA diagnostic test to be administered to 300,000 high school students in the state of Louisiana over the next five years.
by Lee Marc Stein
He senses the women are smiling at him, their spectral faces splashing sporadically on the white enameled ceiling above his bed— his twinkle-eyed mother dead thirty years, her spirit knowing that even with his end near he has everything under control; his wife of forty-five years, now gone five, laughing at one of his horrific puns, celebrating their constant oneness, their overcoming dire hours; all those women he had slighted, whether yesterday or fifty years before, thinking this one ugly, that one an emotional wreck, others political dodos, philistines, prissies. So many victims of his rude stares. Yet still they smile their blessings, wrapping him in the comforter of death.
Bio: Lee Marc Stein is a retired direct marketing consultant living in East Setauket, New York. His poems have been published in Blast Furnace, Blue & Yellow Dog, Blue Lake Review, Message in a Bottle, Miller’s Pond Poetry, River Poets Journal, Slow Trains Journal, Still Crazy, Subliminal Interiors, The Write Place at the Write Time and The Write Room. His first book of poetry, Whispers in the Galleries, features ekphrastic poems. Lee has had short stories published in Bartleby Snopes, nicollsroad, The Write Place at the Write Time, Cynic Online, and Down in the Dirt.
The Man Who Was Once a Boy
by Michael H. Brownstein
That man has spent time in prison and this man does not know how to cry and the man across the room thinks he knows how to pray.
I am all of these men. Steadfast. Angry. Hungry. Stupid, stubborn, smart. Bored. Overzealous. Full.
And when I pray, I wander within the trees, melt into the papers of their bark, find feather instead of bone, every piece of nesting material, every warmth to fur.
I am autumn’s leaf beautiful yet frail, torn yet full of strength.
I am everything that makes everything everything.
Brief bio: Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published throughout the small and literary presses. His work has appeared in The Café Review, American Letters and Commentary, Skidrow Penthouse, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, Free Lunch, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review, Poetrysuperhighway.com and others.
In addition, he has nine poetry chapbooks including The Shooting Gallery (Samidat Press, 1987), Poems from the Body Bag (Ommation Press, 1988), A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004), What Stone Is (Fractal Edge Press, 2005), I Was a Teacher Once (Ten Page Press, 2011), Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah (Camel Saloon Press, 2012), The Possibility of Sky and Hell: From My Suicide Book (White Knuckle Press, 2013) and The Katy Trail, Mid-Missouri, 100 Degrees Outside and Other Poems (Kind of Hurricane Press, 2013). He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011).
The Human Dick
by Vince Corvaia
"[O]n May 9, 1970, the President appeared at 4:15 a.m. on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial to discuss the war with 30 student dissidents who were conducting a vigil there." —Stanley Karnow, Vietnam: A History
decades gone & I'm older than you were in '70 peeling off your presidential pajamas at 4 in the morning a desperate orphan negotiating a rope of monogrammed bed sheets
I want my own Lincoln Memorial tonight a posse of strangers who hate me enough that I might bum some absolution
yes I did some bad shit too loved a wife too much a dog too little burned bridges friends were still crossing
Tricky if it's possible we're the same now the beat down heart thrumming its dirges of age our brave faced V's waving from the chopper steps
I say hell with it let's delete our expletives erase each other's tapes and call it peace with honor
let history's children sort out the shrapnel from confetti
Bio: Vince Corvaia is a poet living in Boise, Idaho.
I Edit My Life
by Michael Lee Johnson
I edit my life clothesline pins & clips hang to dry, dirty laundry, I turn poetic hedonistic in my early 70's reviewing the joys and the sorrows of my journey. I find myself wanting a new review, a new product, a new time machine, a new internet space, a new planet where we small, wee creative creatures can grow.
by Michael Lee Johnson
Coastal warm breeze off Santa Monica, California the sun turns salt shaker upside down and it rains white smog, humid mist. No thunder, no lightening, nothing else to do except sashay forward into liquid and swim into eternal days like this.
Bio: Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and a US citizen. Today he is a poet, editor, publisher, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry in 2015, and was nominated for Best of the Net 2016. Johnson has had poetry published in 33 countries, and has 133 YouTube poetry videos: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos.
He has several books and chapbooks published, and is Editor-in-chief of two poetry anthologies: Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, and Dandelion in a Vase of Roses. He is editor of 10 poetry sites as well as the administrator of a Facebook poetry group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/807679459328998.
In the "Chemo" Waiting Room
by Katie O'Sullivan
are familiar strangers. They have become your new family, waiting in rubber band lines that expand or shrink, stretching further during lunch breaks and daylight saving hours. Waiting lines of different shapes and colors in knitted hats, baseball caps, turbans, scarves, or wigs. Signing up for miracle elixirs. Lining up to share a hall of cell-like rooms. Resting up on hard, iron cots and disarrayed sheets that bunch around bottoms, tangle through toes or slither to the floor as you speak to a nurse, drink your potion, text a message, read a book or snooze. While in the waiting room, your extended family wait, page through magazines, check watches, stare at nothing. Until a young boy, perhaps autistic, is engulfed by nervous rocking. His father, beside him, sleeps. Suddenly, the boy puts earphones to his head and waves his hands to the sounds. The father awakens, pats his son’s shoulder. The roomful of family exchange smiles, sharing in this heartfelt moment of release. The boy laughs with glee, throws his arms above his head, as his body moves to a rhythm of its own.
Poet's Note: The poem's title depicts what the patients called the room where I was awaiting my daughter.
Bio: After leaving UCLA and getting married, Katie O'Sullivan followed her husband's career to the Middle East where she lived for 15 years. There she graduated from the American University of Beirut while raising her seven children. Back in the U.S. her family moved between California and Texas several times before her husband retired.
Following several previous attempts, Katie began her creative writing career at the age of 75. Her plan was to write a memoir, but it was pushed aside for the publication of her poetry, flash fiction, essays and the staging of one play. Some of the publications that have included her work are: The Knoxville Writers Guild, the Adams Media Corp., Silver Boomer Books, Writers Abroad, The Texas Poetry Calendar (5 editions), Cell2Soul and The Write Place at the Write Time among others. She published her memoir last year on her 90th birthday.
Refractions and Reflections (prose poem)
by Carole Mertz
An evergreen bush, stands three feet high outside our window. Following a heavy rainfall in the night, all remained wet and luminous by morning. Numerous dewdrops hung on its branches sending out sparkling lights, like a Christmas tree standing in the middle of July. The reflections, pea-size, seemed like electric lights strung across the plant, giving off dazzling blues, iridescent golds and oranges, sparkle-bright yellows, and tiny bulbs of greens and reds. As I shifted my body a mere fraction of an inch, the display instantly changed. Viewing this miracle I thought, What if I hadn’t seen? How much I’d have missed.
A day or two later, still visualizing the colors, I made a discovery. These tints were the only tints one would see; in dispersed light there can be no other hues but those of the rainbow’s spectrum. Now the recollected image of the tree became something more: a created body, obeying its laws of physics established so long ago. A great kinship with the tree came upon me. I, too, dwell in a realm of foreordained laws. The bush can no-wise walk away from its roots, than I defy my heritage or claim to be what I am not. The un-heard-of hue cannot claim a place in the spectrum. But a poem’s no place for a tautology. So I simply salute you Mr. Newton, Mr. Roy G. Biv, Mr. Munsell. Please take front row seats.
Bio: Carole Mertz is pleased to have poems and essays appear this year at The Write Place at the Write Time, South 85 Journal, Voices de la Luna, Working Writer, and in other venues. Semi-retired, Carole enjoys the opportunity to scrutinize some of the tiny elements she discovers in her microcosm. She has just completed a U. of Iowa MOOC.
It's a Good Day
by Mary K. O'Melveny
said the man, as he sat down next to me at the bus stop. In fact, it’s a VERY good day, he said again, a big smile forming behind his sketchy white beard. I agreed. It was hard to argue since we were both sitting there, breath flowing in and out, forming curly clouds in the cold morning air.
At first, I wondered at the optimism of his announcement but then he allowed how his day began with only one donated blanket and now he had two more. Proof, I realized, of the words printed on his large white cardboard sign— God is Good! Or at least evidence that someone had been kind enough on this chilled Spring day.
The man’s long unzipped black coat had once sported quilted squares, maybe even a downy center. Today it barely kept the wind quiet as he spoke of Mother Nature’s fickle view of changing seasons. We both agreed that the cherry blossoms might have trouble showing off for festival goers this time around. She’ll decide, he said.
As usual, I agreed. Another smile. His new blankets lay across a large black rolling suitcase as if to shield it from our Mother’s mutable realities. The bag nestled against the bus stop shelter, leaning in at a near jaunty angle while the man watched it from our shared metal seat. A safe place to rest briefly being another measure of a good day.
Miss Manners at the Hospital
by Mary K. O'Melveny
It is funny how much I want to get along. At least that’s how I feel in my infantilized state here, bandaged up like a museum mummy. I have tossed my body image, privacy norms away like yesterday’s leftovers. Shyness is lost on everyone here. Inhibitions a waste of brain cells. Flabby flesh makes me excessively polite. Eager to please— a diversionary tactic worthy of top star generals! Perhaps routines of courtesies will take my mind off my awkward circumstances. I am quite confident that I am no different than dozens of prior denizens. Yet still I crave polite exchanges more than my prescribed drugs. I want to be seen, the current of eye contact sizzling, slicing through the dry air. I can fall in love easily. All it takes is a kind comment from some stranger in green scrubs willing to look up when I say please, thank you. Willing to take a chance on our brief connection.
by Mary K. O'Melveny
Clop, clop, clop. A rhythmic ruckus. A distracting disturbance that could have been almost relaxing. But the sound is my cane as it hits our wood floors. This is calibrated noise. An even beat. More than tap, tap, tap—too tentative. My sonorous stride is determined. I clatter down to the hallway door. About face. Back to our kitchen. Around again. I am keeping track of three legs it seems, at least until the steady bang bang is second nature like a drum roll. Hubbub hovers with my new gait.
In the rehab center, most were not so lucky. Their night racket echoed along dark corridors. Less roar, more low rumble. Someone in a wheelchair told me once that people never look at them eye to eye. As if downcast stares will avoid a like fate. Or perhaps skip past guilty speculations about how one arrives in spaces where points of view suddenly shift like earthquake fault lines. When I go out, cane poised, perhaps invisibility’s cloak will extend to me as well. I know the world will hear me arriving.
Bio: Mary K. O'Melveny is a retired labor rights lawyer and "emerging" poet. Mary lives in Washington, DC and Woodstock, NY. Her work has been published in various on-line and print journals including The Write Place at The Write Time, GFT Press, Into the Void and The Offbeat as well as blog sites such as Writing in a Woman's Voice and Women at Woodstock. Mary's poem, "Cease Fire," won First Prize in the 2017 Raynes Poetry Competition sponsored by Jewish Currents Magazine and appears in the anthology Borders and Boundaries published by Blue Threads Press.
Sunlight Through the Mist
by Lew Caccia
The morning fog obscures remnants of heavy, prolonged rain. Yet preserves the living landscape in various cycles of succession and renewal. Who could imagine on this particular morning the surprises along the gentle curves of a once sparsely settled wilderness?
A row of silver maples parallels the hard-packed, dirt surface. More of the riparian forest awaits beyond the approaching culvert. From this tunnel the crushed limestone path extends into the dusty, dry summer season flanked by cattails, sedges, and willows.
The tranquility of the trail fades as the restless river frequently shifts course. Where little else blooms, the invasive bamboo-like stalks of Japanese knotweed colonize resiliently. Further into the oxbow people catch fish in old canal basins. The boardwalk pings demurely with the ascendant past. Huge sycamores and box elders await nature’s next engineer.
Bio: Lew Caccia serves as a professor at Kent State University at Stark, where he teaches courses in composition, rhetoric, professional writing, and literacy. His recent poetry has appeared in Praxis, The Storyteller, hedgerow, The Write Place at the Write Time, and The Penwood Review.
by Selah Grenewood
I’ve had a love affair With myself, just me and no one else Black scars, cut limbs—
Men in jackets keeping guard, It’s loose now no body to keep Wandering alone, the streets
Flew in the air I’ve had a love affair. Kisses bright and blue Hands shimmering glass reflections,
Breath meeting the entrance of time. No one to love the ghost I was No one to claim her but me, how she hovered, lost.
Ghost that haunted as a man pleading love Ghost that haunted in bed all day As naked hungry thoughts,
Come away, stay And weep these eyes of close love-making Its slow tender place,
That was only masked brutality of Men that haunted her ghost. A ghost turned soul when she
Became, someone else with a name And a legacy, Someone, just herself.
Bio: Selah Grenewood is a painter, peacemaker, philosopher and poet living in southwest FL.
Her work has appeared in Teen Ink, Mother Verse, The Sound, Positive Outlooks, Gravel and Metapsychosis literary journal.
by Sarah Rehfeldt
That hour in the evening, when magic works its way into the landscape and shadows start to loosen into darkness, the light on the lake becomes rare and lifted in some mysterious way. Trees lean inward— or so it seems— no longer afraid of their reflections, no longer struggling with everything they have to carry. And, for a while, at least, there are no longer any expectations.
Bio: Sarah Rehfeldt lives with her family in western Washington where she is a writer, artist, and photographer. Her publication credits include Appalachia; Written River; Weber—The Contemporary West; and Presence: An International Journal of Spiritual Direction. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize in poetry and The Orison Anthology. Sarah is the author of Somewhere South of Pegasus, a collection of image poems. It can be purchased through her photography web pages at: www.pbase.com/candanceski
by Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Hidden by darkness The light could not reach my soul Came a drop of rain
To give me some strength And my twigs crossed the border I surpassed darkness
Bloomed into a rose A white one, one so unique Loved by all the rest
Queen of my garden I say to the rest, be bold Live and be not scared
Do cross the border Life does emerge with fate's guidance Be calm, follow it!
Bio: Anoucheka Gangabissoon is a Primary School Educator in Mauritius. She writes poetry and short stories as hobby. She considers writing to be the meaning of her life as she has always been influenced by all the great writers and wishes to be, like them, immortalized in her words. Her works can be read on poetrysoup.com and she had also appeared in various literary magazines like SETU, Different Truths, Dissident Voice, In Between Hangovers, Your One Phone Call, and WISH press, among others. She has also been published on Duane’s PoeTree and also in two anthologies for the Immagine and Poesia group. Her poems are often placed in free online contests.
Photo by Elaine Whitman; image accompanies "Lost and Found" poem by Neal Whitman
Lost and Found
by Neal Whitman
on the way to the Tibetan Center I took slow steps— all things are tainted all things are pure on the way to the Tibetan Center in the road a feather and rusty nail to leave at the altar
Bio: Neal Whitman lives in Pacific Grove, California, with his wife, Elaine, where both find strength on walks along the Monterey Bay recreation trail. When the wind, waves, and light are just right, they collaborate by combining his poems with her photography. Neal is a hospice bereavement volunteer who sees, in the ebb and flow of the tides, both the joys and sorrows of love.