Monthly Archives: September 2020

In His Presence

The clouds open with soft hinges
a dove lays its breast upon the air

The lake pink from early light
lends itself to the feathered reflection

A choir of small birds sing in the rushes
creatures nestled together slowly awaken

Seeds scattered by the wind
grown into a multitude of things

Morning glories unfold in the grasses
window the first rays of sun

Trees stand in verdant vesture
their angelic arms lifted in praise

Each day offers itself to the imagination
like a cup overflowing in the palm of a hand

The soul of the world stirs if we listen
the miracle unveiled if we allow ourselves to see

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Lynne D. Soulagnet was born on Long Island and grew up in Dix Hills where she worked for many years as a nurse tending to people in all stages of life. She will never forget the influence her wonderful English teachers had on her, giving her the lasting gift of a love for poetry which has followed her all her life. She has been published in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Paumanok: Interwoven, The Avocet, Better Than Starbucks, The Paterson Review, Blue Collar Review, Months to Years and others. She remains active in many poetry venues in New York.

COLOUR BLIND

I would prefer things to be black and white.
Painting the town red is problematic,
feeling blue is not productive; but
I do quite like the orange cover of
the poetry book I wish I hadn’t bought.

It is easy to see through me: a heart
of gold hidden under dark thoughts
and a restless tongue. Black and white
is yes or no, not endless compromise
and faint memories of eternal love.

© Rupert M Loydell

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Rupert Loydell is a writer, editor and abstract artist. His many books of poetry include Dear Mary (Shearsman, 2017) and The Return of the Man Who Has Everything(Shearsman 2015); and he has edited anthologies such as Yesterday’s Music Today (co-edited with Mike Ferguson, Knives Forks and Spoons Press 2014), and Troubles Swapped for Something Fresh: manifestos and unmanifestos (Salt, 2010).

The World to Come

At mass, the congregation sits once we
have professed the Nicene Creed. My fingers shake
as our words of faith revolve within my mind.
I look forward to the resurrection of
the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen.
I nod, the world to come. What will the world
to come look like? How will I look? They say,
when Jesus comes again, he will renew
the earth and all creation in it. He
will make it perfect. But, what does
……………..perfection look like?

What will my perfect look like? At what age
will God rebuild my body? Seventeen?
Or maybe thirty-five? Maybe I’ll be ten,
before my schooling left bruise-like bags
under my eyes. Though, maybe it was four,
before I chipped my front tooth on that
slide’s top metal platform. Or, maybe I’ll
be eighteen, during those ‘Best of Times,’
when my smile faded to tears when my friends
had study sessions, went to DQ, and
exchanged Secret Santa gifts, without
me. But what of all my scars—the curve on my right
index finger from a shearing accident,
the spiral-bound notebook slash running up
my thigh, and the stabs and gashes in my heart?

How, Lord, can You slide out the knife and keep
my aching memories from bleeding me
out? I should trust my Potter’s Hand—which crafted
a brown slit in my greenish-blue fair eyes,
and my cute button nose and rounded cheeks.
If Your design is so Good now, then I
can only imagine Your plan for when
the Consummated Kingdom comes. Although,
if trust is like a wobbly wheelbarrow
on a tightrope above the Niagara,
then, I’m not sure I’ll ever scramble in
and let You push me across the Falls. But,

Your plans are Your plans. And, one day, Jesus,
You will descend again and dwell among
Your people in Your shining gold Temple.

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Victoria Martin is a senior studying for a Creative Writing BFA. She worked for The Evansville Review as an Assistant Editor for three semesters. Currently, she is a Managing Editor of the Newman Newsletter for UE Newman Club members and alumni. She is also a co-op intern at Argonne National Laboratory in Lemont, IL.

A Cup of Grace

Imagine a cup of grace
poured into your palm,
which is also cupped.
What will you do with this
unwarranted bounty?

Rub it over your face,
a holy moisturizer?
Drink it, in desperate gulps or
measured sips? Shape it
into a ball of cloud,
then hand it over
to the old woman, the sick
child, the lost man?

Convert yourself
into an instrument of grace.
A piccolo perhaps, viola or timpani,
like a heart beat, an unforsaken
heart beat.

Imagine a symphony as you pray,
consider the notes you would play.
Then go in grace.
Uncup your hand.

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Kathleen Brewin Lewis writes about the natural world and family life. She’s the author of two chapbooks of poetry, Fluent in Rivers and July’s Thick Kingdom. Her work has also appeared in Valparaiso Poetry Review, The Christian Century, Southern Poetry Review, Cider Press Review, and The Southern Poetry Anthology Vol. V: Georgia. She’s a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and a Best of the Net nominee.

Tahira

Allah said
“If we allow her
this pain, she will
only make poetry
out of it” and one
angel after another
answered “So?”
“Now do you see
why I created them?”
spoke the Beneficent,
the Merciful.

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Wayne-Daniel Berard, PhD, teaches Humanities at Nichols College, Dudley, MA. He publishes broadly in poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. His novella, Everything We Want, was published in 2018 by Bloodstone Press. A poetry collection, The Realm of Blessing, will be published in 2020 by Unsolicited Press.

Butterfly years

He said “How many years did you stay on earth?” – 23:112

A butterfly waits an entire afternoon
for another pair of wings to fly with
that’s like waiting two human years
stone still, pheromones firing
for a chance to dance

These years seem wasted
until you see
them dart and hang in symmetry
light travelling through one
ensnared by the other
like two church windows tripping
trapping enough light to stop time
until butterfly years become
a dance with eternity

They said: “We stayed a day or part of a day, ask those who account.” – 21:113

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Taher Adel is a British-Bahraini poet and spoken word artist. He is currently completing his MA in Creative Writing and Poetry at the University of East Anglia. His poetry has also been published in Ambit, SMOKE Magazine, The New European and Poetry Salzburg Review.

New View of Neptune

Here in this azure outpost
Of the once-known universe,
There will be no more crying or pain.
I wiped away my final tear
When I came down
This Neptune morning.

It is so BLUE!
Blue like the skies of midsummer,
Like the way the oceans
Should have looked on Earth.
I race like a strong, cleansing wind across the surface
Of this wondrous sphere.

Moons there are a-plenty
A multitude of beings
Could ill-meet by moonlight.

The sun is a distant dot
An inflamed sore on the face of the deep.
All is serene and languid here.
The Earth, my tragic dream, has passed.
I wish I could say good riddance…

But I am the Spirit
And now I hover
Over life-giving waters.

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Jill Buckley is a member of the Stirling – based Cowane Street Writers, a group of writers in central Scotland with a broadly Christian focus. She is also a secondary school English teacher. The above poem, which imagines a divine creator with a new project on another planet, is both theologically unsound and scientifically impossible – purely speculative!

 

A Plea

Star-maker, master of luster,
I oppose the unprincipled
Of which this world is so peopled,
Some wicked folk prone to fester.

If deterred, they bite and pester,
The righteous first mute, then frightened,
Star-maker, master of luster.

Villains may blubber or bluster,
Unashamed, even emboldened.
Here virtue devolves, diminished.
Let discernment never be finished,
Star-maker, master of luster.

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Dennis Daly has published seven books of poetry and poetic translations. He writes reviews regularly for The Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene and on occasion for the Notre Dame Review, Ibbetson Street, Wilderness House, and the Somerville Times. He occasionally reads his poetry at various venues. Please see his blog at dennisfdaly.blogspot.com.

In the time of lockdown

Each morning she kneels on the pavement
beside the cathedral’s locked gate.
Her floral skirt is bright against the concrete.

Sunbirds glint in jacaranda trees. The air
is winter-sharp. There are no passers-by
to observe the thin slant of her shadow,

her grace in solitude, hands clasped,
head bowed, her face hidden
by the floppy contours of her hat.

On the other side of the gate Christ, nailed
to a cross, awaits death and resurrection.
The light is unforgiving. It exposes

cracks in paving stones, hardens
the edges of things, etches
beneath Christ’s wreath of thorns, His pain.

Each morning she is there on the pavement
and Christ is there on His cross.
The gate between them, locked.

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Marian Christie was born in Zimbabwe and has lived in Africa, Europe and the Middle East before settling in her current home in southeast England. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in a number of journals, including Allegro Poetry,Amethyst Review, The Beach Hut, Black Bough Poetry and The Ekphrastic Review, and in the anthologies The Stony Thursday Book 2018 and The Bridges 2020 Poetry Anthology.

When not writing or reading poetry, she looks at the stars, puzzles over the laws of physics, listens to birdsong and crochets gifts for her grandchildren. She blogs at www.marianchristiepoetry.net and can be found on Twitter: https://twitter.com/marian_v_o.

 

Wilderness

Bone white, dead land,
Under the dark corona’d sun,
Where horn-tailed scorpions sand-swim
Between his feet.
The clamouring wind scowls around his head,
Then to a high table he (by his father we say)
Is led into temptation.
There the world laid out before him
Chess-board flat,
Here kings and queens genuflect
Unsteadily from beneath their gowns
But such pieces are neither
Black or white, and in this game
The squares are merely windowless cells
Where doubt squats in the corner.

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Bernard Pearson’s work  appears in many publications, including; Aesthetica Magazine , The Edinburgh Review, Crossways, Patchwork, FourxFour, The Gentian  In 2017 a selection of his poetry ‘In Free Fall’ was published by Leaf by Leaf  Press. In 2019  he won second prize in The Aurora Prize for Writing for his poem Manor Farm