Poetry by Nina Kossman


Poem Written During Australian Bushfires

Treasure of the world,
little animal boy,
you and you and you,
lone survivors,
wombats and kangaroos,
my love for you is so huge,
let it revive you,
let it give you rain,
let it give you green leaves,
thriving eucalyptus trees galore!
Singed koalas and wallabies;
although I rarely pray,
I pray for you now,
heal, breathe, eat, multiply,
teach us how to save you,
teach us how to live
so no fires can harm you ever.

Why should I belong to the species
that multiplies at your expense,
treasure of our world,
marvel of the far-away continent,
don’t die, little animal boy,
stay, be, teach us,
but don’t forgive us our cruel stupidity.
You hear me?
It’s your turn now:
stay and multiply,
outnumber us.

* * *

An angel who thought he was a spider said:

Hello happy rose.
My love is a spider.
My dog is a mouse.
I hear it bark.

Hello, hello spider.
You and the rose are wind.
Wind, wind. We won.
Who ever heard it bark?

I'll go down the way of a rose.
I'll switch from a song to a blue.
I'll marry  a violet.
I'll whine at the moon and cry.

I am a happy flower.
My name is Spider.
I eat whispers.
I drink the best.

I know an angel.
His name is Tom.
Tom-cat, Tom-cat,
God looks at me through your wings.
He wishes to help me whisper.

So many cats.
We angels hide in them.
We are not bats: we are cats.
We are not bad, not good.
We are last.
We sleep in the grass.
We know who you are.
You are a fool.
You are warm.
Your bones are skin.
Your skin has a look.
You look а bully.

--Bully yourself, you!

--We are Angels!

--Angels don't flap their wings at cats.
Angels do not say meow.
Angels...  angels... God's angles,
That's what they are!
God folds them angly.

Don't tell me you are an angel.
You are a dog.
Just like I am.
We are like little violets.
We fret and grow.
We like frog concerts.
Sometimes we look green.
Perhaps then, perhaps we are frogs...
We like green snow.
When we go for walks,
Mosquitoes bite us.
That's good,
It shows that we're not them.
Certainty is what makes an angel.
When it rains cats and dogs,

We sleep.

* * *

Time had no claim on him
and beauty had no hold:
in the dried-out backyards of the mind
his soul flowered and observed 
the sun setting early on the morning glories,
their petals closing for a day-long sleep,
the dark, arriving full of shadows, concealing
the flowers' future in the opening leaves...
And who was he, to urge them to unfold,
if sleep was what they were meant for in this life, 
if their immortality came wrapped in somnolence,
when the air was made of witching words
and sprouted blue and purple petals
that folded into themselves and withered
before he had a chance to see them face to face?

* * *

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Moscow born, Nina Kossman is a bilingual writer, poet, translator of Russian poetry, painter, and playwright. Her English short stories and poems have been published in US, Canadian and British journal. Her Russian poems and short stories have been published in major Russian literary journals. Among her published works are two books of poems in Russian and English, two volumes of translations of Marina Tsvetaeva’s poems, two collections of short stories, an anthology, Gods and Mortals: Modern Poems on Classical Myth, published by Oxford University Press, and a novel. Her new book of poems and translations has just been published. Her work has been translated into Greek, Japanese, Dutch, Russian, and Spanish. She received a UNESCO/PEN Short Story Award, an NEA fellowship, and grants from Foundation for Hellenic Culture, the Onassis Public Benefit Foundation, and Fundacion Valparaiso. She lives in New York.


Poetry by Sharmila Pokharel

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Up Until Then

I hated my mother for being unwise,
Uneducated, and under his thumb

I compared her with my father
Disliked more for not knowing
Anything about my grades

My mother said she was by herself
In one corner of a dark room
When she gave birth to me
No midwife, no sterile knife

Up until then, I hated her for telling
the same story again and again

And there I was,
In a high-tech hospital room
With a lady doctor and a dozen nurses

Giving birth to my daughter
When I aligned entirely
With that excruciating pain
Breathless and helpless.

In that moment,
I was proud of my mother

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Sharmila Pokharel is the author of three collections of poetry including My Country in a Foreign Land, a bilingual poetry collection (co-translated by Alice Major) published in 2014.

She is a co-author of Somnio: The Way We See It, a poetry and art book published in 2015. Her poems have been published in a few journals in Nepal and Canada. She has received various prizes including the 2012 Cultural Diversity in the arts Award and ENSAS Engineering Literature Writer Award.

Sharmila Pokharel was born in Kharpa, Khotang, Nepal and immigrated to Canada in 2010. She credits her father for encouraging her to express what she feels in words. Besides poetry, she has written short stories and articles. She has a bachelor’s degree in Civil Engineering from Tribhuvan University, Nepal. She lives with her husband and daughter in Edmonton.

Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles. By D-L Nelson

pic.d.l. nelson

Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles

from Darcie Friesen Hossack, Managing Editor, WordCity Monthly:

On my desk is a copy of D-L Nelson’s coat hangers & knitting needles, Tragedies of Abortion in America Before Roe v. Wade.

The book is heavy for its size—not for the weight of its bindings—and has been accompanying me from room to room since it arrived here last week.

Having corresponded with the author since September, since the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, I knew what to expect. And yet, there’s a whole human history’s worth of more, including this from a doctor, on the horrors women faced before the landmark ruling in that country, which secured a woman’s right to her own reproductive decisions:

The hospital kept 32 beds on the fourth floor for patients who had botched abortions. Knitting needles, bicycle spokes, anything metal might have been used, he said.

Ages of patients varied from teenagers to women in their forties.

Women tried potassium permanganate tablets, he said. “It was a strong oxidizing agent and it burns the tissue. We would see these women with a black hole in the front and the back of the vagina… If the woman was lucky, it didn’t burn through into the rectum or bladder.”

Tissue would be so damaged it couldn’t be sutured. “It was like trying to suture butter. Awful,” he added.

With the loss of Justice Ginsburg, a return to these days appears to be a realistic possibility in the United States. Already, in countries such as El Salvador, women who miscarry are imprisoned under suspicion of having had abortions.

More on Donna-lane Nelson’s book is coming up. Due to the urgency now felt by the author and the editorial board at WordCity, however, the publication in its entirety has been made available by the author, as free as Amazon will permit: $0.73 USD for a Kindle download, for the month of October. It is also available in hardcopy. With this, and other pieces you’ll find throughout our issue, we at WordCity Monthly honour the life and work of the Notorious RBG. May her memory be a blessing, and may we collectively carry the torch she left us.

Publisher’s Description:

Tragedies of Abortion in America Before Roe v Wade

The landmark US Supreme Court decision in favor of legal abortion did not affect the number of babies delivered in the years following; there was, however, a drastic decline in maternal mortality.

There has always been abortion on demand for those women who do not feel they can have a baby, either by do-it-yourself with drugs or by instrument self-inflicted or assisted. There always will be abortion on demand. If abortion becomes illegal again, women will once again seek the backrooms, the motels, the shacks, the coat hangers and knitting needles. The only difference will be when abortion is illegal, will the mother die too?

Based on extensive research, including interviews with documentary filmmakers and activists, D-L Nelson describes the crusade against botched illegal abortions through the personal stories of the women who suffered, those who preyed upon or vilified them, and doctors and clergy who cared enough to get the laws changed. From Sarah Grosvenor, at the center of one of the first abortion trials in the New World … to popular children’s TV star Miss Sherri … to Madame Restell (“the wickedest woman in New York”) … Anthony Comstock, Lawrence Lader, Bill Baird, Curtis Boyd, David Grimes, Henry Morgentaler … the Clergy Consultation Service and the Jane Collective … to Norma McCorvey, Linda Coffee and Sarah Weddington, you’ll learn the backstories of men, women and organizations who were key players in the abortion and birth control debate across the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries.

The book features a detailed timeline of abortion milestones from 3000 BC to the present, plus a bibliography of books, periodicals, films / videos and websites.

To purchase a Kindle or hard copy of D-L Nelson’s Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles, at a steeply discounted price (as low as Amazon would permit), reduced especially for WordCity Monthly readers in the month of October, please click on this hightlighted text, and consider adding copies for your family and friends, or to give when times seem right.

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Poetry by Norman Cristofoli

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I Am Afrika

I am the deep abyss of the dark continent
     the loneliness of the shifting Saharan sands
     the birth of the Nile
     and the pounding rhythm of the jungle
I am the quiet heart of the elephant’s graveyard
     and the desperate thunder of vast grasslands
I am the golden sun dripping into Atlantis
     and the burning rain of ancient blood
I am the shores of oceans and seas
     and the migration of endless skies
I am the Uud, the Djembe and the Kora
     dancing in the Kalahari midnight
I am descendent of first woman
     and ancestor to the end of man
I am the precious diamond of a forgotten treasure
     the moonlight falling upon crumbling pyramids
     the sleepless dream of Marrakech
I am the last cheetah running until my life explodes
I am the gazelle and the lion
     stolen to a far horizon
I am sorrow sold into slavery

I am Afrika

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Norman Cristofoli has published several chapbooks of poetry/prose plus two audio compilations of spoken word performances. He published the “Labour of Love” literary magazine for 25 years and was the co-founder of the “Coffeehouse” artist networking site. His play “The Pub” was recently published with CanamBooks. A new poetry book will be available this fall.

Poetry by Mansour Noorbakhsh

Mansour 4

Trapped or Glowing

(After execution of Navid Afkari
another human rights activist in Iran)

I saw dew drops on a spiderweb
glowing, in this beautiful morning.
Are they trapped,
or it’s a place for them to glow?
First thing as you woke up
in the spiderweb of social media,
was that another young brave man
is executed, is killed
because of rising his voice.
He did nothing but cry out
our rights, our basic rights.
Now, he is killed in favour of
real criminals,
while we were silent, smothered.
I look at the dew drops
which will never last
after sunshine comes up,
but are telling me,
glow as yourself,
even in your last moment.

176 Valentine’s Day

(To 167 passengers and 9 crews killed in flight 752 Tehran on 8th of January 2020)

Lying is easy, acquittal is absurd
they cannot steal what we dreamed
Liars blocked our texts, but
cannot torture light if it’s beamed.
So, you never find such messages
In any black box suspects
“Kiss you, I should turn off my phone”
“We have fastened our seatbelts”.
“So, intimate have we become
With their dear retrospect” *
You have received all messages
that no devices may direct.
Received to who it was sent to
right to the target, deep into heart:
in every light of Sun or Moon
I will retrieve, I will restart.
In every beam of light, dispersed
with restless dance I will fall
flowing down, looking for you
into your room, I will stroll.
In every beam of light, I’ll come
rejoiced my restless dancing
right to your cheeks, composed with love
for one another warm kissing.

*Emily Dickinson, Final Harvest, by Thomas H. Johnson, Back Bay Books, P 318.

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Mansour Noorbakhsh writes poems and stories in both English and Farsi, his first language, and has published books, poems and articles in both languages. His book length poem; “In Search of Shared Wishes” is published in 2017. He tries to be a voice for freedom, human rights and environment in his writings.

He is an Electrical Engineer, P.Eng. and lives with his wife, his daughter and his son in Toronto, Canada.

Poetry by Masudul Hoq


Hunting knife 

While getting on the boat at Shangu river,
The glaring of the olive dressed people toward us...
At the opposite of a tempered sun
Our shadow gets shaken,
Then our hunting knives get sweated
What if we got on the hand of spy
After crossing the colorful  Stone kingdom,
We get stop at the last of a river in front of an amazing water fall
The sky was getting red, it is evening
Shakna Mro makes us stand in front of a stateless nature!


We got an amazing night at Thanchi Market
At the upper floor of a duplex shop
the night was settled down over a torch light.
Again, the word's of Shakna Mro about Barma travel  we were looking at him with his own Bangla, he was seems to Krama at that time.
A forest cock cried out in the kitchen.
At that night there was no meat on the table
Only we were hearing cloud's sound from the ice-factory.
We and the sky 
We look at the sky in our isolated pages
we look at the sky while tortoise warms itself under the sun.
We look at the sky
rather bearing our achievement or carrying exhaustions of being defeated.
All those heaven words come from the sky
death thought is also related with the sky.
We haven't been there where there is no sky
even there remains no breath-flower-air.
A little piece of sky remains inside our eyes
Peculiar starry mind has taken the sky over its heart
Silent mind knows the sky; but we don't !

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Masudul Hoq (1968) has a PhD in Aesthetics under Professor Hayat Mamud at Jahangirnagar University, Dhaka, Bangladesh. He is a contemporary Bengali poet, short story writer,translator and researcher. His previous published work includes short stories Tamakbari(1999), The poems Dhonimoy Palok(2000), Dhadhashil Chaya which translated version is Shadow of Illusion(2005) and Jonmandher Swapna which translated version is Blind Man’s Dream (2010),translated by Kelly J. Copeland. Masudul Hoq also translated T.S. Eliot’s poem, Four Quartets(2012), Allen Ginsburg’s poem, Howl(2018), from English to Bengali. In the late 1990’s for 3 years he worked under a research fellowship at The Bangla Academy. Bangla Academy has published his two research books. His poems have been published in Chinese, Romanian, Mandarin, Azarbaijanese and Spanish languages. At present he is a Professor of Philosophy in a government college, Bangladesh.

A Wake for the Dreamland, by Laurel Deedrick Mayne. A review by Darcie Friesen Hossack

A note from the editor:

Laurel Deedrick-Mayne’s novel won first place in the Whistler Independent Book Awards in 2018, a year I was a judge. We’re pleased to bring you the short review that accompanied the announcement, along with a new poem that is a tribute to one of the characters, drawn from real life, in the book.

A Wake for the Dreamland review, by Darcie Friesen Hossack

A Wake for the Dreamland by Laurel Deedrick-Mayne is exquisite. With a voice that seems to echo straight from the heart of World War II, Deedrick-Mayne’s prose almost pleads to be read aloud. Often enough, I found myself whispering passages as I turned from page to page, just to hear the way they’d sound.

Contained within the achingly beautiful writing, however, is so much more.

It’s the summer of 1939, World War II is raging in Europe, and three friends are coming of age together in Edmonton, Alberta. Annie is a whip-smart young seamstress. William and Robert are students together at the music conservatory. Annie and Robert are in love, but so is William. Even before the boys join up, losses begin to mount. When they reach the devastation and death of war in Italy, the losses soon strain human ability to carry them any farther. And yet, the love (romantic, brotherly, erotic) that weaves the story together remains the strongest of the novel’s themes.

Told partly though letters, A Wake for the Dreamland‘s authenticity comes, in part, from the author having plumbed her own family’s treasured correspondence to bring the novel to life. Like some of the best fiction, it leaves the reader wondering where the line between story and reality may actually lie; knowing it to be a work of imagination, while wanting it all to be true.

With Remembrance Day only a month away, A Wake for the Dreamland is a must-read between now and November 11th. While the story begins almost 80 years in our past, it is also very much a book for our time.

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This poem was inspired by the photography of Ed Ellis: an empty chair in an empty room, the ravages of time evident everywhere. I could picture its former inhabitants in my heart and mind; I could hear their voices. My novel, A Wake For The Dreamland, was inspired by a letter written to my grandmother from a former suitor, then a soldier in France during the first world war. It is from the well of old images and letters that I draw the heartbeat of lives lived long ago. I write so the beat goes on. ~Laurel Deedrick-Mayne

The Road Home

Dear Son,

All I could find for an address was from
that postcard that said
English Bay, PNE, Stanley Park, Sylvia Hotel
and the postmark that said
That’s a long time ago.

Well anyhow-- 

Lindy said not to bother trying
to reach you.
She and Paul went back to Ferryland
because Paul said he missed the Rock too much
and they could live in a mansion in Newfoundland
for what a trailer in Fort Mac would cost
Golly, my blood flows from sea to shining sea
if you’re still out west.
Did you know Lindy wasn’t short for anything?
We called her that because we used to dance the Lindy
out at the hall before it burnt down in 1939 and I
joined up and never met her till after
and she was nearly six
by then. 

Well anyhow—

Not too much has changed around here except
that damn elm has pretty much taken over the place.
I finally put up wallpaper with pretty coloured roses
because your mother always said the walls felt so bleak
so much of the year
and the climbing roses she planted
alongside the house would never reach the window
where she might not see
if you were coming up the path.
The rose wallpaper would remind her that you might
Come back
In the spring, Or summer, Or Fall
One winter
She had a fall and I got her a better chair
where she could rest a cup of tea on the arm
while she watched
and waited.

Well anyhow— 

She wasn’t herself anymore
and one night she was just sitting in her chair peering out the window
and she said,
Les, my head hurts
She called your name
like you might have been walking towards the house.
She sounded so sure I had to look.
But no,
No suffering, they all said
and I didn’t know how to reach you till
I found this postcard in her pocket after
she was gone
and I stuck it to the kitchen cupboard
with a thumbtack
and forgot.

For awhile I let everyone do for me
with the house and all.
But then I didn’t let anyone but the Mennonites
But I even put the run on them
But after I gave them her piano.
After all, I don’t need much.
A cup of tea. A can of soup.
I took up watching for you.
It was the least I could do for her.
Even hauled the mattress down when my knee played up. 

Well anyhow—

I’ll try to post this tomorrow.
The elm has grown so you can hardly see
The road

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Once an Arts Administrator, Laurel Deedrick-Mayne has been a dance publicist, concert promoter, and ad copywriter. She has served on multiple arts boards while maintaining her ‘day job’ as a massage therapist.  Her independently published debut novel, A Wake For The Dreamland won the Alberta Readers’ Choice Award (ARCA) in 2016, the Whistler Independent Book Award (WIBA) in 2018 and has been on Edmonton’s Best Seller List for over 80 weeks. She has been a guest at over 60 book clubs and other book-related events. A late bloomer to publishing but a life-long third generation letter, poem and story writer, Laurel celebrates the ‘love that dared not speak it’s name’ while paying tribute to the generation who took the time to hang on to family letters, clippings, stories and poetry — all those ‘treasures’ that inspired A Wake For The Dreamland.

 Laurel is also a supporter of YouthWrite http://youthwrite.com through her workshop, “Writers of the Lost Art”, offering young people hands-on experience in letter writing and mailing using multiple mediums from quill and ink to typewriters.

Currently Laurel is exploring short story and poetry writing while dreaming up another venture into historical fiction.

Poetry by Jordan Lide

Jordan Lide Picture

In Your Office
You were my comfort,
the warm arms I trusted, and
willingly, I followed you
into your trap.
You held me close and
breathed down my neck.
Your hands travelled places
forbidden to go.
I ignored the red flags
that went off in my mind.
I craved your attention
so, I sat there still.
It was not until later
as I walked on home
that I felt the truth
of what you had done.

A Rose Without Thorns
Beauty is no defence against wandering hands.
The Rose knows she is beautiful
and so, she blooms for all to see.
But beauty unfortunately cannot protect
against hands that would seek to enter the garden 
and take her for their own, 
petal by petal.
Perhaps that is why the Rose grows thorns.
To protect herself from any who would dare
to pull her away from the garden
and hide her from the sun.
It is the only way she can 

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Jordan Lide is a senior at the University of Wollongong studying Management and Theatre. She freelances as a writer and has had works published with the Tertangala, Hyde Magazine, and the blog Less Talk, More Writing. Additionally, Jordan runs a travel blog Little Fish, Bigger Pond, capturing her international adventures. When not writing Jordan enjoys going for walks on the

Poetry by Melissa Begely

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She never knew she was beautiful. As a toddler and through adulthood her sister was cruel to her.  She was bullied, humiliated, laughed at, and was told she was ugly and nasty. Her sister recruited others for the purpose of sniggering at and taunting her little sister.

She became a quiet child, perchance this is a signal to the unseemly and heartless ones.

Sexually assaulted by much elder brother when she was a small child.  The secret was never revealed.

Incessant years of browbeating that she was ugly, and no boy would ever love her created a sullen girl.  The secret was never revealed.

Extremely popular and from an esteemed family she remained insecure.  She displayed no interest in boys, who would be interested in an unsightly and hideous flower?

Certainly not ever placed in inappropriate situations and always stylishly dressed, but never with a hint of sexiness.  So how does rape occur?

Friends, close family acquaintances that were pillars of the community, one stranger in daylight, and all the secrets kept in her mind without sharing to anyone. She was ugly and perhaps it was the only attention she would receive from a male.

Loving and supportive parents knew she was different because of her lack of self-confidence.  They loved her so and doted on her more-and-more.  Her true personality of love and soul was revealed in their presence.

Living overseas, she was stunned and dumbfounded that many from the specific countries exulted her as a Beautiful Goddess. Strangers would stop and touch her and especially her blonde hair. She assumed it was just a different technique to humiliate her.

She did not date or spend time with males as a teenager or young female. After years of no interest, she met a gentleman. The married years was heavenly, but soon he became a celestial being.

An acquittance soon was chosen as a divine connection to her; he whispered to her that he loved her from many centuries. Friendship developed and soon they became lovers.

She trusted him more than anyone in the world and entrusted her dark secrets with him. He was an empath, a noble man, and a God-fearing gentleman.

Females that have encountered painful rape to include physical beatings from males have difficulty in explaining that it is overwhelming and almost mentally devastating to feel enjoyment from sex. Perchance it is a form of Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.

She made the mistake of expressing crushing emotions to her gentleman after sensual encounter for the reason she had never had such reverence for a man before. She immensely enjoyed their sensual encounters, but then thoughts of the past would reappear. Guilt on her part, because of not being married and many factors impact intimate relationships, but primarily trying to separate genuine love from the memories of vicious sex.

As time went by, she became popular with many well-wishers, as many females as males, but he became outraged over the males. She was devastated and heartbroken because she thought he understood her.

He accused her of never trusting him even though she had bared her heart and soul to him. She was trying to explain that she did trust and love him.

His response: “You have been bullied by men, so you don’t trust any man. Men have raped you and left your image tarnished.”

Words crueler than rape and the Secrets once again return to silence but will never to be shared again.

Keep in mind the reason why females do not share their Secrets.

August 21, 2020 (Ms. P.)
All Rights Reserved by Melissa Begley

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Melissa Begley is from the South, USA, though has lived in many states and abroad.
Her background is in the healthcare industry, having served as a Patient Advocate, provided Patient-Centered mandatory training sessions for new employees. Her favorite role was backup Elder Navigator.
Melissa’s friends and colleagues encouraged her to write, describing her as having a wild imagination, being pleasantly eccentric and functionally loopy.
“Magically, the manifestation of poets, writers, and accomplished authors entered into my world.
I am humbled, and blessed that I have received interest from talented and successful members of the Literary World.
“Many thanks and appreciation to Shiju H. Pallithazheth, Motivational Strips, Mary Lynn Luiz, and Mbizo Chirasha for their assistance and encouragement facilitating my pathway to writing and becoming a member of the Literary Community.”

Poetry by Nancy Ndeke

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The swan sung, a quietude so plaintive,
Oceans picked it up and whipped it to shores afar,
Details of humility of a guarantee soldier,
Robed in tons of tones of resilience,
From ages of flower tribes peripheral tirades,
Being seen and unheard,
Toys for boys and casualties of love,
To tangle with law, time spoke nefarious displeasure of elders,
Didn't stop dear Ruth from toppling the dominant dominos of her time,
Coming first didn't guarantee an easy entry into the sure herd of biased minds,
But tutorials and homage to learning added a feather to an angel on a mission,
A flower bloomed large and bright and hard as steel,
An era made for a passionate advocacy of right light,
Who can make music to a musician who sung, played and danced to a tune of chipping rocks to flatten old curves.
Who can write an epitaph made from the stars before a baby was born.
Who can light a candle on a soul who in life was the sun for an entire specie's.
We mourn flesh as its meant to be,
But a joy bubbles out from all the 'Rutherans' who with ease reach for the mellow fruits from an old gnarled tree,
With trembling sorrow wrapped with praise we sigh with the wind of change now rested from a race well run,
An epic soul floats in successive generations diploma papers and legal pads ready for war,
For each battle Ruth fought and won,
Is a marker and a tool to spur resilience and resolve ahead,
So yes, this morning mourns as flesh must tend to do to flesh,
But richer is the heritage that across the divide of living,
A legacy stands tall and proud for the dare of a soul,
That saw opportunity and not mountains,
So go with a waltz into this goodnight sweet guardian angel,
Our tears water the wind bearing you back to sunrise,
Where wisdom of your birth and mission,
Shall form the foundations of where tomorrow shall build its Castle. 
We are richer for the scars of your battles and wars.
Adieu Ruth!

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Nancy Ndeke is a multi-genre writer. She writes poetry, hybrid essays, reviews, commentary and memoir. Ndeke  is widely published with four collection of her full writings Soliama Legacy, Lola- Logue , Musical Poesy  and May the Force be With you. She has recently  collaborated with a Scotland-based Writer  and Musical Artist,  Dr. Gameli Tordzro of Glasgow University on the Poetry Collection Mazungumzo ya Shairi, and  also  co-authored the poetry anthology , I was lost but now am found with USA Poet Renee Drummond  -Brown . She contributes her writings to the Atunis  Galaxy Poetry ( Belgium), TUJIPANGE AFRICA( Kenya, USA), Ramingo Porch, Africa Writers Caravan , WOMAWORD Literary Press, BeZine  for Arts and Humanities( USA), Andinkra Links 5,  Wild Fire Publication, Williwash Press, The poet by day webzine, Writers Escape at Poetry, Different Truths, ARCS PROSE POETRY. Nancy Ndeke also works as a literary arts consultant, copyeditor and  Writers’ Clinics Moderator.