David Banach teaches philosophy in New Hampshire, where he tends chickens, keeps bees, and looks for lessons in the sky. He has published poems most recently in Flora Fiction, Right Hand Pointing, the Liminal Review, Prometheus Dreaming, and the Poet’s Touchstone. He also does the Poetrycast podcast for Passengers Journal.
Monthly Archives: February 2023
Old Fish Crow – a poem by Barbara Tyler
Old Fish Crow Walking into church we hear the raspy caw of a Fish Crow, his guttural uh oh alerts us to something we do not know. During the service I count four trains, the tracks only two hundred yards away, as the Fish Crow flies. In our traditional service I no longer hear children, no babies to interject during hymns, sermon, or prayers. In Sunday school the same bald man who links Bible stories to lost liberties, interjects twice today, never realizing he preaches to a choir of tired, old, white men. I note Isaac translates he laughs, while Ishmael means God hears, and my husband tells me later he didn’t realize concubines were an acceptable practice in Biblical times. Please old Fish Crow, please tell me something I want to know.
Barbara Tyler is a visual artist currently trying her hand at poetry. She uses words for the same reason as visual media—to express emotional reactions to aging, relationships, and faith as well as history, culture, and nature. Her art and writing can be sampled at btylerfineart.com.
A City Church – a poem by Helen Jones
A City Church Here you may bathe in silence, The thud of traffic on the road wiped out By eternity. Here stones breathe out The softened breath of centuries. Here men have worked, Patiently coaxing worlds from wood and stone To make creation new. Here, each strike of chisel, chip of wood, Has fed a quest for the divine. Here the vaults oar towards a distant heaven, Carvings unseen are carefully teased out, Made perfect, not for sight of men, But for the eye of God. Rough craftsmen, hardened by a bitter world Brought life from stone, Pictures of those in power, long despised, Making their noses long, their chins too big. Carpenters made the dark wood bloom To fill an aching void. Here monkeys and grotesques, Pigs running, pipes blaring, Angels, lute-playing, wives beating, Elephants trumpeting, lions roaring, Ploughmen who turn the sodden land And women gleaning after harvest. Here velvet rose flowers and the lily blooms, Vines twist abundant, gentle Mary smiles, Green men are peeping from the tangled woods To watch good souls go climbing up to heaven. Here pig and rose, the pipes and lilies, Today and yesterday, what is to come, All sing as one, creator’s bounty Under an arc of grace.
Helen Jones gained a degree in English, many years ago from University College London and later an M.Ed. from the University of Liverpool. She is now happily retired and spends a lot of her time writing and making a new garden.
Springtime Meditation – a poem by Joseph Kleponis
Springtime Meditation On this spring afternoon, There’s a wind from the northeast. That in its dampness Almost carries the scent of the sea. And the just-budding apple trees Stretch crooked limbs upward, Asking for the heaven’s warmth – Or are those outstretched limbs Admonitory; pointing to the sky To remind us that the heavens Which reach the earth And fill us with life, As in the nascent buds On those nearly barren branches, Might just as easily Rain down ice Or unmerciful sun?
Joseph Kleponis lives north of Boston, Massachusetts. His poetry has been appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, Eucalypt, First Literary Review -East, Penmen Review of Southern New Hampshire University, Muddy River Poetry Review, and Wilderness House Literary Review. Truth’s Truth, his first book, was released in 2021 by Kelsay Books.
Kinnikinnick – a poem by Sylvia Byrne Pollack
Kinnikinnick The low shrub you know as bearberry also bears the castanet name kinnikinnick scientific moniker of Arctostaphylos uva-ursi Beloved by bears and hummingbirds it thrives in bright sun and poor soil makes the best of things Do not be confused by the fact it has different names. Don’t you? Don’t you have multiple ways of being in the world depending on the day the year who you’re with and where? In the mishmash of thoughts experiences hopes regrets – all the stuff of “being human” we live not one life but many have multiple transformations like instars of a Cecropia changing shape colors crawling spinning finally flying We morph and what the world sees looks different But how altered is what lies within? Some will say I’ve always been this way but others of us know we’ve been reworked fibers unwound restrung to play a different tune rough edges painfully ground down glowing now with rich patina Our facets cracks and divots are unique have their own inimitable splendor kinnikinnick’s small pink vase-shaped summer flowers autumn’s scarlet berries
Sylvia Byrne Pollack’s poems appear in Floating Bridge Review, Crab Creek Review, The Stillwater Review and many others. She is a two-time Pushcart nominee, 2013 Mason’s Road Literary Awardee, 2019 Jack Straw Writer, 2021 Mineral School Resident. Her debut collection is Risking It (Red Mountain Press 2021.) www.sylviabyrnepollack.com
Gnosis – a poem by Erin Olson
Gnosis Let the ocean enter you, let the rush of saline silence fill the dark cavern cluttered with detritus, with your collection of broken thoughts, obsessions and addictions piled like idols. Awash, submerged, and sunken - observe their frailty. Waters deeper than you knew settle into glassy reflection. All open, receiving, all palms thankful, ears fanned like conch shells. This mirror birthed in briny wash and reverence - gaze there to see the mystery.
Erin Olson is a licensed professional counselor living in southeastern Wisconsin. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Neologism Poetry Journal, Last Leaves Magazine, and Sky Island Journal.
Jacob’s Angel – a poem by James Green
Jacob’s Angel And he said, Let me go, for the day breaketh. And he said, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me. Genesis 32:26 (KJV) The herder Jacob, gripped by guilt and fear, has wrestled with a stranger all the night when in the borderlands of dawn he hears his foe entreat to end the fight. I will not let you go, the herder cries, unless you bless me! Then awakening from sweat-soaked sleep he rubs his aching thigh and hears an echo from the fading dream: From now you shall be known as Israel! And as he limps into the breaking day, while meditating on this nameless angel’s benediction, Jacob asks if he had just contended with his God or if the mystery angel might have been himself.
James Green is a retired university professor and administrator. He has published five chapbooks of poetry and individual poems have appeared in literary journals in Ireland, the UK, and the USA. His collection, Stations of the Cross, was nominated for the MLA’s Conference on Christianity and Literature Book of the Year. His website can be found at http://www.jamesgreenpoetry.net.
Illuminated Manuscript – a poem by Marion Evalee
Illuminated Manuscript I am the flourish, Not the trumpet, Yet I am at least Ornamental, If not instrumental, To the prophecy— Come to think of it, I am in the same Position as God the Father, always Sky, not the sun, neither The accumulating Nor dispersing clouds. But I am a handful Of colors (available to men In the medieval period), the Revelation Incomplete without The whole sum Of foreground, middle ground, And back, animate And invisible musics, And the spirit of It, Coursing through it all.
Marion Evalee (they/she), formerly Justin Burnett, has appeared in Montage, Survivor Lit, The Boston Compass, Neologism, and Willows Wept Review. A selection of their poetry was featured in the anthology 14 International Younger Poets, edited by Philip Nikolayev.
God is Spirit is Wisdom – a poem by Elder Gideon
God is Spirt is Wisdom
Elder Gideon is the author of two poetry collections Gnostic Triptych and Aegis of Waves (Atmosphere Press) and co-author with Tau Malachi of Gnosis of Guadalupe (EPS Press, 2017). His poems and sculptures have appeared in dozens of journals.
Siddhattha Rewrites “O Store Gud”- a poem by Renwick Berchild
Siddhattha Rewrites “O Store Gud” Let us not worship sadness for the aim of great art; I say, let us worship art, for the sake of great sadness. Bow your head and pray, without the content of your words. Pray with your knees, pray with your slumped shoulders, pray with your chin set, in the basket of your clavicle. A buddha might sit in a blade of grass, in a bowl of water, along a fly’s hum, on a weathered stone but no buddha has ever nor will ever be housed in your form. There is no enlightenment for you, for are you not unsure? We may yearn for what we’ve forgotten. Never was there safety or simplicity within the womb you might long for. How many ways you could have died, how many sufferings you did endure. My god is the God of General Sadness. No god requires you to believe, for holy places be dark places. No gospel was ever meant to be written down, spoken aloud, agonized over, kept, cradled dearly. So draw the face of your god. Paint the trappings of the next, the nothing, the end, the beginning you have never known. You have been given no soul that is whole. Rather, you are building it. I say, you must labor, you must pain over it. When you ascend, or sink, or dissolve, or join, will you be a being? Will you be whole? När brister själen (When the soul breaks) ut i lofsångsljud, (and the hymns sound,) let us be as great art. Let us in finality be hung on the walls. Ourselves, at last, surrendering.
Renwick Berchild is half literary critic, half poet. She is lead editor of Green Lion Journal and writes at Nothing in Particular Book Review. Her poems have appeared in Porridge Magazine, AIOTB, Headline Press, Whimperbang, Free Verse Revolution, Vita Brevis, Streetcake, and other e-zines, anthologies, and journals. She was born and raised on the angry shores of Lake Superior, and now lives in a micro-apartment in Seattle, WA. Find more of her work at www.renwickberchild.com