Amethyst Review

Here I am

Precious ointment, good name. 

Day of death is true north. Day of birth is first step. 
Feast when possible, mourn always, knowing the future. 

The soul-sofa franchise of John of Lent advertises: 
Rest your weary spirit-bones, calm the joints and sinews 
of your ghosts. Calling all souls, flesh below flesh.

Here I am.

At the gate, Lucy sits in wisdom, watches the coming 
and going. Her eyes are lines to life, blind to foolish
offerings.

A start is hope. An end is knowledge. Patience is 
better than pride. Anger, a sweet trap.

One-Cent carries the bones of Uncle Eddie into the new 
covenant land, fresh designated as real estate, no 
longer wilderness, now profitable.

Find the straight inside the crooked. Ponder adversity 
like a sacred book. Consider the comfort of the rich and 
study closely the balance of weights.

The house of many angles — the cop crowd in the park, 
a wall of helmet threat. GirlJane is surrounded by a great 
cloud of witnesses, saints and angels, chanting: 
Persevere in the race to be run.

The breaking of dry leaves, the crackling of human breath.

House of fools is next door to the wise house.  Listen to 
the words of Wisdom, deep and full. Hear the foolish song 
for what it is. Laugh and go your way. 

Here I am.

In the mirror, Long John Oremus sees his six eyes, six ears, 
an idol’s visage. Flame fires from his mouth. He sees 
every thing, hears every thing until he turns away from 
the silver. His unrepentant serpent mother, alive in death, 
still rules the side ways of his low brain. The high flies 
only as far as the chain.

Hambone steals the unwatched minute from the mother 
to write this, guilty beyond the walled siege-proof shtetl. 
Beyond here lies every thing.

Skin and sorrow discolor and dry like desert.

They say Denmark Jones should be thrown out into the 
darkness. They throw him down a deep well with no 
water and only mud. He sinks in the mud. At 26th and 
California, his case is pleaded.

Embrace no curse. Good or bad, breathe until not. Good 
or bad, face what is. Child of the Century walks in a sea of  
myth; he sings a tuneless song about the artist of history.
Take hold. Listen to the death bed visitor about to journey. 
Hug hospice angels. Keep quiet.

Here I am.

Lincoln Scarlet avoids the one with heart of nettles.

Patrick T. Reardon, a Chicago Tribune reporter from 1976 to 2009, is the author of seven poetry collections. His latest is Every Marred Thing: A Time in America, the winner of the 2024 Faulkner-Wisdom Prize from the Pirate’s Alley Faulkner Society of New Orleans (Lavender Ink). He is a six-time nominee in poetry for a Pushcart Prize. His poetry has appeared in America, RHINO, Commonweal, Blue Unicorn, After Hours, Autumn Sky, Burningword Literary Journal and other journals.

Five foolish virgins 
Notre Dame Cathedral, Strasbourg 


Five foolish virgins teetering 
on Tequila

Solomon doing his best 
with another hopeless case   

prophets making banners 
for Green Peace and Amnesty

apostles writing letters 
for the protection of bees 

Church and Synagogue staring over 
the long space between them 

suave Lucifer doing a deal 
that he’ll never keep

young knights riding out 
with a saddlebag of bitcoins

gargoyles gawping greedily 
at tourists with ice-creams 

And then I saw her 

the great goddess 
the girl with the hazel eyes

the child in her arms 
and a cape to cover all sorrow

running over the cobbles  
to the Resto du Coeur. 


Note: Les Restos du Cœur are soup kitchens, set up by the French comedian Michel Colucci 

Jill Husser-Munro grew up in the north of Scotland and has lived and worked in Strasbourg, France, for over thirty years. Her work has been published in Poetry Scotland, Amethyst Review, The Alchemy Spoon, Wildfire Words, Dreich Magazine and Causeway Magazine.

Rocky Mountain


No possibility of reaching the top
that day—or ever.  I was nothing 
to it.  

I sat in the car, but it was too soft
a shield against the unbearable, in-
human god-thing.

I sat looking up, up the mountain, 
longing for blindness.  A climber’s
sterner stuff.

A climber would have yearned 
to ascend, conquer. I yearned 
to flee, or free-

fall to the base of the true God,
to whom I was, oddly, something 
worth dying for.

Johanna Caton, O.S.B, is a Benedictine nun of Minster Abbey, in Kent, England. Her poems have appeared in The Christian Century, St Austin Review, Ekphrastic Review, Amethyst Review, One Art, Today’s American Catholic, Fathom, Fare Forward, Windhover, The Catholic Poetry Room, and other publications. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee.

Resolve

We go to the shore
see the gulls, maybe
we name them:
herring, black-headed,
laughing, ring-billed;
maybe we throw crusts of
saved bread—offerings
that we may pass, we may
stay, may they love us
despite our arrogance and
destruction.

May they love us though
we make ourselves
thieves in their sanctuary;
polluting the air and water, 
the least culpable of us
begging forgiveness
for the most.

This winter they fly
inland, covering rows
of harvested mono-crops
in otherwise barren fields.
Are these small migrations
their reply?

We selfishly claimed 
what is theirs,
encroaching on 
what we are allowed to borrow 
for our lifetimes and they come to us,
proclaim, “Enough.”  They come 
to step on the soil, bless it
with webbed feet
meant for pushing water,
instead pushing grief.

Their ancestors lost the world once;
they refuse to lose it again.

Loralee Clark‘s fourth poetry book is Neolithic Imaginings: Mythical Explorations of the Unknown (Kelsay Press, 2026). Clark has been nominated for three 2026 Pushcart Prizes. She resides in Virginia; her website is sites.google.com/view/loraleeclark. Her Substack, which focuses on the process of creativity, is nosuchthingasfailure.substack.com.

Today—just me and the road

No deep thoughts,
no letting go.
Just Galician green.

The river winds my route
through abandoned pueblos—
doors closed—
a hush.

Through lush forests
of chestnut trees,
through farmland—
bleating, baaing—
the distant hum of a tractor
accompanying my silent walk.

Today’s stop—Samos.
A retreat in the country.
An abbey awaits.

Tomorrow, a rest day.
Soon Sarria, where masses gather.
Soon the final hundred kilometers.

Today, I keep to the solitude.

Deborah Bussewitz is a retired educator and writer whose poetry traces the inner and outer landscapes of the Camino de Santiago. Her work reflects a deep attention to place, presence, and the evolving journey of the spirit. Her work has appeared in The Healing Muse, Silver Birch Press, and Syracuse Cultural Workers calendars.

Busrider

My father took me to the bus station in Albuquerque
for the start of a student tour of Europe.
I was first on the bus
and stayed,
in my seat until the bus was under way.
I didn’t get on and off excitedly
like the other kids.  My father said later
he didn’t realize until then 
I didn’t think I’d actually get to go,
that my alcoholic, schizophrenic mother would do something
that would scuttle the trip.   

Just graduated from high school,
I was the second- or third-oldest kid on the bus.
The tour organizers had given every kid on the bus a New Testament,
every kid except the Jewish kid, who along the way
crawled up into a luggage rack, fell asleep and slept through 
the bus getting washed in St. Louis. I was the only kid
who actually read the little black tome,
not being exposed to it at home or in a church.
The other kids just accepted them, 
part of the background of their lives,
grounded in a faith I didn’t know.

I read that New Testament and discussed it
with another older boy.  I was especially struck by
If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love,
I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal, and all the rest of Corinthians 13.
The chaperones overheard us.  
In Austria I bought a large, black hat
which I wore with my sport coat because it brought better service in restaurants.
The chaperones dubbed me Preacher,
they prevailed upon me to lead reading and prayers on the bus
when we traveled on Sundays.

The hat was stolen out of my old car,
a 1947 Plymouth painted gray with a brush,
my first year of college. 

Bruce Parker is the author of the chapbooks Ramadan in Summer, (Finishing Line Press, 2022) and Tears for Things (Plan B Press, 2024), and Marriage: A History (Finishing Line Press, 2026). He holds an MA in Secondary Education from the University of New Mexico. His work appears in Triggerfish Critical Review, Blue Unicorn, Cerasus, Prairie Schooner. Connecticut River Review (which nominated his poem “Grief Makes the Heart Apparent” for a Pushcart Award), and elsewhere. He lives in Portland, Oregon.

Meditation

The rain has stopped, and the half moon is suspended between two fir trunks, Orion’s belt glimmering not far away. In South America, they call this constellation “The Three Maries”.  I still like the idea of the eternal hunter. Seeing the dim light pour in through the window I feel strangely reassured: all is as it should be. I can safely go back to sleep. 

After this shift in the weather, I shouldn’t be surprised when I come down to the water’s edge to watch the sunrise: smooth as a sheet of rosy silk, the ocean stretches out before me, no sign of last night’s furious wave-lashing. The tide is very low, and the hues of pink and gold are reflected in the little rivulets of water carving patterns into the sand. The geese have come and gone. Only the heron, looking like a wise old professor with his wisp of feathers extending from the nape of his neck, has taken possession of his favourite boulder a little to my left. Is he, like me, out to greet the new day? More likely he is looking for breakfast.

I decide to forego mine in favour of a walk along the deserted beach. So rarely have I the opportunity to add my tracks in the sand to the big three-toed footprints of the geese and the funny little tire-tread marks of the crab. I enjoy the feel of softness under my feet, stand for a moment where the small waves are finally spent and feel the water pull the slick sand from under my feet. A faint splash makes me turn my head just in time to see a group of small diving birds disappear. A few moments later they pop up, one by one, at a totally different spot, but all close together. They repeat this exercise a few times, then must have decided to check out a different part of the beach: as if following a secret command they start scooting across the glossy water, gaining speed, wingtips touching, denting, but not breaking the surface tension. 

After the storm
the beach a blank slate.
Who will write on it now?

A long-time farmer and gardener, Susanne von Rennenkampff often takes her inspiration from the natural world and her travels. Her poems have appeared in a number of literary magazines in Canada and the US, including Room, The Antigonish Review, Prairie Fire, Grain, The Banyan Review, Evening Street Review, Cirque and, most recently and upcoming, St. Katherine Review. A chapbook of her poetry, In the Shelter of the Poplar Grove, was published by The Alfred Gustav Press. She lives in rural Alberta, Canada.

Always with my Father
after reading S.Y. Agnon's story "Twofold"

A man in a story dreams
he never finds the temple
where his father worships,
I do not have to find the shul
where my father prays.
It is always there rising on a hill.
In the man's dream
a tallis with three fringes
means death.
My father's prayer shawl
shimmers in its fullness
as I run my fingers through
the silken threads
none missing 
as the cantor sings
and my father chants
and shows me
in the small, glossy, white
prayer book my mother
gave my father
as an engagement gift,
shows me the place
to follow, my voice 
blending with his.
No blur of boundaries or space
the seeker in the tale suffers from,
no fear of loss.
I am always with my father.
His now worn prayer book rests
in my bookcase.
I know where to find it.

Janet Krauss enjoyed teaching English at St. Basil Seminary for 29 years and Fairfield University for 39 years. She continues to mentor students. lead a poetry discussion at the Wilton Library, participate in the CT. Poetry Society Workshop and other poetry groups. She is the Poetry Program Director of the Black Rock Guild. She has 2 books of poetry: Borrowed Scenery (Yuganta Press) and Through the Trees of Autumn (Spartina Press). She is a widely published poet and many of her poems have been published in Amethyst Review and her haiku in Cold Moon Journal.

The Memory of Glitter

I wasn’t thinking about the glitter when things began to fall apart.

Years earlier, it started with a speck. I assumed it was something I touched.

But then I saw more—on my wrists, my forearms, the backs of my hands. Not just a trace. It was everywhere.

I told my wife. She thought I was joking—until she saw it herself.

She was sitting on the bed, ready to go to sleep. I sat beside her and held out my arm. She moved her fingers along it carefully, as if afraid of breaking a spell.

That’s when I started trying to explain it. I checked the soap, the towels, the gifts my in-laws had brought back. I even looked at their luggage.

Our kids—who’d been hugged and held by my in-laws—had no shimmer. No one else in the house did. Just me.

My in-laws had just returned from a pilgrimage near Cleveland, where the Virgin Mary had reportedly appeared. Over dinner, they spoke about what they’d experienced—subtle lights, an overwhelming sense of calm, and, they said, sudden flecks of light appearing on their own hands.

I couldn’t dismiss their experience, but I didn’t share their certainty either.

What stayed with me was this: I—the most doubtful one in the house—was the only person glittering.

I never did figure out what caused it. I kept turning it over in my mind. And then, when I couldn’t make sense of it, I let it go.

Or at least, I thought I had.

The kids grew. Work kept me busy. There were plans to make, routines to follow, things to be grateful for. 

And then, much later, everything unraveled.

The company I’d given nearly thirty years to collapsed overnight.

Our savings, tied to the company, disappeared with it. We left the home that had held our lives and moved into a small apartment that felt strangely temporary.

I began the long, uncertain process of looking for work—sending applications, taking interviews, and waiting for replies that came back as rejections—or nothing at all.

And one day I sat frozen at my computer, with the sinking feeling that no matter what I did next, it didn’t seem to make a difference.

What do I do now? 

What am I worth without the work?

There was no answer. Just silence and the sound of the fridge humming.

I kept waking in the middle of the night, heart racing, replaying the past—going over what I could have done differently.

The quiet confidence we’d built our lives around—work hard, stay loyal, things will turn out—was gone.

In its place was a question we couldn’t answer.

Before, I would’ve prayed.

I grew up Catholic. I learned to turn to God when life went wrong—and to say thank you when it didn’t. Prayer was a reflex. A way to ask for protection, for relief, for things to be set right.

Over time, I began to question the version of God I’d always trusted. Why would God answer my prayers—for a clean result, a successful meeting, or simply a calmer day—when so many others were living through things I couldn’t imagine?

A God who steps in for some and stays silent for others—it just didn’t add up.

So I prayed less. Or not at all.

And for a while, there was nothing to replace it. Just life.

And I stayed there.

But beneath it all—the fear and uncertainty—something in me began to shift.

One morning, I sat on the balcony of our apartment with my coffee and watched the sky lighten with the sunrise. The sound of the fountain filled the courtyard, steady—like a river. A car passed in the distance. The air was cool and clean—fresh in a way that made me pause.

What if we weren’t seeing this clearly? What if the labels we’d trusted—success, failure, good, bad—had never been the only way to look at it?

Maybe this life—the one that felt like it had gone wrong—wasn’t broken after all.

It just wasn’t the one we thought we deserved.

The thought felt radical. But with it came a kind of stillness—just enough to breathe again.

Then, before long, the familiar voice returned—pushing back: This isn’t helping. You’re giving up. Keep moving, or everything will slip away.

I didn’t know which voice was telling the truth: was I getting closer to something real—or was I drifting away from something I couldn’t afford to lose?

Part of me wanted to let go. Another part refused.

And then—suddenly—the memory returned.

The glitter.

I found myself going over it again—just as I had all those years ago—trying to piece together what might have caused it, expecting it to finally make sense.

But nothing came.

This time, I didn’t push it any further. 

That’s what struck me: how quickly we try to explain things away—how uncomfortable we become when something sits unresolved.

I let it be what it was: strange, fleeting, out of place.

The panicked voice rose again: You can’t think like this. You need to pull yourself together.

The memory quieted the voice—not with an answer, but with a calm certainty. I didn’t fight the fear. I watched it pass.

I’d always imagined peace would come after the crisis—when things were fixed, or made sense.

But nothing was fixed. Still, something was different.

Not because I understood—but because I wasn’t reaching. I wasn’t resisting.

I was just here.

Like the glitter: it didn’t explain a thing. It was just there.

I still don’t have a job. I still don’t understand why this happened.

But I can see it now.

That’s enough.

Luis Chamorro is a writer from Nicaragua, now living in Miami. His work explores memory, identity, and the search for meaning in ordinary life, often blending emotional realism with philosophical inquiry. He holds degrees in Engineering and Business Administration from the University of Texas at Austin and Carnegie Mellon University. Before turning to writing, he led international operations in the coffee industry. 

Prayer

A list of names sellotaped
inside a bible;
particular people remembered
on particular days.
A quiet place, a mindful space,
attention paid to moments,
feelings, objects, people.
A conversation threaded
through the minutes
of each day, who, what,
when and where, and why.
Reflection on a passage,
tasting and savouring words,
images and meanings.
Words to comfort,
challenge or inspire;
words to shape our being 
and doing in conversation
using improvisation.
A listening time,
in quiet, hearing
the sounds only
revealed in silence.

Jonathan Evens is Team Rector for Wickford and Runwell and Area Dean of Basildon. Previously Associate Vicar for HeartEdge at St Martin-in-the-Fields, he was involved in developing HeartEdge as an international and ecumenical network of churches engaging congregations with culture, compassion and commerce. He is co-author of The Secret Chord, an impassioned study of the role of music in cultural life written through the prism of Christian belief, and writes regularly on the visual arts and The Arts more generally for national arts and church media including Artlyst, ArtWay and Church Times. He blogs at joninbetween.blogspot.com.