Sat, 09 May 2026 12:28:31 -0700WeeblySun, 05 Jan 2025 00:19:11 GMThttps://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/storm-of-the-bards/wnc-mountain-strong-by-keith-ackerOh Helene, you evil bitch
Flying in like the wicked witch
With endless hunger for destruction
Billowing through without obstruction
Wind so strong trees snapped like twigs
And rain so hard the rivers grew big
The floods came fast without warning
Oh, what horrors when came morning
Thousands left stranded without power
Mountains of food now gone sour
For those still missing we feel such dread
Because many we know are already dead
Now here we are in a state of shock
Full of pain and grief around the clock
Though our healing won’t be rushed
We know our spirits won’t be crushed
Like the phoenix we will rise
You’ll see the fire back in our eyes
We might be down just for a while
But already you can see us smile!

​

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Keith Acker lives in Western North Carolina near Asheville and witnessed first hand the devastation of Hurricane Helene. He wrote this poem in dedication to the people who have lost so much and seen so much.
]]>Sun, 05 Jan 2025 00:17:19 GMThttps://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/storm-of-the-bards/beyond-the-edges-in-the-ukraine-by-kathaleen-donnelly​An old man stood on a tall grassy hill, staring 
into the distance. His blue jeans and knapsack 
implied he was not on business, just passing 
through. He was looking for something.

In his youth, His family had kept a small village 
going. He knew this, he had helped. They were 
the quiet folk behind the scenes, made
everything work.  

Wood collected, cut for fires, seeds gathered, 
sowed, crops weeded, watered — harvested; 
no one went hungry. Graves dug, prayers said, 
bodies buried. New generations took their place.

He had traveled alone, no signs to follow.
Sunflowers grew everywhere the eye could see 
randomly in fields along train tracks, 
no one watching over them.

Remnants of a few small structures, he looked
for something familiar, sure he was in the right
spot. Now open fields, dirt roads, setting sun. 
How could it all be gone?

He heard voices in his mind from old town’s folk, 
horses neighing in their barns, birds flying by
in flocks, swooping down, disappearing in 
the brush for supper, sleep.

How could anyone want this to disappear?
What purpose could it possible serve? 
Were there alternatives?  
Did anyone ask?]]>Sun, 05 Jan 2025 00:15:12 GMThttps://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/storm-of-the-bards/the-heart-of-the-helping-hands-by-md-davidThere are many attributes a person has who is given the call to help others in need
Within their heart, there is a different mind set
A different way of viewing people, their financial status, their backgrounds, abilities and disabilities
It is the core of this heart that drives their hands to do good works
This heart sees people just as they are, as fellow human beings deserving a second chance
And so it directs those hands to treat them with kindness, dignity and respect
It knows that money is just material and may come and go in the skip of that heartbeat
And so it directs these hands to start helping at the very foundation of a person’s basic needs and begins to build them up from there
When it comes to a person’s background and past, it is well versed in the concept of how life’s seasons can cause people to fall into times of challenge
Decisions can be made be it right, wrong or indifferent – often all in the name to survive the storm of life .Others may agree or disagree with these choices but in the end
The heart of these helping hands still chooses to offer comfort and a moment of safe space to those affected- simply because it feels it is the right thing to do despite popular opinion
The heart understands that all people are not made the same and this is ok
So it accepts people exactly how they are, embraces their differences, applauds even the tiniest of glow of good moral character and lifts them up for what they can do instead of simply noting their shortcomings
The heart of the helping hands feeds its own soul through the kind deeds done for others
This is the only payment it receives and often it leaves the owner of these hands feeling like they have received more from others than they feel they have even given
There are many people who possess these helping hands, you will hear about them showing up around the world to aid those in need stricken by disaster
For those of you who have not yet awakened the helping hands you may have
The advice I offer is quite clear: look deep inside the heart of your helping hands and ask yourself these questions ….
When was the last time I did something unselfish for others? What do I have to offer? When and how will I begin to make someone else’s day just a little brighter?
It is the morals hidden like a rare jewel found within the depths of the heart of the helping hands that will lead the way –
It is my wish that more people in the world will choose to activate the heart of their helping hands, join others in helping those in need, perhaps they will, someday.
 


​
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This poet often writes about nature, self-care and social injustice and they can be found volunteering consistently throughout the year for various community events.  It is under the pen name MD David that they write to honor their family members who have since passed.
]]>Sun, 05 Jan 2025 00:08:39 GMThttps://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/storm-of-the-bards/wings-by-stacy-savage​I saw a lone
Blue butterfly
With a broken wing
But she could fly.

Her spirit fragile
As she found her way
Through life's struggles
For another day.

She reminded me
Of my former life,
Where I lived
As a battered wife

With bruises blue
And a tattered heart--
Now years later,
I've got a brand new start

With a man who sees me
For all I am.
I am not perfect
But he understands.

With this new chapter
I turn the page,
And life's blessings
Take center stage.

As the butterfly
With the broken wing
Moves along
To brighter things,

Her life she knew
Is not the same,
But she learned to fly
Through the rain.

Like that butterfly,
I feel so free.
I fly to new heights
And with my man I see,

My spirit soar
To beautiful things--
With a future bright]]>Sun, 05 Jan 2025 00:06:16 GMThttps://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/storm-of-the-bards/the-mosaic-by-michelle-burgess-morrisColored glass panes of cerulean, saffron, chartreuse and tyrian purple, 
that once cast rainbow flickers across the worn, wooden floors. 
Sheets of bubbled, blown glass, foiled and leaded, 
formerly tasked with casting luminous jewel-tones across a tiny kitchen table.
Crystalline, elegant flutes tasked with holiday toasts.
Charming, vintage coffee mugs, worn from use,
accustomed to holding a warm, much needed morning shot of energy.
Remnants of a life well-lived, a life once free from hardship and rapt with peace of mind,
lay violently fractured, broken, and scattered in the ruins.
Destructive forces somehow created fragile, miniscule pieces 
now unable to be returned to their assigned purpose.
The collection and reassembling of the tiny fragments proceeds at 
what can only seem a mind-numbingly slow pace.
Yet, when collected, sorted and polished these broken memories will meld together; 
creating a mosaic of variegated brilliance - 
A vision of the future, fashioned from the tears of the past. 



​
 
_________________________________________________________________
Michelle Burgess-Morris spent her childhood between the mountains of Appalachia and the oceans of the Eastern Shore. After 30 years as an educator, she is now pursuing her lifelong dream of becoming a writer. Her poetry has been included in multiple anthologies including Harmonic Verse Poems for the Holidays, Gathering A Poetry Anthology, Poets of the Promise an Anthology of Poetry and The Maryland Bards Poetry Review 2024. The proud mother of three has also published a book of her poetry titled Write Yourself Out of the Nightmare.
]]>Sun, 05 Jan 2025 00:03:38 GMThttps://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/storm-of-the-bards/walking-between-the-raindrops-by-sheila-nielsenThere’s an eerie silence
that follows a hurricane
Unlike the cacophony
of songbirds singing
and screech owls bidding
good day to the dawn
There’s an eerie silence
 
Only dripping and tapping
and water everywhere
dripping and splashing
from thrashed trees
and tapping of puppy toes
on sidewalks and streets
Only dripping and tapping
 
Walking between the raindrops
I relieve the anxiety that hides
deep in my inner core
accepting that these storms
foreshadow a riotous
hurricane season to come
Walking between the raindrops
 
Today I embrace the silence
drip and splash with puppies
and simply and gratefully
walk between the raindrops

_________________________________________________________________
Sheila Nielsen writes poetry as a way to stay sane. She dabbles in all forms of poetry and finds inspiration in everyday life and in the natural world.
]]>Mon, 30 Dec 2024 04:59:17 GMThttps://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/storm-of-the-bards/raging-at-natures-fangs-by-jill-sharon-kimmelmanPrecious pets wandering, hungry, thirsty, fearful
torrential waters and vicious winds have seized their families
 
Waiting for children to play catch and toss frisbees
moms and dads who brush and bathe them
the littlest child cuddling them close in sleep  
two tousled heads on a single pillow
 
Nature’s angry wrath brings calamity and destruction
yet summons the very best in each of us
 
Hope’s fire still burns in every soul
 
Witness comfort in the selfless salvation of
neighbors helping neighbors, restaurant kitchens open round the clock
 houses of worship coming through as they always do
 
Buildings swallowed, precious photos lost, family heirlooms gone
all impossible to replace
 
Cash cannot buy back a wedding band
worn by every bride for four generations,
an ancient treasure sewn into a dress hem
smuggled in from foreign shores
 
Death counts climb to double digits
we stay glued to devices, praying for strangers
as we would our loved ones
 
A young couple forced by threats of impending disaster
vacate their home, not once but twice
in as many days
 
Homes reduced to rubble and ash on sodden earth
scraps of scattered memories
 crushed metal, bikes children will never again ride
 
We learn of a miracle
Amidst the destruction of their street
a lone house stands
tall and proud, untouched by nature’s wrath
as if they had been gone for an hour,
simply forgotten to lock their door
 
Their home, a haven would keep them secure
a sign of hope, promising future happiness
 
No storm nature may rain upon us will break our collective spirit
 
We discover a nugget of remaining fortitude
choose to be lifted up
filling ourselves with courage and strength
 
Hurricanes, tornadoes, typhoons, tsunamis, and a global pandemic
can never erase the prayers in our hearts
 
Mama, your children are safe
you have heard their staticky voices
coming from inside their cozy kitchen
 
Tonight you can close your eyes
tonight you can sleep
 
 
 
_________________________________________________________________
Jill Sharon Kimmelman is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee in poetry. She lives in Wilmington Delaware with her husband Tim Little. She is the proud mother of her son Jordan.]]>Mon, 30 Dec 2024 04:55:58 GMThttps://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/storm-of-the-bards/the-blind-begger-by-sherona-varulkar
Down on his luck
it was clear,
he was down on his luck.
I gave him a buck
cause he was down on his luck.

He looked blind, of a feeble mind,
clothes in tatters.
I was young, smart, refined.
Life was going my way,
while he had been left behind

He thanked me for my charity.
I nodded and vaguely smiled.
If only I had some clarity,
I would not have walked away
with a false sense of vanity.

The evening rush hour brought me upon
the beggar man sitting on his rag cloth.
Still where I left him this morn.
“Bless you my dear child,”
I heard a whisper soft.

Surprised, I turned around,
how could he know I was the one.
Was he a “seeing blind man”
like many on Bombay streets found?
Anything for a buck? I was dumbfound.
I wore no perfume, nor the same shoes.
Some days walked stealthily and smiled,
or skipped that bridge on some ruse.
Yet, everytime I passed, I heard his voice mild–
“Bless you my dear child.”

Resigned, I began giving him alms
on the foot bridge he perched upon.
Daily, I gathered blessings in my palms
from a kind face in the rush hour storm,
till one day he was gone.

Troubled, I querried, “where has the old man gone?”
The same beggars and food carts stood around,
yet, no one had seen an old man, I found.
“How could this be?” I wondered out loud.
I saw him everyday-day in, day out.

For the first time I looked carefully
at beggars, urchins and city’s poverty
The eyeless had vanished ruefully
and while no one had seen him for sure,
he was not a figment of my imagination, surely.

So, I honored the memory
of a lost old man in a faceless humanity.
I gave away gladly to charity.
Everytime I shared, I heard a whisper surely,
“Bless you my dear child.” with clarity.


________________________________________________________________
Sherona Varulkar is a poet, memoirist, abstract artist and a photographer. She grew up in a Bene Israel Jewish community in Mumbai, India, lived in Israel and now calls Long Island her home. Sherona is currently an intern at Lilith Magazine’s "New 40" 2024 cohort.  Her works have been published in various Indian, Jewish and feminist magazines and newsletters.]]>Mon, 30 Dec 2024 04:54:38 GMThttps://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/storm-of-the-bards/twisted-and-turning-by-sandra-placeHow quickly things can change,
Shift on some unknown axis,
Sending everything that touches us
Flying in directions that make no sense,
Or rotating in an absolute perfect logic,
Completely unknown to us.
Twisting, turning, erupting,
Birthing unrecognizable landscapes,
Sculpting in rushing and raging waters.
Volcanic explosions of change,
Emerging, rippling, eroding the known
Into some strange biological insurgency 
Comprised of roadblocks and detritus.
At times, manifesting wildly as
Tornadoes of trash and destruction,
Or a campfire run amok.
Frightening and enlightening,
Electric, these twists and turns unfold.
Just and unjust, righteous and unholy,
The path of life is confounding.
No fidelity here, no stability,
Always and ever changing, this existence.
Mysterious and veiled, upending itself
Every now and then,
Blinding in the brightest light.
At times, from the fog of frustration,
Materializing and solidifying, softly rolling in     
Come opaque wisps of understanding,
Building and growing, ebbing and flowing,
We for the most part know nothing of where
These gifts come from, or how they came,
Yet they arrive.
A helping hand, a plate of food,
A roof over our bedraggled heads,
A warm bed, a tattered quilt,
At times becoming our salvation.

​
 
 ________________________________________________________________
Sandra Place leads a rich life holding a master’s degree in counseling psychology, a graduate certificate and numerous certifications in holistic health. She is a poet, healthcare consultant and educator, consulting with creative approaches to the provision of care and organizational development. Find her at www.asandyplace.com and for more information contact her at sandy@asandyplace.com. 
]]>Mon, 30 Dec 2024 04:51:46 GMThttps://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/storm-of-the-bards/last-espresso-at-enzos-sestina-by-janet-mccannIn my head I have already left
but my feet are still lingering here.
I climb the stone steps to my favorite bar,
order a last espresso and a pastry,
thinking of jets, officials, passports and trouble.
Still the first sip is a positive good.
 
Sometimes it is hard for me to see the good
as not what, when the bad is gone, is left.
I would have my mind put by its trouble
at least in Italy. And while I’m here
why not simply have another pastry,
talk with the locals lined up at the bar
 
with cups and glasses. It’s not a tourist bar
and I speak little Italian, that’s not good,
but silence is melted by the pastry
(already no cornetti vuoti left)
and they accept that I am with them here
though they will always have  trouble
 
with my terrible Italian, but this trouble
they accept, at their communal coffee bar.
Of course they also serve some liquor here
as naturally affects the public good.
Sestinas are long and lines are always left,
and I’d like to fill them in with feathery pastry
 
but it’s almost noon and the bar is out of pastry.
Writing sestinas is a lot of trouble
and somewhat boring;  the vision has up and left.
It makes you want to visit another bar,
but none of the other places are this good
and I have come to feel mostly at home here.
 
The bartender feels some pity for me. Here,
he says, I have found you another pastry.
I bite and taste; once more I’m feeling good.
Thanks I say. He responds, no trouble.
He practices his English standing at the bar.
We chat with caution till no words are left.
 
Most have left now, only a few are here
Standing at the bar and eating pastry.
I leave behind my trouble. All is good.

_________________________________________________________________
Janet McCann is an ancient Texas poet who lives in a ramshackle house with her two obstreperous dogs.  This is a poem about my younger days when I used to teach in Italy.

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