Monthly Archives: October 2023

Samhuinn

I imagine in the fire’s flames
those sepia or line drawn faces
distorted by time, anamorphic,
called from forgotten places

to whisper through the hot smoke
and tousle our soot-flecked hair
to remind us of our inheritance
in faint voices lingering there.

The great tribe gathers to celebrate
some long forgotten rite:
the saining of the precious hearth,
an offering to the night,

or the mumming and the guising,
parading the scapegoat’s head,
praying to sacred ancestors
and conversing with the dead.

But these are more enlightened times:
and the worship of ancient bones
is marked with Coke and hot dogs
and messaging on phones

and a smug new generation
who know what they are worth
and children sucking plastic pap
who sacrifice the earth.

Yet the embers of tradition
still lie within the ashes:
we still have time to say a prayer
before the whole world crashes,

before our fire is starved of life
and in that dying light
we are drawn towards the darkness
and everlasting night. 

We sleep again, and hope to wake 
and find the nightmare’s gone,
and once again we have a world
to build our dreams upon -

but that depends on being a tribe
relying on each other,
who live content with what they have
and respect the earth, their mother.

Jeff Gallagher’s poems feature in Rialto, Acumen, The High Window and The Journal among others. He has had numerous plays published and performed nationwide. He was the winner of the Carr Webber Prize 2021. For many years he taught English and Latin. He also appeared (briefly) in an Oscar-winning movie.

My Ghosts

 
Could my own rosaries, en route to heaven,
so consecrate the chair I used to pray?
Would my own solecisms lighten, leaven
the speech of children continents away?

Will I so overshadow part
of time and space, a corner of a heart,
almost to walk where I am wanted?
Almost to haunt as I am haunted?

Maggie Palmer has recently graduated from the University of Dallas with a B.A. in English and Classical Philology and currently lives with her family in Fort Cavazos, Texas. Her work has appeared in such magazines as Blue Unicorn, The Lyric, Grand Little Things, and Mezzo Cammin.

So Much Evidence

	All the way to heaven is heaven ~ St Catherine of Siena

Let’s say Catherine was right – 
just for today, let’s try believing it,
all the way heaven.  Let’s set aside 
all those negative vibes, put our energies
into living simply, planting trees and
milkweed, feeding watching listening

to birds – living in harmony will all
our nonhuman kin.  All the way 
just might be heaven IF we could 
manage that tectonic shift –
could become neutral as nature,
taking it all in stride – death 

and grief – accept that our time 
on Earth will be brief yet all 
the way heaven IF we could learn
to fly hawk-like in ever-widening
circles, and be part mild part wild.
But you scoff and say,

	Look at all the horror and terror
	along the way.
I say yes, it’s true, but note who
is to blame, and let the flame of 
the beauty of things (nature) light
your way – all the way heaven.

Seas and mountains,
eagles and gulls,
rainforests and Earth’s three poles.
Behold the beauty, the intrinsic
glory – is it not heavenly?
So much evidence, let us 

just for today be convinced 
Catherine was right. And IF
(when) the owl calls out tonight,
accept her as gift, and lift 
up your arms to embrace 
heaven in this very time and place.

Diana Woodcock is the author of seven chapbooks and five poetry collections, most recently Holy Sparks (2020 Paraclete Press Poetry Award finalist) and Facing Aridity (2020 Prism Prize for Climate Literature finalist). A three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and a Best of the Net nominee, she is the recipient of the 2022 Codhill Press Pauline Uchmanowicz Poetry Award (for her sixth full-length manuscript, Heaven Underfoot), the 2011 Vernice Quebodeaux Pathways Poetry Prize for Women (for her debut collection, Swaying on the Elephant’s Shoulders), and the 2007 Creekwalker Poetry Prize. Currently teaching at VCUarts Qatar, she holds a PhD in Creative Writing from Lancaster University, where she researched poetry’s role in the search for an environmental ethic.

Give Me

Give me a cool October morning
meant for long pants and a sweatshirt…

Give me a yard full of October leaves…

Give me the steady sound
of the leaf rake, the spring rake,
the small-headed rake for those
narrow spaces between stone and shrub…

Give me the time to rake those leaves
into a funeral pyre of the fallen…

Give me a wooden match to strike
and light this pyre into the incense of autumn…

Give me the wisdom to know
whether I’m burning summer
or welcoming winter…

Give me the leisure to look up
and feel the final shade of unfallen leaves…

Give me the mindfulness to thank them
for their arrival,  their being,
how they would bejewel themselves
with caught rain, and their leaving…

Give me the patience not to begrudge
their leaving, not to sigh when they
inevitably let go to remind me to do the same…

Give me that sensation of warm sweat
that beckons me to doff the sweatshirt
and remember summer…

And when winter comes…

Give me a woolen cap, warm gloves,
dry boots, and strong back to shovel…

Give me, too, a neighbor with a snowblower…

Give me another neighbor
who will ask into the blizzard
if anyone wants a just baked brownie…

Give me later a mug of cocoa or coffee
or tea or perhaps a glass of Jameson…

Give me a comfortable chair,
my feet on the ottoman by the fire…

Give me the crackle of that fire
while I sit and stare and think…

Give me a good book by that fire,
let me gather its words and turn its leaves slowly…

Give me the wind to buffet the shudders,
sculpt the snow, and move my eyes
from the word to the shadow…

Give me the solitude of darkness…

Give me the courage to hope
into that darkness and dream of leaves…

I will not, Mr. Thomas, rage against the dying of the light –
not yet – not during this solstice season
of cold and night, not during these days of slanting sun
and branches remembering the life to come.

John Hopkins has been an English teacher for forty-two years. He was the New England Association of Teachers of English (NEATE) poet of the year in 2008. John’s poetry has appeared in Commonweal, Saint Anthony Messenger, The National Catholic Reporter, The  Leaflet, Sr. Melannie Svoboda’s blog, “Sunflower Seeds,” and Father Timothy Joyce’s book Celtic Quest. For the past six years, John has been a Benedictine Oblate affiliated with Glastonbury Abbey in Hingham, Massachusetts. He loves to read, write letters, tramp the Blue Hills, and play pickleball with Kerry, his amazing wife, and mother of their wonderful children: Kate, Danny, and Brian. In February of 2021, John’s first book of poems, Celtic Nan, was published, and in February of 2023, his second book, Make My Heart a Pomegranate was published. You can reach John at brotherjohnnyhop@gmail.com.

Sonnet for the Self

Before I can welcome you, I must know 
what made you, my person, so despise me.

Remember, we were born perfect, with skin
like warm wax, a tongue that knew its own mouth,

and you rejoiced in our union before 
language and shame converged. Then like a young

octopus you jutted off to seek a 
safer disguise while I waited for you.

Please understand, we cannot be strangers; 
I am you and you are me, no matter 

how badly you wish it were otherwise.
The peace you seek is here inside this skin,

so before it’s too late, come home where you 
belong, where everything you need awaits.

Lynn Glicklich Cohen has been published in Amelia, Brushfire Literature 
and Arts Journal, Cantos, El Portal, Oberon Poetry Magazine, Peregrine, 
The Phoenix, SLAB, Spotlong Review, St. Katherine’s Review, Swamp Ape 
Review, Thin Air Magazine, and Trampoline. Her novel, A Terrible Case of 
Beauty, was published by Trebol Press in 2013.

Sunglow

I am slowly layering
A tamer tan line.
Gone are the days
When I’d burn in an instant.
I time the exposure,
The tilt of the sun
From its rim in the season,
Protection at its wildest,

Freedom at its turn to
A point less bright.
These days I seek
Encouragement in quiet,
In the breeze, the woods
And waters whispering
The sweetness of your name.
I am not ashamed

Of the white curves
Of my body where the suit
And clothing lies, underneath
The covering from brazen 
Striking rays. I look in 
The mirror and pink brushes
Cheek and shoulder, even 
Tawny the tops of my feet.

I do not look away. I am all
These hues of glory,
Alabaster to the gold.
On the pool deck I lay open
Arms and knees to greet
The sky like my warm mother,
The shade a shield, my father,
Alive with glowing light.

Lauren H. White teaches, writes and gives her daughter piggy-back rides in Chattanooga, Tennessee. She has been published in the The Mighty, Fathom magazine, The Fallow House, and ELLA library’s Reflections on Generosity and Thanks. You can connect with her on Instagram @healbipolarandbeyond and at laurenhwhite.com.

The Moon and I

Sometimes in the darkest nights I go out of the house and sit silently in front of a sea I can barely see. The black spaces enhance the stars’ light which reflect on the surf turning it into an aquatic Via Láctea, a Camino de Santiago rocking softly with salty constellations. The moon yearns to show up, but it’s not her time of the month, and she has to content with spying on earth, so close and so out of reach. I understand how the separation from this beauty makes her feel lonely, though, we both prefer it this way just in case God decides to speak to us in the stillness.

we listen
the new moon and I 
for God’s voice  

Alicia Viguer-Espert was born and raised in Mediterranean Spain. She combines old and new traditions to elicit hope in her poetry. Her work has been published national and internationally. Winner of the San Gabriel Valley Poetry Contest with “Holding a Hummingbird,” her second chapbook “Out of the Blue Womb of the Sea,” was published by Four Feathers Press.  She’s a twice Pushcart nominee.  

The Oak Sapling

	
Released today
	from treatment 
		I buy a muffin
	
at Bay Bread Bakery
	At home 
		I peel the ribbed cup
	
with a fork 
	and take a small bite
		of carrot, raisin, and walnut  
		
with cream cheese frosting 
		
I pour coffee 
	into my blue mug
		then spoon out enough 

to carry 
	down the hall 
		without spilling
	 
Out my window leaves turn copper 
	in sunlight—I can’t tell 
		if they’re applauding or trembling 

   

William Palmer’s poetry has appeared recently in JAMA, J Journal, One Art, On the Seawall, Talking River Review, and The Westchester Review. He lives in Traverse City, Michigan.   

Exodus II (Moses) 

Moses was the first word-of-mouth social and viral sensation. In part because he was the anointed father of the listicle. Everyone talked about his “how to” tablets: “Ten ways to live your best moral and ethical life!” But nobody understood better than Moses how hard it was to attract and then keep followers from falling away, even without a wonky algorithm.

Job 

Survey after survey suggests that most people haven’t read the Bible in its entirety – even among those who claim to read their Bible. A little-known fact is that most people who claim to read the Bible don’t read the Book of Job as it sounds too much like work. It gets me thinking about those sassy girls in Sunday School with their iPhones. And I think maybe Job on TikTok is the answer. People love watching the misery of others. Maybe it becomes an evangelizing strategy that attracts all of the out-of-work persons to JobTok to hear the Good News, which is really filled with a whole lot of bad news for Job. Sure, it’ll be a leap, but look at where we are. 

Thad DeVassie is a writer and artist/painter who creates from the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. He is the author of Splendid Irrationalities, which was awarded the James Tate Poetry Prize in 2020 (SurVision Books), and Year of Static (Ghost City Press, 2021), a micro-chap containing 11 original paintings and micro prose that evolved into the art exhibition, LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR. Find more of his written and painted works at www.thaddevassie.com. 

Arrangements

 
I practice ikebana, clumsy 
and shy as I pour over
a foxed copy of the Saga School style 
gifted to me by my friend, 
along with her grandmother’s bowl.
 
Afterwards, there are always
wilting blossoms, leaves and half-stems  
left behind, sliced to fit  
mori-bana (piled-up flower) 
or hei-ka (bottle-flower). 
 
The scissors’ rough edge
that I keep forgetting to sharpen, 
the drops of water beading  
on the waxed table
and this remnant greenery 
become as much offering  
as the arrangement. 
 
How easy to look at this 
and forget what it took
to grow into a flower, 
however briefly blooming. 

Faith Allington is a writer, gardener and lover of mystery parties who resides in Seattle. Her work is forthcoming or has previously appeared in various literary journals, including Bowery Gothic, FERAL, Cosmic Daffodil, Gold Man Review and Crab Creek Review.