Giving Grace To The Gull, by Emalisa Rose

Giving Grace To The Gull
by Emalisa Rose

In these first weeks of Autumn
it’s been you, sitting shoreline
beside me.

Regarding the others that
starred in the Summer,
now off with their song list
soaring heights within Sicily
and miles high in Monterrey.

I confess, I’d forsaken you
seduced by the ‘fancy’ ones.

But reminded you’ve stayed,
even through long months of
lockdown and serial snowfalls

I beg your forgiveness
sweet silver gull.

I’m sorry I’d overlooked you.

Author’s notes: Living by the beach, provides much of the paint for my poetry. Watching the gulls, the sky, the sea, the sand lit soliloquy, who wouldn’t be inspired. For the past few summers, my beach has been home to two endangered species that found a home in the sands there – the black skimmers and the least terns. They stay for a spell, usually 3 or 4 months, then they are off again to warm exotic places. This poem tributes the ones that stay for the four seasons, through the whip of Winter. When I walk on that cold, snowy boardwalk in the jaundice of January, with my bag of bread, looking for signs of life, besides mine, I know they will be there for me. They are the ones that stay and I am grateful.

When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting with macrame. She volunteers in animal rescue and tends to cat colonies. She lives by the beach, which provides much of the inspiration for her art. She walks with a birding group on weekends. Some of her work has appeared in Writing in a Woman’s Voice, The Red Wolf Edition, The Rye Whiskey Review and other wonderful places. Her latest collection is This water paint life, published by Origami Poems Project. She can be reached at

Love Takes a Toll, by Debi Swim

Love Takes a Toll
by Debi Swim

So many hellos
so many goodbyes
as the generations
begin and end.
And love lavished
fiercely, tenderly,
eagerly, reluctantly,
are the little pieces of me
given away willingly
and continue to give
year after year after year…
and I’m beginning to feel
like a desiccated leaf
lacy and fragile, disappearing
in beauty and grace
to sweet remembrance.
Dust unto dust.

“I’m Old, Gandalf. I know I don’t look it, but I’m beginning to feel it in my heart. I feel… thin. Sort of stretched, like… butter scraped over too much bread.” Bilbo Baggins

Debi Swim has had poems published in two anthologies and in the Bluestone Journal for Bluefield College. She is a persistent WV poet who loves to write to prompts.

A Path of Souls, By Emil Sinclair

A Path of Souls
By Emil Sinclair

Now I scour the stars
in hopes
that I might find you
The sails
of my celestial
are filled by strong
solar winds;
charged particles
that propel my
broken soul
the pollen path
of our ancestors,
the Sky People.

Orion and Cygnus
are hazy
and dull.
Even Antares,
the heart
of the scorpion,
has no sting
to match yours.
Only Ursa Major,
the Great Bear,
shines with
your fiery
speaks with
your lilting
carries the
alluring scent
of your musky
I have found you,
at last!

Heeding the cry
of my soul,
the Great Bear
as I tip my oar
to salute
her magnificence.
She hides no more
from me.
I adjust my rudder,
quickly making
my way
to her

Emil Sinclair is the pseudonym of a sometime poet and longtime philosophy professor in New York City.

Almost, by Emil Sinclair

by Emil Sinclair

I can almost remember
the autumn of my
Huge piles of fallen leaves
burning in the street;
smoke rising,
filling the air
with the incense
of sweet decay.
Going to the five and dime
with my mother,
to shop for my first
Halloween costume.
Walking through the door
and being greeted
by the pungent aromas
of freshly popped
strawberry licorice,
and greasy hot dogs,
twirling on the spit
at the luncheon counter.
In those days,
Autumn was a promise
of magic
yet to come.
Nowadays when I see
the green leaves
begin to turn
red and orange,
I can almost remember
not to sigh.

Emil Sinclair is the pseudonym of a sometime poet and longtime philosophy professor in New York City.