Amethyst Review

Soft Ruin

Inside the chrysalis,
the body begins by forgetting itself.
Muscles loosen its faithful grip.
The old mouth dissolves.
Legs surrender their labor.
Even the patient architecture of hunger
is taken apart until nothing remains,
but a pale, breathing hush where
certainty once lived.

Metamorphosis.

As if becoming were gentler than this.
From within, it is a slow flood,
each familiar room of the body
filling with a void,
each remembered shape softening
into something that can no longer hold its own name.

There is no applause for a miracle.
Only surrender.
I know something of that,
my whole life in shackles.

There are lives we do not leave behind;
they dissolve around us until the person
who first entered them exists only
in fragments,
drifting beneath the surface
like leaves returning to dark water.

I did not choose to change.
I simply grew grew beyond the borders
that once held me, and the world,
faithful to its own turning,
never paused long enough
for my roots to understand
they were no longer touching earth.

So I taught myself the quiet ways of unmaking.
How to loosen my grip without failure.
How to survive the long country of shapelessness,
where every morning arrives wearing a stranger’s face,
and even hope must learn to move without wings.

Yet hidden inside the ruin,
a small congregation of living cells
keeps its impossible promise,
building what the breaking could never imagine. 

Perhaps that is what grace has always been:
not escaping the undoing,
but discovering that the deepest part of us
was never asked to dissolve.

May Garner is an author and poet residing in rural Ohio. She has been writing for fifteen years and sharing her work online for over a decade. She is the author of two poetry collections, Withered Rising (2023) and Melancholic Muse (2025). Her work has appeared in more than seventy literary magazines and anthologies. She is the recipient of first place in the 4th Annual Poet-It Like Poe Poetry Contest and a winner of the 2026 Woody Barlow Poetry Contest. Find her work on Instagram (@crimson.hands).

You, Whom I Have Named

You, whom I have named static between radio stations -
I heard You in the morning humdrum
[7:53 A.M. middling 94.3 FM and 95.1 FM],
the peach fuzz of signal searching,
each buzz before a noise noses in.
Sentimentally, I always let the dial dillydally there like
an offering to You: my attention with no demand for
Your intention.

You, whom I have named a rose in the pavement -
it was surely You, emerging from concrete cracks,
red and green against a sea of rusted grey,
form conquering over function, a kind of alleycat angel.
I watered it once, as
an offering to You: my outpouring, for a singular gift of beauty.

You, whom I have named the summer light after streetlamps -
that slate-sea hour when the sky is a swirling seascape.
I throw my wrists out to west and east, fingers unwrapped,
calling in the wind, calling at the windows, at all times
an offering to You: seeing salvation in the lingering light,
faded but never faded away.

You, whom I have named a man in a novelty t-shirt on Victoria Beach, June 2026,
I mean it, because if cotton can curl my mug into a meaty smile, 
it is an affirmation that an aliveness courses through this conduit
and it does not ask for blessing,
and no high and holy miracle ever did.
And so even that paltry moment of giggling is
an offering to You: my laughter, measured out in dad jokes
on sand-scratched shirts.

You, whom I have named nothing at all
because all that I can say of You falls short,
and everything is nothing in full colours, 
and You left a porch light on for me, 
in case I want to come in to experience
how wonderful nothing ever is. So, here,
an offering to You: my feet on the porch 
steps, I will leave the light on for the others.

Magnus Briar is a poet from Winnipeg, Canada. Their first poetry collection, Prairie Chicken, appeared on several Amazon bestseller lists. They have performed their original poetry at festivals across the region.

Book of Hours

	after ‘Book of Hours’, 15th century 

A gold and blue salamander 
finds me in an ancient calendar,
swimming beside crimson oxide. 
I could stay forever, hidden inside 
botanical margins left behind.
Sift through lists of saints intertwined
with my questions. I’m tethered
to thistles, poppies, and roses all treasured 
enough for someone to paint 
in 1528. I hope my inexperience won’t taint
this brilliance. My admiration 
settles down beside a curved creation
whose golden leaves call to me, 
a rustling cacophony.  

Rachael Watson’s stories and poetry have been published online, in print, and converted into a short film. Rachael recently completed a Diploma in Creative Writing at the University of Oxford. Her debut middle grade novel, ELIZABRIE, will be published in 2027.

Rain III: A Love Supreme, Psalm


The swelling saxophone warms my car’s
Cockpit, makes the little constellation 
Of droplets that coats my windshield sparkle
A bit more, refracting traffic lights’ reds
And streetlights’ yellows, a scintillation
Of dew bedecking the befogged pane 
Like twinkling Christmas lights seen hazy,
Lazy-strewn by a happy hand. 

There’s something perfect about jazz
In the warmth of the car as you drive 
Home by night in a gentle rain. Its wist
-fulness imbues existence (for a few
Moments) with just the proper tenor 
Of melancholy longing. I become 
So absorbed in Coltrane’s and Ellington’s
Sentimental Mood that I drive past 
My own intersection, not realizing 
My street is my street, somehow seeing
These sky-washed asphalt flats
As if from an utterly new man’s eyes. 

Taking a detour home, I reckon with
Rain as supreme condescension, 
Heaven coming on down 
To cover this earth in a purgative power
Which will wipe away the grime
Of time, draw out a whiff of that dear freshness,
A scent, to be man-masked by diluting devices 
No more. Car door closed, I’m wrapped
In a wondrous birthwet night 
Whose distant, slick tire tracks whisper
Rhythm and news: Heaven will not drown 
That which he wishes to water,
To wash clean.

Ian Heisler teaches 9th grade classics, U.S. history, and poetry in Phoenix while trying to become a better host of convivial community. His poetry appears in Salt and Iron Magazine. He likes writing Letterboxd movie reviews pretentiously, dancing Ceili eagerly, and hosting festal parties joyfully.

Lake Baptism

My white hand-me-down sneakers,
the slick red clay that smeared them 
when I slipped, the laughter of the twins 
at my expense, the stench of bream,
the men in jon boats who chase that stench, 
Daddy’s old vee neck undershirt
your baptismal gown, the rusted 
barbed wire and deer tracks
on this island, reminding us that
buried under this manmade lake
are thousands of acres of old farmland, 
and that white-tailed deer can swim 
long distances, freshwater mussels 
lodged in the sand, some closed, 
some split wide open, the smell
of gasoline from cigarette boats
and pontoon boats and jetskis,
submerged beer cans with faded labels, 
lost lures winking in the shallows,
Mama’s Sunday dress and lipstick,
Daddy’s Sunday shoes and silk tie
stained with coffee, the pastor’s folded 
white handkerchief pressed against 
your mouth and nose, half a dozen 
disposable cameras, and my jealousy 
at having been baptized in a church.

Ralph F. Matthews is an English teacher and poet living in Columbia, South Carolina, with his wife and three children. His poems have appeared in various literary journals.

Awakening Place 

Morning – end of darkness 
the pink and silver glow shimmers
through the window, the autumn angle
glances into slumbers, dreams.
Necessity revives the body 
to another day, to the sounds
of clouds rolling across the sky.

Joy comes to the observer.
Now it is time to move into the day 
time to put on a happy face and go forth
to conquer worlds we’ve never known 
to follow the Navajo path of survival,
to wait. To hide from evils lurking.
It is time to recognize the fates 
to know not all things are beautiful 
not all things are dark.
There is darkness and there is light 
and both are very good.

Linda Meg Frith is a retired Social Worker and long time member of Green River Writers. She has published poetry in Amethyst Review, eMerge, River and South Review, Rainy Weather Days, Eclectica, and Tipton Poetry Journal. She received a 2025 Pushcart Nomination for her poem, ‘Home is Where the Hurt Is’. Linda Meg lives with her Chihuahua in Louisville, KY.

Incandescent blossoms

The railroad vine’s
incandescent blossoms
dot the beach

its pink petals 
decorating the sand
as if someone 
had taken a brush 
and dipped it into 
a bucket of paint

then splattered 
the drops 
helter-skelter 
across the sand,
each dot of pink
touching a strand
of green, 

the thin, 
rope-like vine 
that snakes 
across the beach
revealing 
the interconnectedness
of all things.

Bruce Black holds an MFA from Vermont College and BA from Columbia University. He is the author of Writing Yoga (Rodmell/Shambhala Press), and his poetry and personal essays have appeared in numerous publications. He lives in Highland Park, IL.

Look Up!

consider nature
has its songbirds with bright plumes—
they’re the pen of God

beauty everywhere!
finches, tanagers, waxwings,
poems in the blue,

pools of wisdom in
sunshine and simplicity—
sky meditation

Angie P. Kinman is a writer, reading interventionist, and retired teacher living in Nashville, Tennessee. She has always been passionate about teaching poetry, but it was not until her daughter, who had special needs, passed away on March 2, 2023 that she began to write poetry. She has found healing and a divine connection through writing.

If You Feel Lonely, Listen to the Whispers of Sautéed Asparagus


Sage-colored stems sizzle 
in salt
pepper
and olive oil.
My garden-fresh grouping 
align in holistic agreement.  

This gathering of vitamins
A
B9
and K
combine their benefits in cooperation 
with copper
iron
potassium
and other minerals. 

As if whispers of alliance
you’re one of us
	we’re part of you
a sense of synergy sizzles 
in salt
pepper
and olive oil.
Reciprocal interaction in a pan.
My sautéed asparagus has a plan.

Jeannie E. Roberts is the author of nine books, seven poetry collections and two illustrated children’s books. Her most recent full-length poetry collection is titled On a Clear Night, I Can Hear My Body Sing (Kelsay Books, 2025). From 2018 to 2026, she served as a poetry editor for the online literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. An award-winning artist and poet as well as an Eric Hoffer and a multiple Best of the Net award nominee, she finds joy spending time outdoors and with loved ones.

In Harmony

A warm night, all of the doors are open a cooling breeze blesses singers. Bodies ache, feet are sore, minds are overcrowded with busyness of day. A mixed bouquet of human beings gather in one place to fill the space to share, to seek a tender grace. 

Gift of connection, felicity, festivity, 
voices interwoven, balm for body, 
peace for mind.

Bah boh bah bah boe boe
doo be doo be doodle
skat, skat skidadaddle

The sense is in the sound, the bond is in the blend. 
Elation, jubilation, irrational sensations plunder the soul 
Sweet notes rise to meet, to float into the night.

Nothing matters except to bring the whole of self to the feast. To catch at rapture as it wings its way about the room. 

sing out, Sing Out, SING OUT

Nonsense becomes words, becomes meaning, becomes comfort. Dynamics change sound is softer. They are lost, they are found rising beyond the Now, caught in a seamless glimpse of Otherness.

Outside a voice joins the song
It seems impossible, yet it is so
A thrush blends its sweet song with theirs
Some mystic magic is at work
High in a tree Thrush sings the day 
Force divine uncanny blend 
all Creation gathered in this moment
The song is One

	Benediction 		Gift of connection	   Felicity	   Festivity 

Voices interwoven		 Balm for body	Peace for mind. 

In such a moment 
Everything is Possible

All Creation could live in harmony.

Susan Brice lives in Derbyshire with her husband and belovéd dog, Sunny. She is currently working on a series of meditations which explore the presence of the Creator in every aspect of creation. She worked with fellow poets Jane Keenan and Viv Longley to publish Daughters of Thyme and Homethyme. Susan’s other publications include Brushstrokes of the Ultimate Artist and Returning Back.