Ellen Kaywin and Kashiana Singh
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Ellen Kaywin
ekaywin@bellsouth.net
Bio (auto)
Ellen Kaywin is a former reading specialist turned emerging poet. She has a B.A. in education and an M.ED in reading from Boston University. After retiring from her tutoring practice, she decided to get back to her love of writing poetry. She attends an ongoing writing workshop at the University of Miami and has enrolled in online writing classes through Gotham Writing Workshops, New York. Her poems touch upon many topics: family, childhood, the passing of time, nature, loss, memories and more. Some of her favorite poets are: Emily Dickinson, William Carlos Williams, Walt Whitman, Wendy Cope, Mary Oliver and Linda Gregg. Ms. Kaywin lives in Miami, Fl with her husband. They have two adult children.
The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Ellen Kaywin and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
A Bench in the ShadeOur first date a stroll in the park
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Kashiana Singh
kashiana.singh@gmail.com
Bio (auto)
Kashiana Singh is a management professional by job classification and a work practitioner by personal preference. Kashiana’s TEDx talk was dedicated to Work as Worship. Her poetry collection, Shelling Peanuts and Stringing Words presents her voice as a participant and an observer. She dips into very vulnerable and personal contexts but also explores the shifting tectonic plates of the world around her. She is from India, now lives in Chicago. She is a regular contributor to different poetry platforms like OnMogul, Literary Yard, Best Poems, Narrow Mag, Modern Literature, SikhNet, Women’s Web, Tuck Magazine, Spillwords, Visual Verse, Oddball Magazine. She is in the process of gathering her second collection of poems. Visit Kashiana on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2019, and owned by Kashiana Singh and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Absent neighborsLast night, I became a taboo woman, tantric veins breaking into unencumbered branches of witched trees that fell, nearly fell. They hung in limp moaning slumber, fulfilled after the thunder had hit them like an orgasm last night. The bird feeder, still quivered beneath, on a rusted hook. Inside its trellis walls, I floated, fragile, flailing, urgently fabricating myself for another ordinary day. |
