God in the Dew, God in the Adieu
Floating like backwards snowflakes
going to their mother cloud, that salt shaker in the sky:
what happens if you lose your saltiness?
Are the holes in God’s hands black holes sucking
all the dead stars and planets into a cataclysmic clap?
Does God always clap on beat?
The angel’s skirt hem gets ruffled
by the entropy from one dimension melting into another—
like an Einstein Rosen Bridge melting into itself.
The angel choir hums its hymn,
it reverberates chilling thrills,
and with dissonance
it echoes and unfolds in spacious arpeggios.
The angels on high
waiting for God in the dew,
oh, God adieu. The Alpha and the Omega,
the beginning and the end, God in the dew,
oh, God adieu.
The grass grows in the meadow,
the trees reach toward the clouds,
the lilies fashion out white petals,
all when time goes forward.
Jennifer Silvey lives in the St. Louis area with her husband, their two cats, and their dog. She studied digital film for her bachelor’s and creative writing for her master’s. Both degrees were earned at Missouri State University in Springfield, MO. Her book Midnight Galleries is slated to be published through LCk Publishing.
There are so many people in the world but today
only the coyote tracks we found by the oxbow
and then the field opened.
When I woke this morning I was glad and I’ll tell you,
the sky is more white than grey. I’m alone with
the woodstove and two days left of a year.
Last night we walked around the field once
in patches of white and brown. The moon was full.
We tucked ourselves against its edges.
I didn’t want to talk, but there was talking.
I speak about my day now as I pull the deer skin over my head.
It’s not enough to tell you. So I’ll have to show you.
Here, put this on. Now run through the woods.
See the way one thing leaks into another?
See how the moon looks when you’re running?
Liane Tyrrel is a poet and painter. For the past few years she has been writing poems about a haunted childhood home, memory and disappearance, animals both living and dead, and the woods and fields in New Hampshire where she lives. https://www.lianetyrrel.com/
Here we begin to name:
branches and rushes, precious metals, animal flesh
feeding troughs, flinty stone
blue of ground up sapphires, yellowed letters, oxen
prismatic-celled honeycomb in rocky crags,
ruined cities, rocked
by previous generations,
jackals, estuary and stream
then counting begins:
lines on our palms,
age spots forming constellations
nebula reflecting nearby stars
scales like D-minor and
the number of arias running wild
at the crowning
is our contractile hearts
set within lessons cradled by metaphor,
the covenant of the numinous
where our timbres of vocal folds
fan out in the great blossoming
along with glad curiosity and
where our original frail sails
(in the dance of water and keel)
are now winnowed,
shook out and
Liz Nakazawa is the editor of Deer Drink the Moon: Poems of Oregon (Ooligan Press), a collection of nature poems by 33 Oregon poets. It was designated one of the Best 100 Books about Oregon in the last 100 Years by the Oregon State Librarian. It was also a Best Picks of Powell’s. She also edited The Knotted Bond: Oregon Poets Speak of Their Sisters (Uttered Chaos Press). Her own poems have appeared in Turn, The Timberline Review and The Poeming Pigeon journals and haiku has appeared in ahundredgourds. She has published a chapbook of her poems, entitled Painting the Heart Open.
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)
Wherein the Trail Runner has 1000 Words for the Wind
Dick Westheimer has – in the company of his wife Debbie – lived, gardened and raised five children on their plot of land in rural southwest Ohio. He has taken up with poets and the writing of poetry to make sense of the world. He is a finalist for 2021 Rattle Poetry Prize. His poems have previously appeared in Rattle, Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel, Rise Up Review, and Sheila Na-Gig.
What The Monk Said
Stop going hungry
and plant the quiet of midnight
It will root in soft ground and spread
like melted wax into darkness
Listen for the call of the animals whose home
this is - the owl the bat
the night flying moth
They are leaves on the growing stem
(The scent of jasmine will smother
your garden walls
Let it crumble them)
Watch for the moonflower
Its pale petals open only
for the stars that drip milk onto the earth
like water and you will know
when it has drunk its fill
The night will be full
of a language no one has words for
not even you
The sky is your mirror now
See which of your faces looks back
and welcome it
This is your first fruit
Elodie Barnes is a writer and editor. Her work has been recently published / is forthcoming in Gone Lawn, Lunate, Wild Roof Journal, and Past Ten, and she is Books & Creative Writing Editor at Lucy Writers Platform. When not travelling, she lives on the edge of a wood in northern England and complains incessantly about the weather.
Vergine madre, figlia del tuo figlio. Dante
Mother of cracked stone.
Infant in robed arms. Haloes
gold wreathed with rosebuds.
A child’s feet bare, his
taupe hand on her silent heart.
Jesus and Mary.
Thy will be done, my child whom
I love forever.
Open wide eyes of
sorrow. O, mother mourner,
I no longer know.
Moná Ó Loideáin Rochelle’s poetry can be found or is forthcoming in The Southern Review, Spiritus, Notre Dame Review, Southword, and Wales Haiku Journal. She volunteers for Médecins Sans Frontières. Visit: https://www.linkedin.com/in/monatheresalydon/
Triptych for CosmicMusic
A garden Temple, vegetation green--
photosynthesis and fruits meant to feed.
Yet we disdained divine call, and ate greed,
scorning the One who teaches how to sing.
We didn’t know how to make music, tunes
like meager porridge dribbled from our tongues.
We starved on our decorum, weakened lungs
no longer billowed once resounding rooms.
God scattered us, nutrition to be reaped
in silence. An invitation to hear
sacred heartbeats, and feed ourselves afresh.
But first we must cough up all that still creeps
inside—the toxins, constraining pride, fear.
We’ll have to face what we’ve tried to suppress.
Have we heard scars release their ancient moans?
From the bottom of the canyon, keening
that bounces off sheer escarpment, meaning
a belly is waking, finally known?
Kinetic energy is freed to gush
throughout a universe anemic—weak
muscles then receive ointment from the shriek.
Symphonies need the sound of salve jars crushed.
One Day Soon
Franciscan monastery replicates
Italian, Near Eastern pilgrimage sites.
In the Portiuncula, a widow’s mite
in aria: a humble voice creates
healing waves. I stand outside to receive.
Inspired, I head to the catacomb
of Christ. I enter its resonant home.
With a song from youth, I worship and grieve.
Amniotic sac pulsing, heart that beats,
bidding us babies to grow tongues, grow ears--
one day soon: lullabies around the crèche.
Melanie Weldon-Soiset’s poetry has appeared in Geez, Vita Poetica, and Bearings Online. A 2021 New York Encounter poetry contest finalist, Melanie is a contemplative prayer leader, #ChurchToo spiritual abuse survivor, and former pastor for foreigners in Shanghai. Feel free to sign up for her poetry and prayer newsletter at melanieweldonsoiset.com.
The Sacred Dance
The midnight train through the echo tunnel
windows streaked with the monsoon rain
the girl’s braids flap against the pane,
two curious eyes sparkle
The darkness is lit by the dappled light
On and off, off and on, so on and so on
The tunnel is done, but the light goes on
The girl with the sparkle in her eyes
Sleep lost to her. Sound of her mother’s
Call is drowned out by the chuk-chuk --
The rhythm of the wheels on the metal tracks
The mystery of the light, the spellbound girl
An occasional red lantern in the rain
And the twinkling, sparkling dots of light
Shifting shape in the dark, a spectacular show
Just for the young girls with the wonder
Still left in their eyes, the spectral, sacred
Dance of the love among the glowworms
PratibhaKelapure is an Indian-American poet residing in California. Her poems appear in Choice Words: Writers on Abortion (Anthology, Haymarket Books, 2020), Entropy Magazine, Plath Poetry Project, miller’s pond poetry, The Lake, and many other literary magazines.
Glittering SeaAfter the woodcut print by Yoshida Hiroshi
Print gleam, like the sea
Holding light, the sun’s spillway.
On scratches of swell,
It shines. Here a man might walk,
A dove fall, a voice
Cry in tongues of light,
This, this. Print the same story
Without naming names.
In all things, gesture
To light, as boats, foregrounded,
Trim their sails and turn
To follow the gray
Fleet nearing the brilliant seam
Where the sky begins.
Sally Thomas is the author of a poetry collection, Motherland (Able Muse Press 2020), and a forthcoming novel, Works of Mercy (Wiseblood Books 2022). Her work has appeared recently in Autumn Sky Poetry Review, Dappled Things, North American Anglican, Plough Quarterly, and Trinity House Review.