Poems by country (selected by the judges)


A mon père



Papa si tu savais mon petit coeur a mal
De t'avoir vu persécuté alors que tu as sacrifié
Tant et tant pour ton pays
Et même au dernier jour de ta vie on m'a interdit de te dire Au revoir!!!
Mais ce n'est pas grave aprés je t'ai bordé trois nuits avant que tu ne rejoignes ta derniere demeure
Papa chéri je t'aime je t'ai écrit tant de poèmes
Consacré tant de vers mais ce soir
Oui j'aimerai mourir et te rejoindre
Car le monde d'ici bas me dégoute
Tes tortionnaires son toujours là
Ta veuve vit toujours dans la tourmente
Et moi dans les souvenirs de nos souffrances
Que nous avons partagés avec toi
Toi si Digne si humble
Tu nous disais ne vous plaignez pas
Ainsi vous ne salirez pas votre Pays
Je sais que tu es dans le royaume des cieux
J'aimerai que tu m'emmènes avec toi
Car petite fille j'ai tant manqué de toi
C'est vrai tu étais tellement occupé servir ta "glorieuse" patrie
Pour que les traitres soient glorifiés à la place des Martyrs
Papa chéri sois en Paix chez le grand horloger de l'univers comme tu disais
Papa on m'a tout pris toi quand j'étais enfant
Ma jeunesse
Mon présent et mon futur mais je ressemble à tant d'autres...
Merci Papa mon héros Merci je t'aime
                                                                                             10 septembre 2014         Nova KERKEB


Kerkeb Testa, Nova (Algérie) Nova Kerkeb Testa est née à Alger et a débuté l'écriture à l'âge de 7 ans, âge durant lequel elle écrit ses premières poésies. Elle a participé à des publications de documentaires à caractère économique. Elle est également co-auteure et comédienne d'une mini-série humoristique.

Elle a publié In souffrances tues aux Éditions Edilivre à Paris en 2015.







A Elham



Elle cueille les murmures de la terre

Au fil des songes, elle y tisse nos vies,

y mêle en flots continus

 ses ondes et son jet de lumière


Effleure nos tempes

ensommeille le temps

Puis, au tréfonds du coeur

là où se cachent nos ors

 file entre nos doigts

déshabiller l'éveil


Alors, le temps ploie

 à l'ombre des ornières

Avec elle, l'âme se déplie lentement

Aux secrets abondants, les effluves se fondent

et dans l'épais gazon s'étourdissent nos mots




Marie-Josée DESVIGNES - Ecrits pour l'amitié (inédit) - FRANCE -



 Desvignes, Marie-Josée (France): Marie-Josée Desvignes vit en Provence, aux portes du Luberon. Professeur de Lettres et Formatrice en écriture, puis Critique littéraire, écrit (roman, essai, poésie, jeunesse), dessine, photographie. De nombreuses publications, collectives et en revue (poésie, chroniques, articles) http://marie873.wix.com/autre-monde







Life's struggles begun at your birth

And it will continue until your death 


From the day your mum's water broke

And you made an entry with a stroke


You were made to be on your own

You were given your life long gown


When you were finally born 

Your link to your mum was torn 


Though you were weak and frail

You were ushered to your own trail 


To face life fully starting with nothing 

But expected to become something 


You were divinely gifted with ability

Your life is entirely your responsibility


Now wake up to life and face reality

Now renew your entitlement mentality


No one in this life owes you anything

None but you owe yourself everything 


That's the truth and you need to be told

Take risks, answer your call and be bold


You will try many times and woefully fail

You will cry many times and painfully wail


But welcome to life; you're on your own 

Because you're to face life on your own




Poet: Gamel Sankarl 



Country: Ghana, West Africa



 Gamel Sankarl  is a young Ghanaian writer of international repute. He is an ace author of over a dozen books with a life commitment of making people mentally wealthy and physically healthy and he does that through his writings, speeches, poetry performances and health talks/screenings. 

He is a recipient of the Pentasi B 'Universal Inspirational Poet' award, Baobab 'Culture and Community Building' amongst a few other awards and has been nominated trice for the BEFFTA UK Best Author award. He contributed to the Africa 80 book and is currently leading 60 young Ghanaians to co-author a book that will share their stories to inspire other young Ghanaians. 

Gamel is member of the Ghana Association of Writers and the current country Director of the Writers Capital International Foundation.






Old Man In The Garden


He is a story being told

through tall garden hedges

and long rows of barbed-wire fences.

In the white of his eyes

(that space of pain)

a hammer swings and tiny cottages move

longing for something called rest.

His diary buries his truths in its own fog;

spiral-bound by wires of yearning.

Old age is like that -

It has much to say but chooses silence.

Something new takes the place of the old

New blossoms flourish on new trees...


Except that a nameless smoke drifts

along the back of a garden bench,

brings water to the onlooker's eyes.

The punched-out sun

that glides just above the grass at noon

shudders at the scribbled words

trembles at its proximity to the diary of yearnings.

Its light tramples the shadows

surrounding the lonely garden bench.

Perhaps its lone occupant

asks the bald sun to move into his heart.

Move through the coils of his fingers

Move through his small, rusty words


Move, so that his story might end with a semblance of warmth.


Vinita Agrawal


Agrawal. Vinita (India): Vinita Agrawal is a Mumbai based, award winning poet and writer, author of two poetry books, Words Not Spoken, Brown Critique/Sampark, India; and The Longest Pleasure, Finishing Line Press, USA. She won the Gayatri GaMarsh Memorial Award 2015 for literary excellence, NJ, USA. She is Editor for the women based website.








The Durbar Square, Kathmandu


This space with the unbroken shadows of the past,

Some recent, and of future: an acrid sun in morning is panning out.

The Durbar Square is opening like a light’s entrance through the

Circumferences of a silent spring in dark room, from photo negatives

Developing  infirm—the colours, the people, the passages, the

Buildings, the shops and suddenly the luminance of freshly brewed tea

Like Tibetan scriptures flanked in fire—the hidden cognition of every

Buddha statue. Peace, peace and peace. Standing there, in this place,

Can remind you the white lotuses of thangkas: the fleeting meanings

Of a race, of our land. And exquisite gold plated faces of deities, all

Sleeping… with the consciousness aroused, therein, with dreaming

Contours of Earth. The young lovers sitting there holding their hands,

Some foreigners, the hawkers with incense burners, ebullient children and

Flowers: the radiant Sun. You can’t walk through but struggle in your

Presence wherever you are there, the blood in your veins will these

Undeliable, expanding universe refluencing like the vibrations of

Singing bowls, the solemn evening, of chants, sufferings, this birth

And of death.



Niladri Mahajan.

- Niladri Mahajan


Niladri Mahajan is a counseling psychologist and lives in Kolkata. Recently he also did a Masters in Computational Biology. He holds a diploma in Fine Arts and trained in Dhrupad and Western Classical Music. He likes to do gliding and scuba diving, has a strong inclination towards photography and cinema; astronomy and artificial intelligence. Afternoon walks are his favorite and the changing seasons. He writes poem both in English and Bengali and also the author of Amazon.in bestselling poetry book in English- “A Diffused Room”. His works has appeared in various publications including the Taj Mahal Review and The Dawn Beyond Waste anthology by the Microsoft and GIZ, GmbH, Germany.







May in Tuscany


I sat on the veranda

and watched the sun rise

and saw it set

as it traveled across the day

from east to west

sending shadows down mountains

then lifting them

and setting them back again

in a different direction

defining, sharpening, erasing

changing the hues of trees and seas

of sky and clouds


I could almost feel the globe revolve

a dozen birds traversed the air above my head

and the only sound

was their chatter


Then at noon

a green lizard

scuttled across the terrace

sat on its shadow

and vanished

and a black bumblebee

flew underneath the canopy

where I sat

buzzed loudly and was gone


I too am but a creature

in the hands of nature

casting a short-lived shadow

like a lizard,

like a bumblebee



© 5.2015 Helen Bar-Lev


Helen Bar-Lev was born in New York City. She has lived in Israel for 35 years. She holds a degree in Anthropology from California State University, Northridge, 1972. Since 1976 Helen has devoted herself to art: painting, teaching and writing poetry. From 1989 until 2001 she was a member of the Safad Artists’ Colony in the Upper Galilee where she had her own gallery. In January 2007 she and her partner Johnmichael Simon moved to Metulla, the northernmost town in Israel.
Helen is a member of Voices Israel English Poetry Society and The Israel Artists’ and Sculptors’ Association. She is the global correspondent in Israel for the Poetry Bridge and Editor-in-Chief of the Voices Israel annual anthology.






 Death Watch for My Mother                     



It is not a strange thing to die,

But I cannot help but stare

As she lies sprawled, her face a mask,

Her cheeks gaunt, her nose prominent,

Her breasts like empty sacks, a scar

Marking where once her life was spared.

Yet in the end there is no escape.

I have never before seen her breasts bared

Bottle bred baby that I am.

She plucks at the sheets, at her skin, like Job.

Our love has been at one remove,

A continent or half the globe,

But life and so much more was given

And I the living still receiving

Soon I know will come the grieving.



Reduced not to dust but to ashes,

Now a week has gone and she has passed.

In the hotel ballroom they dance their dances,

Waltz and tango, slow and fast.

“You pays your money, you takes your chances”

Not seeing the number on our back

As it is judged who leaves the floor

(Will she meet her mother in Roseland Palace?)

And if we span three score or more


To drink to the dregs from a golden chalice.


Chaim Bezalel, Israel - USA



 Chaim Bezalel was born in New York City and graduated from Northwestern University in 1971 with a degree in film. He moved to Israel in 1988 and now divides his time between Ashkelon, Israel and Stanwood, Washington. He is a visual artist often collaborating with his wife, Yonnah Ben Levy. Many of their paintings are in public collections. He is also a writer of songs, essays, and poetry. He has published a book of poems, essays, and photography entitled Songs from the Territories.



Disattiva per: inglese

Middle Ground



They are cold, the seas that surround your northern lands.

Even the names bring a chill to the bones-

Iceland, Arctic Ocean, North Sea.

Your jagged gray storm clouds churn in the sky

threatening to plunge me to the deep.

In a place like this, hearts sometimes freeze.

There is no helping it.


In my desert, the sun is so hot

people melt into the sand and cannot move.

The absence of wind and the smothering oven air

push tempers to the boiling point in seconds.

You cannot love your neighbor in this heat.

He wants a sea full of water,

and you cannot even spare him a drop.


Go and fetch a pail from the icy mountain stream.


I will meet you in the middle with my jar of fire.





Julie Bloch Mendelsohn, Israel



NOTE: This poem has been published previously in The Mountain Troubadour 2015 and in my debut poetry book "Travels to Ourselves" (Poetica Publishing, 2015).





Julie Bloch Mendelsohn lives with her family in Israël. Her work has been published in Poetica Magazine, The Poetry Society of Vermont's Mountain Troubadour, Lilipoh Magazine, and the website Chabad.org. She also works as lawyer for holocaust survivors, and on cancer research.





Circle Dance


Circles dance under grapevines in the breeze,

dancers in white garments, borrowed robes,

singing rondeaux under grapevines,

dancing to drum beats with the song of birds.


Circles dance up the hills, up to Jerusalem,

up to the Mountain of Myrrh, through the seven gates,

down the narrow alleys, along the tunneled ways,

holding hands, for in their dance they are complete.


And on the Mountain of Myrrh

Forgiveness and Truth hold hands with Peace

and with Joy they dance

in the center of the circle dance.


 This poem first appeared in The Deronda Review, Spring 2014



Ruth Fogelman, Israel 



Through her inspirational poetry, photography and stories of encounters with Jews, Moslems and Christians, Ruth Fogelman takes you on a journey through Jerusalem's Old City and its Jewish Quarter.




We Walk the Middle Valley


We walk the middle valley

vast swathe of humble earth

content to divide it alongside,

submitting our fate to uncertain sky.

Sometimes holding together

then indifferent,

we could not with deliberation

lay snare to fellow traveler.

The few who occupy the hills

on either side,

peculiar bands,

would hold the valley too

at our cost,

without consideration

for the possibility of windfall,

the commune of our greater kind.

No resistance to the one belief,

they relegate our gods to parochial land.

Tight in indignant righteousness,

snug preconception monochrome,

the lording clothe their holy titles

in history's layers.

They propel their rage toward the other side

but venom arches short,

raining upon us,

as we stumble

in the crossfire of their fury




RICHARD SHAVEI-TZION was born in Cape Town, South Africa and lives in Jerusalem. He is an autodidact in his creative avocations and describes his poetry, photography and music as "instinctive." Richard's works have been published widely in poetry and artistic publications and websites as well as on the BBC website and other news publications. He has given presentations on music history in Israel, the U.S.A. and South Africa and his first solo exhibition of his photography took place recently at Jerusalem's municipal gallery.


An accountant by profession, Richard manages a property management company. He directs the 40-voice Ramatayim Men's Choir and is the author of the "Prayer for the Preservation of the Environment" which has been read in synagogues around the world. 







For the World to Prosper


Why is this world a mad one?

 Pray, be not hurt at my words –

 Already it is revolving on an aim so lame;

 Now, wars and conflicts are its main cause.

 Yes, wars and conflicts, when all it needs is peace, acceptance and tolerance.


 For peace to prosper, justice should be made to matter.

 Yes, for peace to prosper, law breakers should be called to order...

 By means the whole society would deem to be best –

 By means which could be taken as examples for others to follow –

 By means which would allow the seeds of peace to blossom into juicy fruits.


 But for justice to be, one should feel free, whether one is at home or not.

 Yes, for justice to be, one should feel at ease –

 Comfortable and safe, knowing that harm won't come;

 If one does not feel so, one will resort to wars to bring liberty

 For the world is for everyone, regardless of creed, culture and belonging.


 Liberty does not thrive when peace and justice are shaken.

 Liberty is threatened when peace gets broken.

 Liberty is violated when justice gets demoted;

 For the world to prosper, it needs peace, justice and liberty.

 For the world prosper, it needs its people to be made of an inner serenity.


 This world is indeed a mad one!

 Revolving on itself, on uncertainty, on the ignorance of the past and the future

 Now, loathsome has it become, when wars and conflicts sprout on its every corner.

 Pray, world, lighten the hearts and souls of your superior beings.

 May they know that, contrary to what they believe, this world does not belong to them.


 That on uncertainty they shall always tread –

 That truth shall reveal itself, as life comes to a mysterious ending –

 That what matters are merely pure and harmless intentions;

 World, you shall thrive only when peace shall thrive on your lands.

 And you shall prosper only when tolerance and acceptance shall be celebrated!


Anoucheka Sweety Gangabissoon

edited by Elaine and Neal Whitman


Gangabissoon, Anoucheka (Mauritius): Anoucheka Gangabissoon is a Primary School Educator with a passion for writing. Her poems have been published on several poetry websites. http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/best/26605/anoucheka_gangabissoon https://cosmofunnel.com/poems/moon-10894 



Stop the War


War, war roars everywhere,
Ignorance and intolerance pollute the air.

O Human Race!
Remove this crown of disgrace.

Drop , drop all wicked weapons
because war is dark illusion,
not a  justified enlightened  reason.

Connect, connect to your  inner voice deeply,
Without prejudice  listen to it attentively,
It will tell you surely confidently
“ Your mission is not to fight, not to make enemies,
  Your mission  is to send universal love and peace to every country;
  Thus, break the shackles of  destructive war wisely
  and spread on  planet Earth  lovely, unwavering harmony.”

Vatsala Radhakeesoon

(Rose-Hill, Mauritius)


Radhakeesoon, Vatsala (Mauritius): Vatsala Radhakeesoon is a published Mauritian author/poet. She writes poems and short stories for adults and children. Her works mainly center on emotional issues, social facts, historical facts, spiritual quest and childhood innocence. http://www.facebook.com/Vatsala.D.Radhakeesoon



Panting, athirst
to drink
of the grail of life.
But found,
It was so filled;
no man should drink.

Filled with emptiness
In guise of goodness.
Filled with waters of mirage.
Filled of vanity in infinity.
Filled with insanity in animosity.
Golden without; stinky within.

Having known truth,
men still queue
To partake
of this vanity grail.


Abegunde Sunday Olaoluwa

The poet, Abegunde Sunday Olaoluwa, fondly called ‘Speaking Pen’ is the winner of the World Union of Poets Prize 2016. He is a poet rated in Top 20 of EGC List of ‘Top 50 Poets that Rocked Nigeria in 2015’. His works are featured in several national and international anthologies.  He authored  ‘Unleash Your Potential: Beyond Just Motivation’ and other books.

Website ( books): www.amazon.com/author/speakingpen 
Website (Official): www.speakingpen.net
Blog: Www.speakingp.blogspot.com





Mother Earth


Mother earth;






For your inhabitants have gone berserk

Normalcy has gone haywire

Insurgency eats deep like disease

Rod of iniquity stirs nature's wrath

On the streets, human flesh are roasted whole

Can't you perceive, it sizzles like fat

Her beloved butchered

Her esteemed murdered

Massacred without crime

Yet, citizens looked once

Oblivion to what's amiss

For the love of life

Who will bell the cat

Can you cure this disease?

Will you heal mother earth?

Is humanity ever going to be restored?

Unto normalcy

Unto dignity

Unto her glory


Name: Olaleye Doyin Sunshine
Country: Nigeria 



  Olaleye Doyin Sunshine is a poet, writer and a microbiologist. She has been published in various journals, literary magazines and anthologies including Muse For World Peace Anthology Edition II. She is the model of an online movement; Nibstears Poetry Cave Yoruba Poetry.


Blog: sunnypen.wordpress.com




"Abiku so Ologun deke" – they say


My breathe shall cease away

Like the twelfth hour of time again!

And in vain shall be the reviving spell,

With the jointed metal cones bell,

You cast upon my soulless aged body.


The ashes put on the soil of my face

When you are “chuffed” to lay me to the grave,

The necklace and the bangles cast around my neck,

And the scary knife you beckon to make marks on my chest,

Shall have no hold to my squirrel teeth.


For every season I will come

To chastise my mother with plague,

I will suckle like the flesh-birds,

And wet the ground with rolling tears from her eyes.


My spirit will come and go

Like the rain in a rainy desert,

And like the flash of eagle,

I will visit you with lotus of scars.


Seven goats’ blood and palm oil

Shall be for libation to redeem my soul,

Cowries from several seas shall be laid on my grave,

And only, not again that you have peace.


For I am Abiku

The spirit of the living dead!


Abiku refers to the spirits of children who die before reaching puberty; a child who dies before twelve years of age being called an Abiku, and the spirit, or spirits, who caused the death being also called Abiku.



@ Timileyin Gabriel Olajuwon




Olajuwon, Timileyin Gabriel (Nigeria): Timileyin Gabriel Olajuwon is a Nigerian, a poet and a literary critic. He is an international multi-award winner. Most of his works have been featured in series of international anthologies and journals. He is the brain behind Muse for World Peace Anthology (an anthology of contemporary poets propagating peace), and a published author with his first book entitled Call for retreat, 2013.







To be good enough for you

is like being a flake of snow.


The rules are rigid of solitude;

we walk into separation –

your unwillingness to talk;


understanding is a bucket of snow

splattered over windshields,


pretty patterns on thick-paned

resolve aren’t long-lasting;


The finest of paints will sing

but windows don’t hold

under carvings.


My disintegration in waiting

has become a sculptor’s tool,


just like blue skies during snow


fall, discriminating fractals as stars.


SHEIKHA, Pakistan




Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Over 300 of her poems appear in a variety of literary venues, both print and online. All of her published work can be accessed on her blog sheikha82.wordpress.com. She edits poetry for eFiction India.







Pusty fotel w rogu pokoju,

pod lampą, obok stolik,

na nim okulary, książki, telefon,

parę gazet i pudełko z warcabami.

Przed fotelem siedzi pies. Nie chce wejść

i usadowić się wygodnie, jak to psy

mają w zwyczaju. Patrzy. Czeka.

Myśli pewnie,

że to jakaś nowa zabawa w znikanie,

zachowanie w gruncie rzeczy

niegodne poważnego człowieka,

kolejny żart, jak wtedy w parku,

gdy wszedł na drzewo i rzucał kasztanami.

Pies marszczy czoło, przekrzywia głowę,

wilgotnym nosem wciąga zapach,

lekko porusza ogonem. Kładzie się

na dywanie, opiera łeb na przednich łapach,

walczy z ciężarem powiek, po chwili

zapada w sen; szczeka,

biegnie za panem, jest małym szczeniakiem,

szarpie się ze ścierką, a potem wpada

do tej okropnej kałuży koło starego dębu.

No i oczywiście goni kota.


Po kilku psich snach

ze stolika znikają okulary,

książki, warcaby. Ołtarz powoli

ginie w mroku. Później przychodzi zima.

A pies nadal siada przed fotelem

i czeka.




Una poltrona vuota in un angolo di una stanza,

sotto la lampada; un tavolo accanto,

occhiali, libri, telefono,

alcuni giornali e un gioco di dama sopra.

Davanti alla poltrona, un cane è seduto.

Non vuole alzarsi

e sistemarsi comodamente, come i cani

di solito fanno. Guarda. Aspetta.

Probabilmente pensa,

che questo è solo un nuovo gioco a “scomparsa”

un comportamento, infatti,

che è indegno di un uomo serio;

un altro scherzo, come lo era nel parco,

quando lui è salito su un albero e ha gettato le castagne.

Il cane aggrotta la fronte, inclina la testa,

annusa l'odore con il suo naso umido,

muovendo leggermente la coda. Si sdraia

sul tappeto, poggia la testa sulle zampe anteriori,

lotta con il peso delle palpebre, dopo un po’

si addormenta; abbaia,

corre dietro al suo padrone, è un piccolo cucciolo,

tira la stoffa, e quindi cade

in quella terribile pozzanghera vicino alla vecchia quercia.

E, naturalmente, insegue il gatto.


Dopo alcuni sogni del cane,

i bicchieri, i libri e la dama

scompaiono dal tavolo.

L'altare lentamente

si perde nel buio. Poi arriva l'inverno.

E il cane è ancora seduto davanti poltrona


e attende.


Tomasz Marek Sobieraj




Sobieraj, Tomasz Marek (Poland):  Tomasz Marek Sobieraj is a writer, cultural and political critic, documentary and fine art photographer; he is an editor-in-chief at “Krytyka Literacka”- the arts and letters magazine. http://www.tomaszmareksobieraj.blogspot.com


United Kingdom

 The Light

A flickering light in the darkness
is all there is to see,
a flickering light in the darkness
to guide you home to me.


Through the storm that roars
and boils the deep dark sea,
I keep a flickering light shining
to bring you back to me.

Across the deepest oceans
from yon far Southern land
you've sailed for many months now
and soon I'll hold your hand.

I stand looking from this window
from where this light shines forth
hoping to glimpse your ship's light.
heading for the North.

The tempest now is raging
the wind howls like myriad banshees,
the rain is now relentless
there are mountains on the seas,

I must run up to the clifftop
to get a better view,
I must run up to the clifftop
because I know that you

are not far from the harbour
where safe shelter you will find
and though I cannot see you
I see you clearly in my mind.

You are sailing into the harbour
the sky is blue the sea is calm
you are safe back in the harbour,
home again, and free from harm.


Tom Higgins



 Higgins, Thomas (U.K.) Thomas Higgins started to write poetry at the age of fifty five when he felt he had an urge to say something. He has written several hundred poems since then. He is an artist too. He lives in the far North West of England in what is called the Lake District https://www.facebook.com/tom.higgins.90?fref=ts


United States of America



I gather

all the 

little pieces

of my 



like new found 


meant only 

for me.

I place them in 

a soft basket

cherish them

sift through them


Inspecting each one

Admiring them

in all their luminescent 


Reminding me

of your lone aquamarine eye

Gazing through my 

silver tears

forming tiny rainbows

when the northern lights

shine through 


in all their opalescent 


under the midnight sun 

then tuck them away

with the key

to the lock

that only you 

can open 








Barkan Clarke, Mia (U.S.A.) Mia Barkan Clarke is an Artist, Art Therapist, Poet and Author of Tea with Nana—paintings and poems and My Sacred Circle Mandala Journal, residing on Long Island, NY. Mia's works have been published and exhibited worldwide. http://www.miaart.com/



Yawning Stars



I watched you yawn a universe into existence

I witnessed as you sang a cosmos into style


I saw you sigh, and the heavens roared

then you smiled, and the gods came alive


I felt you move, and the stars fell into rhythm

then you danced, and the planets cycled into their place


You closed your eyes, and the full moon shined

and when they opened, the sun blazed hot


Your passion flared, and the earth shook violently

but then you laughed, and all grew calm


You said Yes, and the gates flew open

Your power coursed through every wave


You spoke the Word, and the gospel was born


Your vibration, a serenade of the holy symphony



Scott Thomas Outlar 



Outlar, Scott Thomas (U.S.A. ):  Scott Thomas Outlar has published A Black Wave Cometh, Dink Press, 2015 and Songs of A Dissident, Transcendent Zero Press, 2015. A full length poetry collection Happy Hour Hallelujah is forthcoming in 2016 through Creative Talents Unleashed. He has had more than 700 poems published in over 160 print and/or online literary venues, along with dozens of essays, articles, and short stories. https://17numa.wordpress.com/ 



Assignation: Cherita in Five Parts


i. still morning, still pond


flat stones

skip the surface


I cast my net


of the future


ii. future is not my forté


still has two els

each is upright


still I am resolved

to remain constant

without conditions I listen


iii. listen for its whistle


yes, dear

I will come to you by train


no turbulence

time to gaze, reflect

and, yes, to write love poems


iv. poems blue-penciled into oblivion


my overnight bag 

stuffed with many refusals


my editor’s rebukes

it’s me is now the norm

but still it is she


v. she tells me hush


her fingers

cover my mouth



on the staircase

who will make the first move keep still




Neal Whitman, US


 (Cherita - pronounced CHAIR-rita -, Malay for story or tale, consists of a one-line stanza, followed by a two-line stanza, and then finishing with a three-line stanza)



Neal Whitman was born in Boston, Massachusetts, and today lives in Pacific Grove, California, with his wife Elaine. Whitman took up writing poetry in 2005 when he was in transition from a long career in medical education, where he had promulgated the reading of poetry as part of learning the art of medicine. Since his retirement from the University of Utah School of Medicine, Whitman now serves as haiku editor for Pulse: Voices from the Heart of Medicine. In 2016 he won 1st prize in San Francisco’s Bay Area Poets Coalition. Neal’s poetry and Elaine’s photography are inspired by daily walks along the Monterey Bay where on no two consecutive days is the shoreline precisely the same.