Monthly Archives: December 2022

Sky Square

I eavesdropped on a Frenchman
Over last night’s gnocchi and white wine.
He spoke in English of the museum
Opposite the golden duomo. 

This morning I tiptoed through there, 
Careful not to touch the ancient art;
Fragmented pots pieced together 
The lives of nameless dark figures.
I usually rush past these sections 
Of the Met, Louvre, and National.

I found my own corner, though—
One where God and I can both live.
Upstairs and to the left
Hid a window 2 feet tall and wide.
Alone, I leaned my body out—
For here, private moments are hard to come by.
Since the vases couldn’t make me feel a part
Of a life more grand, I relied on the breeze.

Raven Cullo is a recent college graduate and aspiring writer. Her inspiration stems from her religious upbringing, travels abroad, and intimate relationships. She considers herself to be quite transient, but is primarily based in Illinois.

The Old Men on the Path
 
The old men sat and wagged their beards and shook their heads.
We’ve seen dark days before, they say. Bleak days and cold nights.
And they pass. They may hurt us, passing through, but they pass,
And nine of ten we scarcely notice that the sun has risen.
 
I saw the old men and their wagging beards and mumbling teeth.
I saw their benches stretched across a path, a stony, twisty path
That would take our footsteps out of the valley to the hills beyond
Where the light began to unravel the darkness and the shadows fled.
For all that they have seen, whatever wisdom they had known,
The path they sat on, not one of them has followed.
 
And I could see that old men mumbling into their beards would never
Let an old man pass. They’d shuffle up. Make room and draw him in;
Make him one of them and their stories of old times, bleak times,
Dark times that never end in sun. What comes will come. We never lift a finger.
 
But I might see a child, leading us past; racing us past, leaping past, running
Up to the shadowy brow of the hill to the light that bursts into dawn.
To the light that shatters the cold panes of wisdom.
To the light that scoffs at the fear of shadows
To the child who leads us out of the cold night.
The child who leads us on the path to the sunlight. And I, for one, would follow.

Edward Alport is a retired teacher and proud Essex Boy. He occupies his time as a poet, gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry, stories and articles published in a variety of webzines and magazines and on BBC Radio. He also posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse.

On Christmas Day in the Morning


I saw three planes slowly circling   ablaze 
so every eye could see where they were
a setting of three diamonds   equidistant 
under the parchment dome   early on a Christmas Day 

like slow-moving torches that brightly burn
each waiting its turn   like shimmering gifts of gold
frankincense & myrrh   in a caravan crossing sand
each having come a long way   & so close to arrival 
  
but having not yet arrived   like promises nearing fulfillment   
three planeloads of weary   gift-bearing travellers   eager to return
to loved ones   still asleep beneath snow-covered roofs   
or waiting in the terminal   to welcome them home   

D.S. Martin is Poet-in-Residence at McMaster Divinity College. Angelicus (2021) is now available from Wipf & Stock ― a poetry collection written from the point of view of angels. Visit his blog Kingdom Poets and his website.

Christmas Eve


Midnight Mass is in full voice to welcome in the Day.
A new baby is laid in the crib.

The priest turns, arms outstretched, palms open.
He stands, almost triumphant, 
in his white vestments shimmering with gold thread.
He reminds us of the familiar story
while the forest-scented tree,
tastefully decorated, 
twinkles in the candlelight.

How joyful.

Pulling coats round snug,
hats on, boots zippered,
we stride out for home smiling, laughing,
thankful that the address was to the point
and short.
Calm and warm waits for us.
Our own Christmas tree too,
anchored in piles of presents.

An early hoar frost glitters the edges of
tired winter tussocks.
Pools of coloured light thrown by the stained glass
glow gently
in the Long Night moon.

How pretty.

Angled angels and sloping crosses sit in deep shadows.
Glancing round, I see a pinpoint glow of red,
like a small ‘stop’ light.
Out of place. 
Not part of a pattern.
My eyes accustom to the darkness.
The light glows again.
I trace a burning cigarette back to 
a hollowed face.
A figure is slumped against a tilted gravestone.
His dog is curled up against him.

He greets me.

‘Happy Christmas, love’.

Viv Longley has been writing for her own pleasure since she was a child.  Later in life she undertook an MA in Creative Writing at The Open University, specialising in poetry. As well as having one collection (Tally Sheet, Currock Press, 2021) she is undertaking a number of collaborative publications.  Notably, Daughters of Thyme. She is also preparing a second collection of her own and a number of essays – the latter to be called I am in a Hurry. ‘Now nearing my 80’s, you just never know how much time you have left!’

Caroling on Christmas Eve


We walk the streets where slush and ice
assault our feet, to serenade 
this beautiful busted neighborhood.
We are but bagmen and women 
bearing birth and stars and breath.
Many homes are dark, some people
peek out but don’t open. An elderly 
woman says, “thank you so much”,
and a family of eight steps onto
their porch to sing along.  As we turn
back to the church, dozens, then hundreds 
of crows begin to gather in the bare tree tops.
Their black and raucous bodies against 
the milk gray sky spook us for a second,	
but then we begin to hear their song: 
a summons to all tribes and tongues,
a welcome to the worst and the best 
behaved alike. We see no hierarchy,
no rule but their common life lived 
through wings and their love of bark
and branch. We stop for a moment
on the corner to raise our eyes to 
the bustling sky and to feel their hymn 
pull something deeper from our flesh.
I don’t know how long we will stand here.
Sometimes God serenades with beasts.
Sometimes God is serenaded 
with cold feet keeping silence.
 

Patrick Cabello Hansel is the author of the poetry collections The Devouring Land (Main Street Rag Publishing) and Quitting Time (Atmosphere Press). He has published work in over 80 journals, and won awards from the Loft Literary Center and MN State Arts Board. You can find him at www.artecabellohansel.com

Not An Air Sign


I want to feel light
Like Anemoi’s feet on shoulders
In the neighbor’s swimming pool
Or the sated smile of Plutus
As he unbuttons his oxford shirt.

Find me airborne as a piece of lint
Drifting outside domestic dribble -
Like Andromeda out for dry-cleaning
To never dirty the doorstep again.

I don’t know how to be free
Within this context,
Would I earn respect
Without this desk 
Against my cheek
Against free time?

Forget legacy,
What you mean is 
A friend at a funeral saying
you made her feel lighter?

I was always more fun in the open air.
I’m probably more valuable in a meadow.

But to swear myself to Elysium
Feels like its own form of condemnation.

I want to build a temple to myself
That’s a temple to everyone human.

I pick up a brick
And feel the wind
That makes me wonder
If I’ve gotten it all wrong
And I should be the air
The temple tries to reach.

Sam Ligeti (She/Her) has always known that she’s a writer, but is only just starting to believe it. Connect with her on Instagram: @samligeti, or at www.samligeti.com.

“Israel’s Hands” by Unknown

It was nearing springtime when Ezekiel visited his sister
in the city and brought his sprawling notebooks.
She was almost done with an exhibit-- her living room
on the 15th floor covered with canvas and paint,
the concrete floor splattered and everywhere, everywhere
was God. “Tell it to me again,” she said, and stood in front
of the biggest canvas of them all. Ezekiel turned a page.
“Think of it like this, my-people-who-will-not-listen. 
You are walking, passing by a field. In the ditch to the left
you hear wailing. A baby! Still slippery with blood and warm,
like a calf born in the dirt, kicking and screaming with fear.
You pick it up, wipe away the grime with your jacket--”
The painting is taking shape. She’s feathered the background
softly, green fading into blue, the cool mud of a resting field
clumping at the front. The way her prophet brother tells it,
the baby is afraid, but there! off to the left, a speck of red,
a tiny fist waving above the grass, a hint of a leg kicking
in defiance. “You know, in the moment, everything. How
that child will grow to hate you, curse you, throw your love 
in the dirt. And still you wrap it, and take it with you.”
She flicks her wrist, and there, in the corner:
a pair of hands reaching to meet the bloody fist.

Emma McCoy is a poet and essayist with love for the old stories. She is the assistant editor of Whale Road Review, co-editor of Driftwood, and poetry reader for the Minison Project.  She is the author of In Case I Live Forever (2022), and she has poems published in places like Flat Ink, Paddler Press, and Jupiter Review. Catch her on Twitter: @poetrybyemma

Miraculous


How each new day opens the gate.
               How months and years only echo

their loon-like howl. How they tunnel
               and froth at our feet that decide

always to keep moving forward,
               beyond the maps of the past,

each ping and prod a pressure point
               released for now out the open window

of tomorrow’s potential. Listen,
               I need to tell you how difficult it is

to live in the world, and how lucky
               we are to be a part of its churning. 

Originally from Pennsylvania, Alicia Hoffman now lives, writes, and teaches in Rochester, New York. She is the author of three collections, most recently ANIMAL (Futurecycle Press). Her poems can be found in a variety of publications, including The Atticus Review, The Rise Up Review, The Night Heron Barks, SWWIM, The Penn Review, Typishly, and elsewhere. Find her at: www.aliciamariehoffman.com

Peeling Habas


Habas are hard and they are aloof,
they come about once a year, like miracles, 
or my mother’s second cousins, doubtful 
they will come, annoying when they do.

You must boil them to loosen 
their coarse skin, then move them
to a bowl filled with cold water, 
and so the penitence begins.

You must peel them by holding 
to one end and squeezing softly 
until its inner soul slides elegantly out,
otherwise their sacrifice would be unworthy.

Like most saints, their sweetness
resides under their robes, like John,
Paul, Anthony of Padua or Joan of Arc,
they demand the incandescence of our spirit,

our absolute surrender. We are here
to peel away, the account of our good deeds
inconsequential, heaven counting on all of us
to abide by the peeling of our hardness.

Juan Pablo Mobili was born in Buenos Aires. His poems appeared in The Worcester Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Impspired (UK), and Otoliths (Australia), among many others. His work has received multiple nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His chapbook,  Contraband, was published this year.

Approaching the Last Solstice


we are all Joshuas
knee-deep in the Jordan
our feet stone still
our words frozen trumpets
about to crack the earth
we make the sun stop
simply by singing our song

Katherine was laid to rest
on her anniversary
confirmation
	reformation
		desecration
the bullet from her back
tilts in the examiner’s hand
the prayer for her murderer
lights like a crow
on the white stone tower 

when we love someone
we bundle them in fabric
then wood, then earth
we hear their voices
for a few days, a month
then winter down
for the long silence
now
we must wait
we must kindle
we must sink

Patrick Cabello Hansel is the author of the poetry collections The Devouring Land (Main Street Rag Publishing) and Quitting Time (Atmosphere Press). He has published work in over 80 journals, and won awards from the Loft Literary Center and MN State Arts Board. You can find him at www.artecabellohansel.com