Terry Lowenstein
country : United States of America
Terry Lowenstein is a poet and freelance writer who lives in North Carolina with her husband, two daughters and two cats-Dickens and Emerson.  Her "day job" is writing magazine and newspaper articles that include personal essays, travel articles and book reviews.Her articles appear in magazines and newspapers throughout the United States and internationally. 
The following is a list of poetry publications that have recently featured her work:
The Green Tricycle, Retrozine, Twilight Times,The Starry Night Review, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Fables, lingerings, The Literary Lion, The Sidewalks End, The Copperfield Review, The Vinland Journal, The Pedestal Magazine, Southern Ocean Review, Wilmington Blues, Prairie Poetry, Mail Call-A Civil War Journal, Blue Fifth's Review,Hawkwind, Niederngasse, A Country Rag An Appalachian Review and The Writer's Hood 

Other recent published news:
Terry Lowenstein's poetry was recently published in two anthologies:  The World Healing Book and The Book of Hope.A sample of that poetry may be viewed online (located under the heading Catalyst is her poem-A Season of Change), Here is the link:  
Recently too, Storyhouse LTD. published several of her poems (and a magazine article) on their coffee labels.  Additional work is due to be released soon in The Blue Planet and Erete's Bloom

Ancient Knowledge Revealed
In forgotten poetic countryside
terrestrial geomancy,
hides secrets of the universe.

Answers to riddles 
of numbers,
ratio and angle.

Yin and Yang.
For it is behind, 
shadows of mountains,
that neglected spirit paths lie.

Here the dragon and white tiger
still travel ridges and hills,
pass twin streams,
pause at a green knoll.

Here, beneath the veil 
of wind and water,
harmony blends
wood with fire,
metal with earth.
Secrets are revealed.
in forgotten leys,
cosmology, and
spherodical earth.


The sweet smell of molasses
still hinted at journeys past
when she left port.

Her cargo immigrants,
the first wave.

Famine's hand
gripped the land
they fled.

Death still waited,
so did ordeals

there would be many.

Perhaps her name was 
a subliminal message

for them,
and for generations yet unborn.

*Perservarance-The name of the ship that left Ireland in 1835. On board the first of many who would flee the famine. 

The Feast of Samhain

Ancient gnarled oaks 
stand as silent sentinels
in the pastoral hills and valley
that shelter bones of souls old 
when the country was young.
Time has nibbled away
at their gravestones,
so that little remains
to identify who these were.
Here and there a date,
a name, and sometimes
an epithet.
But the wind remembers
what the stones have forgot
It waits to speak their names
until the moon is full
and mist has shrouded the vale.
Waits for the "time which is no time" 
when the veil between two worlds opens.
Then the wind calls, a low moan
that wakes the sleeping ghosts
and invites them to dance.
It is the feast of Samhain.
And druids on wings of 
dragons fly in to join the frolic.
Fairies and elves 
from Lands of the Sidhe 
emerge to celebrate as well.
They feast on milk and cakes
dance as witches chant
and candles are lit.
They celebrate until nighttide ends
and the sun rises.
Then return to earthen beds,
hidden copse, forgotten vales.