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
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.
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
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
YOU'RE ON YOUR OWN
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.
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 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 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
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.
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
we could not with deliberation
lay snare to fellow traveler.
The few who occupy the hills
on either side,
would hold the valley too
at our cost,
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.”
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
LIFE IS A CUP
of the grail of life.
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
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.
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 her glory
Name: Olaleye Doyin Sunshine
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.
"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
My disintegration in waiting
has become a sculptor’s tool,
just like blue skies during snow
fall, discriminating fractals as stars.
BĘDĄ ZA NAMI TĘSKNIĆ PSY
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.
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 CANI SENTIRANNO LA NOSTRA MANCANZA
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.
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.
si perde nel buio. Poi arriva l'inverno.
E il cane è ancora seduto davanti poltrona
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/
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.
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
like new found
I place them in
a soft basket
sift through them
Inspecting each one
in all their luminescent
of your lone aquamarine eye
Gazing through my
forming tiny rainbows
when the northern lights
in all their opalescent
under the midnight sun
then tuck them away
with the key
to the lock
that only you
MIA BARKAN CLARKE
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/
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
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
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
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.