Monthly Archives: March 2022

Reading Peter Levi's Poems 

'I think God is the purpose of reason,
and is most silent when he is most known.
I cannot pretend to enlightenment,
God is a kind of unenlightenment.'
   – Peter Levi, 'Christmas Sermon'
 
It is the very ordinariness
of your vision that appeals,
how you embed the sacred
in the everyday, the holy
in the mundane, claiming
nothing for yourself, letting
the light and your eyes fall
upon what surrounds us,
noting its specificity as
you try to make it new.

  © Rupert M Loydell

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)

Hey There, Samson


I wonder infrequently
why you wear your hair so long

only to tuck it up under
a brim woven from the same straw
Rumpelstiltskin once made use of
to spin, spin into gold for a girl

I wonder if it hides—
your hair, I mean—

the layers of secrets that lie inside
deep inside

I wonder if it hides—
your hat, I mean—

the hair that holds your ego, your
power, that middle ground

between id and superego
that one theory claims reigns
like tragedy, like truth

above all.

Erika B. Girard is currently pursuing her M.A. in English and Creative Writing with a concentration in Poetry through SNHU. Originally from Rhode Island, she derives creative inspiration from her family, friends, and faith. Her work appears or is forthcoming in The Alembic, Sandhill Review, Wild Roof Journal, and more.

Mindfulness

Taste of salt on your fingertip 
delicate tap of your forefinger 

on the crusty contours 
of a crumb of toast 

the mystery of adhesion, 
defying gravity, hand and crumb rise and

you remember close-up 
of a gecko’s green foot pads 

on a pane of clear glass 
and, looking closely, the photographer 

and her camera reflected upside down 
in the gecko’s round bulging eye 

how as a girl you looked sideways 
into the bathroom mirror marveling

that even the far reaches of the room were visible 
& how did Alice climb into that other world? 

& what does my counterpoint grimacing, 
grinning, sticking out her tongue in perfect 

synchrony think of me? which is to say 
how effortless  to fall down a rabbit hole… 

Do not chastise yourself for failure again 
to achieve perfect mindfulness

as, unbidden, a morsel has risen, has arrived—
the taste of cinnamon on your tongue.  

Rita Moe’s poetry has appeared in Water~Stone, Poet Lore, Slipstream, and other literary journals. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks, Sins & Disciplines and Findley Place; A Street, a Ballpark, a Neighborhood.  She has two grown sons and lives with her husband in Roseville, Minnesota.  

First sight of a Brimstone Butterfly, Sign of English Spring
A middle-aged writer remarked: “Each spring-time I remind myself the number of spring-times I shall experience is limited.”
 
A floating petal, a flicker of gold
Tinge on green, glimpsed, corner of the eye
Passing, the colour of wakening spring’s
Pale sunlight stroking leaves to unfold                      
From their split buds, this butterfly —
This Brimstone — this fragile pointing
 
To summer’s approach, this creature which wind
Puffs gently, like casual thistledown,
Like froth from waves, like motes of dust,
Over its universe’s end,
Seems in this moment to have grown
Wind, wave, land, ocean, universe, vast,
 
As our lives, nudged by the coming of spring,          
Shrink butterfly-small, butterfly-frail …
Though we may last a second or two
Longer than Brimstone, will anyone think
Us a green-gold reflection of pale
Sunlight, as we’re glimpsed, passing through?

Leo Aylen was born in KwaZulu, South Africa, was educated in England and has lived in London, New York, LA. He has 5 prizes, about 100 poems in anthologies, 100 broadcast,  9 collections published, the latest The Day The Grass Came, called “a triumph”  by Melvyn Bragg, “Stupendous” by Simon Callow, “An energy which could leave readers gasping” by Martyn Halsall. He usually writes in strict forms.

Yushima Tenjin Shrine in Spring Rain

On the woodcut print by Kasamatsu Shiro



There’s no hurry here,
Only gray doves fat with cold,
Lavender dusk snagged

In empty branches. 
By lamplight, two women have come,
Each alone, to stroll

The rain-silvered walks.
Each, anonymous beneath 
Her wide umbrella,

Holds her secret thoughts
Close to her – or perhaps no
Thoughts at all, only

Something like peace. They
Have not been asked to think, but
Only to exist,

Present and unknown,
Two women in cold spring rain
Before the trees bloom. 

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. 

Kristin in the Light Café



I match my handlebar to your handlebar      our tires	
riot up forsythia    pussy willow    luscious mud 
    sprays our vernal wakes    the lake ice booms    the buds thrum 
so green and full     the insides of things too 

the desire in the boys’ eyes     the intent in the exact cobalts 
and fleeces of their shirts     which are only shirts  	which we know	 
  yet gardens glimmer anyway     you dance with me      you 
thunder with me a storm of leaps of flight on the pier on the lake 

in the everything silver moon glow glittering fish flee to far lilac coves 
owls scold      you laugh me up from gravity breathless
  you     whose brain excised     exquisite     awaits a microscope
catalpa seeds fly now 	  my night helicopter churns the leaden water now

and you meet me at a table in the light café	
you meet me     where crystal fans spin prisms into filigreed mirrors 		
  apricot prosecco fizzes before you     and your arms of peace 
embrace me in the always Just-spring air      
	

Elizabeth Kuelbs writes at the edge of a Los Angeles canyon. Her work appears in Psalms of Cinder & Silt, Poets Reading the News, The Timberline Review and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and is the author of the poetry chapbook Little Victory (2021). 

Lifting the prayers of the earth

Spring has sprung, eagerly 
reaching out to the sun before
enough rain has come. 

Stubs of corn crouch ghostly 
gold and dandelion seeds 
fly like autumn midges. 

A beech-shadowed chalk stream 
chants clear and reflects dancing 
clouds, suffused by the sun.

A broken trunk revives, restored 
as seven, roots bared, steps down 
to water, serving animal thirsts.

Streams spring down banks too steep 
to support weaker trees, their flow 
blending with the water’s song.

Water meadows meander on the other side, 
keeping some balance in these seasons, 
of which we are uncertain what we know. 
    
Kites circle, surveying the scene 
for signs of flaws in the scheme, 
when they will hover and swoop as

crows call from nests at the tops of trees 
closest to the sky… as our human souls 
intertwine, lifting the prayers of the earth.

M. Anne Alexander’s poetry generally explores restorative relationships with Nature, especially in landscapes with spiritual, historical and contemporary significance. Her background is as a lecturer in English and teacher of Music. She began writing poetry as an outcome of counselling. Poems are published regularly in the Bury Free Press and in Poetry Space, including in their recent Locked Down Anthology. Other poems are to appear in the August and September issues of Dreich. She is also author of Thomas Hardy: the “dream-country” of his fiction – a study of the creative process (Vision Press/Barnes & Noble).

Black-capped Chickadee 

Parus atricapillus


its daintiness is deceiving
with looks so frail, and yet

they suffer winter storms 
in these brutal mountains—a banditry

after a blizzard. They speckle
the blinding snow with dee-dee-dee

a song reminiscent of spring 
in the death of frost

maybe that is why I think of her— Emilia
when I see these tiny nearly tame acrobats

foraging in naked branches finding
morsels where I see none

—perhaps


I was late to meet her, her warmth
the way she blanketed 

my shoulders in a hug
how she gave me tidbits for decades lost

in this tiny bird’s industrious energy, I see
her paused steps among the Mexican streets 

she shared with the family she nurtured
as formidable as a chickadee

— my mother

Amelia Díaz Ettinger is a ‘Mexi-Rican,’ born in México but raised in Puerto Rico. As a BIPOC poet and writer, she has two full-length poetry books published; Learning to Love a Western Sky by Airlie Press, and a bilingual poetry book, Speaking at a Time /Hablando a  la Vez by Redbat Press, and a poetry chapbook, Fossils in a Red Flag by Finishing Line Press. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in literary journals and anthologies.

Anticipating life


She's claiming her spot
on the sycamore as I watch
from the window view.

She waits for the winds
to reverse, then circling south
she carries a gathering back with her

red
curled
triangular

She weaves the loose leaves along
with the twigs and the pine needles
with both skill and with artistry, as

She's knitting a nest for the baby birds.

When not writing poetry, Emalisa Rose enjoys crafting and birding. She volunteers in animal rescue, helping to tend to a cat colony in the neighborhood. She lives by a beach town, which provides much of the inspiration for her art. Her latest collection of poetry is “On the whims of the crosscurrents,” published by Red Wolf Editions. 

		Aubade



		The birds are raising happy hell
                - Frederick Eckman



March 1st, 6:00 A.M., a sparrow
starts his racket on the sill
nearby our bed.  No subtlety,
but from the start, insistent, shrill,

a one-man-band that soon will grow
as more and more performers come,
approximating music.  Things
devolve to an unruly scrum

instead of orchestra, each male 
demanding to be soloist
with alternating repertoires --
To rivals, Beat it! Scram! Get lost,

and stay the hell away! To females,
Baby, Baby, Baby, please!
The winner struts upon the ledge
as losers scold from nearby trees.

His song will change when a mate is found
and a nest is filled with eggs to brood,
the noise gaining a treble note
as hungry chicks demand their food.

Their lives will be uncertain, tracked
by wily predators that stalk
their daily errands: feral cats,
the ever-lurking Cooper’s Hawk,

or else torrential rains may sweep
their nest from off the sill, put paid
to fond parental labors, leaving
scattered twigs with nestlings dead.

For now, however, they are safe,
and every morning, earlier on,
we hear their boast, Our tiny lives
have made it to another dawn.

Awakened from a shortened sleep,
as chirps and flutterings begin,
you pull the blanket past your head
to stuff your ears against the din

and groan in protest, Stupid birds!
Give it a rest!  Oblivious,
they sing their matins heartlessly,
indifferent to plea or curse.

And like the birds’, our humble lives
must meet what fate has got in store.
One day, this bed will lie unused;
this home, our place, know us no more.

Across that empty spot will fall
the shadow of a raptor’s wing,
but now the morning light breaks forth.
Wake up, my love.  Arise and sing.

Reagan Upshaw lives in a town on the Hudson River 60 miles north of New York City and makes a living as an art appraiser, while gardening and keeping bees.