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Poems & Writing
Pleasure Lake by Jeanelle Wheeler
Wind is a puppeteer
Leaves dance with her pull
Like marionette strings
Made of spiders’ silk
Sun is a painter
Leaves shade with her light
Aglow with shadows
Like disco balls
Reflecting water’s ripples
Yet the rusted pole
Pokes from the pool
Jagged with brokenness
As it dyed water green
The pole’s poison protrudes
In a murky teal
The pole-putter
Stole the wind’s strings
Stole sun’s brushes
As it rusts
The water weeps
Green tears
Willow Lake by Jeanelle Wheeler
Ducks dabble.
Forward fold,
Wiggle webbed,
Feet fly, float.
I want to dip,
Like they can.
Finding meals,
Via handstand.
They do
Acrobatic feedings
They can
Swim and soar
Humans think
We’re better than
The flying ones
The floating ones
The feathered ones
But
We’re
Not.
I want to be
A duck
Elm Lake by Jeanelle Wheeler
To be rooted
Means the wind
Doesn’t give you
Quivers
No shivers
Just stable
Unmoving
To be rooted
Means the bark
Creeps up
In jagged peels
Worn
Torn
But always
Embracing
To be rooted
Means branches
Extend further
Unseen under soil
Roots
Simply trust
Let branches
Reach higher
Sprout leaves
And feel sun
Above ground
While
Underground
Grounds
Home
By Patricia McAlpine
Heron at the Pond
Beak at the ready,
he stands erect
As if in prayer,
he slowly lowers
his head to the pond
He turns, steps closer
looks up to the sky.
then lowers and dips
his beak to scoop
up his prey, his fish meal
but chooses to release
Fish swims away.
Coming Home to Green by Odil Medeira
At sixty-eight,
I crossed an ocean of years
and the restless hum of Mumbai—
that concrete heartbeat
I had learned to call home.
And here, in Rhode Island,
I found something startling:
quiet.
Spaces wide enough for breath.
A sky that doesn’t jostle for room.
Roger Williams Park opened itself to me
like a gentle miracle—
water still as prayer,
trees leaning in
as if to whisper, you’ve arrived.I walk its paths slowly,
letting the green seep into me,
wondering how long it has been
since I felt nature
without having to fight for it.
I watch wide- eyed the waters,
Shimmering in the lake.
I see the glorious sunset,
Like a halo,
the Temple Of music.
The temple of Spiritual wonder.
The elegant swans. Gliding
Effortlessly. The chirping of
the birds.
In the soft rustle of leaves,
I carry a small ache—
a wish from the deepest corners
of my Indian heart:
that Mumbai, my beloved chaos,
could cradle her parks
with the same tender hands,
protect her green lungs,
let them breathe again.
Here, beauty feels effortless.
There, it has to be defended.
And so I stand between two worlds—
one I come from,
one I grow into—
grateful for this quiet sanctuary,
yet forever holding hope
for the city that raised me.
For even after seventy
we are still learning
where our spirit feels most alive.
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