October 2025 – Page 3 – Amethyst Review

The Sand Mandala – a poem by Jacob Friesenhahn

The Sand Mandala

We are the center
                                       and the surrounding.
We look out at eyes
                                       looking back at us.
If we find the center,
                                       casting out her radius,
like a magic wand,
                                       we can trace the shape.
Gods and demons
                                       dance together.
Eyes look at us
                                       looking back at them.
In the hub
                                       of the spinning wheel,
lies one eye,
                                       blinking slowly.
Demons and gods
                                       seek one pleasure.
The void inside
                                       the vortex is full of space.
In the hub
                                       of the spinning wheel,
lies one eye,
                                       closed and open.
The swirling abyss 
                                       draws us within.
The void inside
                                       the vortex yawns with life.
We are born
                                       inside a palace
inside a palace.
                                       Always at rest,
the abyss draws us
                                       into our origin.
White and black,
                                       blue and red,
yellow and green
                                       are swept together
into the gray
                                       of distance.
Briefly we dwell
                                       within a palace
within a palace.
                                       We chant mantras
while we are carried
                                       to the river.
Purity and death,
                                       healing and desire,
humility and harmony
                                       are swept together
into the gray
                                       of silence.
As we enter the center,
                                       casting out her radius,
like an invisible wand,
                                       we follow the path
of the eternal way.
                                       We chant mantras
as we are poured
                                       into the water.
We are the surrounding
                                       and the center.

Jacob Friesenhahn teaches Religious Studies and Philosophy at Our Lady of the Lake University in San Antonio. His first book of poems is The Prayer of the Mantis from Kelsay Books.

Amethyst Review – Free Online Writing Hour on Thursdays

Please join me (Editor Sarah) for a free writing hour via Zoom on Thursdays (6-7pm UK time). Work on your own project in companionable quiet, with optional chat at the end. Starts this coming Thursday October 16th. More details and book a place at Amethyst Review’s Eventbrite Page. Sign up and drop in week by week.

Editor Sarah has thought about offering these for a while, mainly because she so enjoyed the online gatherings for the launches of the All Shall Be Well and Thin Places & Sacred Spaces anthologies! They will be weekly on Thursdays until December 18th, resuming in 2026, and always free.

(For those interested, I am also offering a weekly online Amethyst Review Workshop with literary extracts, discussions and writing prompts at a small charge – these will be on Tuesdays, starting October 21st. More details to come, and for a forthcoming online retreat with the Friends of Julian of Norwich!)

Madonna Lactans – a poem by Sonya Wohletz

Madonna Lactans



After a painting by Mateo Pérez de Alesio, 1590
Oil on wood panel
33 x 44 cm
Fundación Pedro y Angélica de Osma
Lima, Perú

1.
The woman’s hooded eyes 
slope downward from within
a dark context—a whisper of gauze
veils the clarity of her vision.

She coils her attention around the infant form.
He, unperturbed, meets our gaze and 
reaches confidently for the breast.

2.
I drift in warm pools of parallax.
The baby, there, beside me peaceful
and solid like an oak panel. My mind
wraps itself in black silk, 
the voices, receded—
as if to seek their sustenance elsewhere.

3.
The woman in the picture exposes her left breast,
its flesh still micaceous and smooth,
and strings the nipple like an arrow in its bow.

The child lays his hands on her as upon
a bowl of raw clay
shaping its supple essence
to the curving form of his palms.

4.
When I used the pump to try to increase
my supply, I often suffered.
I needed the warm water from the shower
and urgent massages to loosen the frequent clogs.
I worked and squeezed through the burning pain
until I could see the bulging duct—the culprit,
like an enemy erupting from deep within
my chest. I thought I needed strawshard
to pierce the disturbance.
But then I would summon the latch
and burst flesh between my fingers
into a thin stream of relief,
draining two days’ worth of trapped milk,
a wing blooming in the wrong direction.

5. 
The painter prepares the surface first, planing,
sanding, burnishing. And then layers the thin
skins of gesso—the sticky essence of the earth—
marble dust, water, and hide glue. After it dries, he
conjures form: a young mother and her infant son. 

They bloom in rosy gradients of azuritas, cal viva,
bermellones, oropimente, albayalde, and cochinilla. 

Then he clothes the pigments
with the textures of time. 

6.
These are the intimacies
of art, that they may pollinate 
your good health.

7.
Once the conditions were met,
the iconography secured,
the earth mined open,
I held your raw church like a jaw
and her myth boiled through me
becoming meadow, a blue basin of stone,
a ripe cloud approaching
to quench the depths of your system.

Sonya Wohletz is a writer whose work brings together image, history, and landscapes. Her work has appeared in Latin American Literary Review, Revolute, Roanoke Review, and others. Her first collection of poetry, One Row After/Bir Sira Sonra, was published by First Matter Press in 2022. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee.

Impressions – a poem by Ben Blyth


Impressions

At the west end, the limestone bluff is worn 
with worship, a millennium of feet 
drawn together towards towers ever 
collapsing and rebuilt from fire and flood 
and lightning strike. 

               Desire paths trace the snow 
mechanical erosion of our feet, 
reminders that they did not build this place 
for the likes of us. 
	
               Inside, the Deans’ Eye bathes 
us pallid blue and grey. The glass is old,
Medieval so they say

               It reminds me
Of Wanuskewin, close to Saskatoon,
Not the Visitors Centre, that can wait, 
The Buffalo Stone—

               Look towards the east, 
And you won’t touch the earth again until
You get to Russia. 

               —Worn down with pleasure 
of ten thousand itches scratched, now silent on 
the Bald Ass Prairie. Fuzzymandias. 

When it reaches a certain age the glass 
Begins to sink. Clamped in a cage to stall
Its slow descent.

	“Don’t get too comfortable
All of your stuff must fit a banker’s box”

Past the bones of St Hugh (what’s left of him) 
You’d be hard-pressed to miss the Imp. Standing
petrified on the north side of the choir.

The snow crusts hard here, so that one alone
Can never make much of an impression. 
But each time April (with his showers sweet)
Melts the ice, turning desire trails to mud
The northern prarie bears a medicine wheel.

Yet still the Imp remains. Forever set in stone 
and frozen by his choice. Now singled out
with a new a spotlight

                              —For the tourists.

Ben Blyth writes from Treaty 7 Territory, where he works as an Adjunct Assistant Professor of English. He earned his Ph.D. at the University of Calgary in 2024. His poetry explores the sublime/mundane, pastoral/urban, tenderness/ brutality, and present/past; with a keen sense of form and an eye for striking imagery. Blyth’s work plays with nationality. liminality, and uncertainty in a fresh and poignant way.

In a Darkening Sky – a poem by Jacqueline Jules

In a Darkening Sky

The sun peeks through
a gray wool sky
like a shutter 
opening in a camera.

There’s a sense of something
bright behind the cloud cover,
something worth standing
in place until my breath returns.

Swallowed beneath, 
all I want is the chance 
to keep staring at the light 
pouring through a single hole 
in a darkening sky.

Jacqueline Jules is the author of Manna in the Morning (Kelsay Books, 2021), Itzhak Perlman’s Broken String, winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from Evening Street Press, and Smoke at the Pentagon: Poems to Remember (Bushel & Peck, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in over 100 publications. Visit her online at http://www.jacquelinejules.com.

The Catholic-born Buddhist Recounts Visiting Angkor Wat – a poem by Lynne Kemen

The Catholic-born Buddhist Recounts Visiting Angkor Wat 

Exhausted from the long flight, we rise early. We sigh 
when we finally see the abbey. Time has stopped, 
leaving us frozen in a pocket. 

The monks go about their business. They don’t
pay attention to the tourists–even the faithful.

We each struggle in this finely-made net. This morning, 
an egg-white omelet. No begging bowl for me. 
The paper cut from my last day before leaving New York
City throbs in time with my pulse. 

I traded the God of my youth 
for Buddha, and yet believe
I should cross myself
in this sacred space.

Lynne Kemen’s full-length book of poetry, Shoes for Lucy, was published by SCE Press in 2023. Woodland Arts Editions published her chapbook, More Than a Handful, in 2020. Her work is anthologized in The Memory Palace: an ekphrastic anthology (Ekphrastic Editions, 2024), Seeing Things and Seeing Things 2 (Woodland Arts, 2020 and 2024). Lynne is President of the Board of Bright Hill Press and has served on many other not-for-profit boards. She is an Editor and Interviewer for Blue Mountain Review. She is a nominee for a Pushcart Prize (2024).

Umbrellas – a poem by Mark James Trisko

Umbrellas

Hundreds of multi-colored umbrellas float above our heads
red, green, yellow, and blue dots of vivid sight
arranged in a kinetic mosaic of nylon and steel
a colonnade of color filling the sky

my friend and I are not fully protected in our wandering below
as we saunter from sidewalk to curb and back again
from restaurant to shop to gallery
separate and alone within the whole 

the lazy rain drips through the many cracks
through the voids around and between each one
the umbrellas are singular and apart, but the same design
within the space formed by this artistic installation

each an integral part of the overall creation
where they all tip and bounce in the wind
with their handles, like the letter j
twirling, spinning in every direction

all higgledy-piggledy
as if they cannot make up their minds
or are unable to control the frenetic motion
that has been instilled by the artist

my capacity for emotion is infinite
but there is no longer room for animosity
no room for dissension as to which
of the umbrellas has an appealing hue

an agreeable orientation or shape or size
and which one displeases or dissatisfies
there is no purpose in sustaining such philosophies
it is not my right to make that choice

at my age, differences can bring disappointment
but they are not a sign of failure or defeat
we are not separated from grace for being made of flesh and bone
we are accepted with all our fragilities

the lonely ship to the isle of judgement is ready to sail
the innocent and the deserving few without sin
are permitted on board, but I will not be on it
I must have mislaid my ticket

while walking with my friend
down the dampened street together, arm in arm 
underneath that rainbow umbrella promenade
on a cloudy morning in the chill of October

After retiring recently, Mark James Trisko heard his muses yelling loudly in the night, begging him to let their voices be heard. His work has appeared / will appear in Valiant Scribe Literary Journal, Spirit Fire Review, Amethyst Review, As Surely As the Sun, The Penwood Review, St. Katherine Review, and Austur Magazine. He currently lives in Minnesota, with his beautiful spouse of 47 years, four wonderful children and eight above-normal grandchildren.

Imperative to Feel in Place on Earth – a poem by Brian Palmer

Imperative to Feel in Place on Earth


See the moon, rotation-borne, 
rise from the earth that’s lined with seams 
of smoky quartz, smoldering under
the husky orange of oak-leaf windfall.

Watch the golden harvest moon,
an acorn once, lift and exchange 
its heavy earthly state for something 
smaller, light, essential, white.

Hear leaves rustle, drop, and rattle—
on earth, all falls, and falls to earth—
while the soundless moon sails up
above the weary blue-black hills.

Bear witness to the seasoned earth, 
and like all mortal things, embrace
a moment in your fear-curled body 
thoughts of decay and moonlessness.
 
Succumb and die and lie still, finally.
But at the last become a seed 
pressed into coming April mud, 
then break through earth and as the moon,

rise in situ from the turning
earth, the earth you thought would claim 
your stony heart. Take root. Lift moonward.
Be unafraid to fall again.

Brian Palmer is a retired English teacher and now pursues full-time his interests in studying and writing poetry, inspired by the natural environments of the West and Pacific NW. His recent poetry collection, Prairiehead, was released in the fall of 2023 with Kelsay Books. He is the editor and publisher of THINK: A Journal of Poetry, Fiction, and Essays. He currently lives in Juneau, Alaska.

Brother Lavender – a poem by Rachel Dacus

Brother Lavender

Remember that when you leave this earth,
 you can take nothing that you have received...
but only what you have given.
 – Francis of Assisi

I’m steeping in it now, growing bushes in pots, 
brushing my teeth with lavender flavor,
tucking sachets in every drawer
nestling it under underwear.
It’s with me, that lavender hillside 
in Italy, humped rows parted
by a tractor’s billowing dust.

My laundry is redolent of Italy, 
like candied flowers around a dessert.
I met Brother Lavender in a man sitting
on a sunlit ledge beside the church.
He was selling bags of flowers to tourists,
dressed like a hippie from the middle ages. 
He was belled with bracelets 
that jingled scant melodies
as he gestured to come and buy, holding up
a nose-gay. I came and leaned forward to smell
a burst of scent sudden and soft 
as the pretty eyes of a giraffe.

He was a day out of time. 
He offered me five for some uncountable
amount in Italian, then just gave me
the whole basket. I brought it home 
on the plane, fragrance inhabiting my suitcase 
and still carries me to a mountainside 
and the portable longing for home
we all keep close, best answered 
by spontaneous gifts 
and answering anyone’s need.

Rachel Dacus is the author of seven novels and four poetry collections. Her poetry, stories, and essays have appeared in Boulevard, Gargoyle, Prairie Schooner, Eclectica and Image: Art, Faith, and Mystery. Her work is in Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California and Radiant DisUnities: Real Ghazals in English. She enjoys living in the San Francisco Bay Area, with its nature trails where she can walk to refresh her spirit and dictate ideas into her phone.

Saint Francis in Ecstasy – a poem by Paul Willis

Saint Francis in Ecstasy

						after Caravaggio


The angel looks tenderly interested—
uncommonly so—in the sacked-out figure
of Francis gently supported in his arms.

Or maybe he is just patiently waiting 
for this mortal to wake from his spiritual coma
so that he can depart on yet another appointed round—

rescuing the next pope from his cardinal sins
or plucking a child from a deep canal
outside a doorstep in Venice.

In any case, Francis' dark-haired, bearded head
lolls back in the swaddled lap of the divine messenger,
who in this instance has nothing to say,

Francis being, as he is, beyond sight or hearing
or sensation.  And that rough brown robe of the earthy 
saint, tied at the waist with a simple cord,

must be scratching those perfectly formed angelic thighs 
in a most uncomfortable way.  Forbearance,
though, is a heavenly virtue which shines in the light

like the bare shoulder of this visitor with the exquisite
bedside manner—the same shoulder that somehow sprouts,
from the back of the scapula, a dusky wing.

Paul Willis has published eight collections of poetry, the most recent of which are Somewhere to Follow (Slant, 2021) and Losing Streak (Kelsay Books, 2024). Individual poems have appeared in Poetry, Christian Century, Southern Poetry Review, and the Best American Poetry series. He is an emeritus professor of English at Westmont College and a former poet laureate of Santa Barbara, California, where he lives with his wife, Sharon, near the Old Mission.