This month’s Poetry Niche features a tapestry of local poets. Varied voices, varied themes, universally insightful.
Reflection
Greg Kemp
Some pious say that dogs are dirty vermin
to be avoided and never touched.
How is it that one of God’s noble creatures
could fall so low in the spectrum of life?
I have seen these dogs of the street
neglected, starving and abused.
How did they arrive at this point
of desperation within the human sphere?
Children are taught to fear all canines
and recoil in fear from their approach.
These dogs are reviled, mistreated, kicked
because they are homeless and hungry.
Their descent from wolves of the forest
began with their human companionship.
Millennia marked their time with humans
and the loss of their innate dignity.
The nature of this noble animal is not rat-like
but one that reflects the refined qualities of soul.
Humans could learn volumes about good character
from this four-legged guides called dogs.
Loyalty and forgiveness are only two
of the many virtues they embody.
Mistreat them and they still love you,
abandon them and they find you.
Pet is too condescending a description
and perhaps teacher would be better.
Dogs are playfully present and aware,
ready to protect companion and territory.
They reflect the love and care we offer,
or the abuse we inflict upon their sweet souls.
They are a loyal and attentive friend
and reflect the virtues of heart humans lack.
Empire’s End
Ron Janoff
Did you think these bronzes don’t
shed tears? They do. Surrounded
and menaced by worshippers
who grin at monsters and centaurs
and dinosaurs There are no harmonious
sounds when fear moves us forward
that’s the worst we have to stop
how else discover the pictures,
the marbles, the gardens, where once
they celebrated their Dominance,
and beloved slaves brought dinner,
Oh, only in mosaic, no, in bronze,
the heroes shed what looks like sweat,
it’s tears, it’s fear, what happens when
disorder spreads, when you realize
these prisons go both ways I will not
be surprised at the smart mouth red hats
at next week’s estate sales, so much
junk, don’t buy if you’re allergic, death
the number one source of bargains,
and look, so cheap, but still too much
Friends And Flowers
by Joaquin A. Hawkins
A withered bloom, a fallen petal, a bye-gone
delight of luminous color, once brightly shone
under Southern skies, radiant ‘neath the
warming comfort of the sun’s rays.
Now its glory is dimmed by time, as seasons
come, fade away, thus beckoning the chill of
winter’s night, ‘til Spring ushers in
a dawning new day.
Yet, I recall the infant beauty of said flower,
in its youth, how it blossomed in full maturity
to dazzle the eye and nose of all, with
its splendor and fragrant prime.
Memories linger long of such wonder, yearning
to see life’s cycle renew, but frigid winds
and blankets of snow lurk about, as
clock and calendar keep pace with Father Time.
I did my best, oh for sure, to raise and nurture
my bright little ones, free from
choking weeds and grasses, sparing them
from the ‘bugs’ of life.
Then my pendulum of thought swings to
recollections of how friends, past and present, how so
like they are to the fragile bloom, prone to
wilt asunder time’s varied knife.
Ah, too often we become careless, negligent, taking all
for granted, our prosperity looms all about, but then
the newness and zeal for long-labored joys drift away
thorns and thistles spring up, choke, abound.
We take for granted all we need is hard work to
obtain, not maintain, a most dreadful mistake ever
silence of hand and a closed mouth
Does not nurture anything sound.
A withered bloom, a mum friend, victims alike in time passing
similar indeed both are, each requiring
a master ‘gardener’s’ hand constant, a heart and
mind devoted to love’s task.
What a shame to replace nature’s beauty
with bouquets of papered sticks and to
come to realize similarly, friendships of yore
became oddly shaped, mysterious, papered masks.
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After he retired and moved to Sedona, Arizona, he taught literature at Yavapai College in Clarkdale, Arizona.
He and professional artist Bev Kephart bought a small motor home in 2003, sold most of their possessions, and traveled the U. S. for seven years. After visiting Mexico several times, they settled in the village of Ajijic, joining the ex-pat artist and writing communities.
Mel’s writing has been published online and in print in The United Kingdom, The United States, Mexico, New Zealand, and Australia. He is the author of three novels, a book of short stories, and several books of poetry. He and his wife now make their home in the village of San Nicholas de Ibarra.
- Poetry Niche – June 2026 - May 30, 2026
- Poetry Niche - April 30, 2026
- Poetry Niche – April 2026 - March 31, 2026
