New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Poetry by Marcy Clark, Keren Dibbens-Wyatt, Scott-Patrick Mitchell, Linda Rhinehart and Michael Lee Johnson

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I am new to writing- less then a year of poetry under this novice belt-It has become my mentor, where I write my whispers-a wise grief therapist sent me into this new land and I thrive…





A Marilyn Kind Of Sky


azure blushes lavender and rose on sleepy horizons,

whispers goodnight.

draped in black satin,

night ripples a slow shimmy of shadowed ivory

and diamonds

casting their silver glow in cool surrender.





Keren Dibbens-Wyatt is a disabled writer and artist with a passion for poetry, mysticism, story and colour. She writes regularly for Godspace (the blog of Mustard Seed Associates) and runs the Lakelight Sanctuary website with her poet husband. Her full-length publications include Christian Prayers for the World, Positive Sisterhood, Garden of God’s Heart and Whale Song: Choosing Life with Jonah. She lives in South East England and is mainly housebound by her illness.




The Whiteness of Strawberries


As the pale skin fleshes out to protect its seeds,

The whiteness concedes first to green,

And then the luscious softness of crimson tissue

As the heart forgets itself and turns

From calcified stone into the foolish ripeness of red,

Knowing full well its softness will be pecked and consumed

Swallowed whole sometimes

By stooping strangers with no heart to pick their own.





Scott-Patrick Mitchell likes to do stuff ‘n’ things. By ‘stuff’ he means writing poetry which appears in such publications as Contemporary Australian Poetry (2016). By ‘things’ he means doing one man shows such as THE 24 HOUR PERFORMANCE POEM or The 12 Minute Monomyth. By ‘likes to do’ he actually means ‘loves to do’, coz it makes his heart sing. Visit www.facebook.com/ scottpatrickmitchellpoetfor more info. 



the white lily


when you lose a sister to cancer

you might sometimes wish you

could remove a rib, rebuild her

into being, but you know your
bloodwork don’t match, even
though, when you use that
face app, to find out what
you would look like as a
woman, her face pouts back


this all matters, even after the
fact : being selfless & less self
in the hope of quelling a hope-
lessness. nostalgia fills in gaps


this is how you write a poem


place a title at the beginning
like a single flower in a vase
: forever, we shall remember




Linda Rhinehart : I am 29 years old and have completed and MA and an MPhil in English literature, with a special focus on poetry. I have lived in Switzerland, Germany and the USA but currently live in Aberystwyth, UK. I have been writing poetry for two years. In the future I would like to work in editing or publishing. In my spare time I enjoy working with animals, music (especially piano) and sport.





A Song for Water

the water rises,
a tsunami over marble spires,
its warmth all-enveloping, lethargy almost
drowning out the metallic edges,
the soft sound of cracking China and razors.
Water rises in endless, life-giving
simplicity – flowing through rust and veins alike
intertwined in splendid circular complexity, molecules
rising into steam, before they burn, sting, transformed
into an iron-scented red tide





Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. Mr. Johnson published in more than 989 publications, his poems have appeared in 34 countries, he edits, publishes 10 different poetry sites.  Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL, nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards for poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/and 2 Best of the Net 2017. He also has 138 poetry videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/poetrymanusa/videos. He is the Editor-in-chief of the anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Hazehttp://www.amazon.com/dp/1530456762 and Editor-in-chief of a second poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses which is now available here:  https://www.amazon.com/dp/1545352089





Injured Shadow


In nakedness of life moves

this shadow worn out dark clothes,

ill in distress, holes in my socks, lifts,

shows up in your small neighborhood,


walks pastime with a limb

and open space

those worn out black stockings,

bends down prays for dawn, bright sun.





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