Jenny Ward Angyal
Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA
I remember my mother telling me how she felt on the frigid night in 1953 when Stalin died. A little thaw of hope. When she mentioned it years later, I was only a young teen growing up in a free country, so I didn’t fully understand. But more than seven decades after that historic event, with ice thick on the streets of our cities and a chill in my bones—I know.
pale moonlight
falls on the road ahead . . .
and on my hearth
wild goblin flames
are dancing
Jenny Ward Angyal
My Books
Inkstone Poetry Forum
The Grass Minstrel