Amethyst Review

Seed Pods
		In memory of my brother

As I walk the seawall—
now a desert of barnacles—
seed pods collect in the tidal pool
and last year’s leaves lodge
in the rocks below.

My thoughts turn to leaping
we did as children—
	you on the pilings of some wharf,
	me on the high tide of bedrock.

The tide consumes the leftovers
of mussel beds, the sea gulping 
between the rocks, and I remember
what you said to me that day—

High tide, waves lapping across
the jetty’s end and my feet as I reached
for your hand across the bay 
and jumped.

Ellen Jane Powers lives on the North Shore of Boston. Her life and career have taken many twists and turns, and now she’s happily retired from corporate life. She spent 12 years on the editorial review board of a small literary journal from Maine. Her poems have appeared in a variety of journals over the years. She has a collection of poetry, Celestial Navigation (Cherry Grove) and a chapbook, Toward the Beloved (Finishing Line).

The Field That Remembers Names

There is a field that remembers names
long after the mouths that made them close.

Grass bends at the sound of recognition,
not wind—something slower, more deliberate.

I walk through it carefully,
trying not to say anything that might stay.

The soil is dense with unfinished language,
vowels pressed into root systems,
consonants waiting for rain.

Beneath me, a sentence refuses to end.

I kneel.
Press my ear to the ground.

It hums—low, patient, almost human—
and I realize it already knows mine.

Isabella Aleksander is too often confused with pop culture’s most topical red heads. She used to make the claim that her hair is orange not red. She isn’t creative but sometimes her poems are. Her favorite word is circumlocution.

A Blessing on the Readers

who wrangle with words 
	like a meteorologist
	deciphering the skies
	and wind

who contemplate 
	the page, like a blue heron 
	peering into the lake’s 
	luminous mirage

who, like eaters of watermelon, 
	spit out the bitter seed 
	and let the sweet flesh 
	sink in

who trim the page
	and fill it with breath 
	like a sail
	catching wind

who repurpose
	the cadence of a verse
	like a jazz pianist 
	at the keys

with a heart that beats
	under the breath of a line
	and startles a life
	to song

Tammy Iralu lives in New Mexico with her husband and daughter. She enjoys backpacking, hiking, and breaking bread with family and friends. Her poetry draws on the light-infused landscapes of New Mexico and southwest Colorado. Each year she anticipates the summer monsoons, the changing colors of autumn, and the year-round beautiful skies. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in Friends Journal, The Journal of Radical Wonder, Amethyst Review, Mukoli: The Magazine for Peace, The Ekphrastic Review, Cowley Magazine, The Other Side, and elsewhere.

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.