Author Archives: Sarah

Feast of the Holy Family, Within the Octave of Christmas
	
	Arise, and take the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt…
 for Herod will seek the young child to destroy him. KJV, Matthew 2:13
	

And, as told, Joseph escaped the tyrant’s 
Grasp, with his wife and infant son.
But what about the children

Whose fathers did not dream,
The not-so-lucky little boys of Bethlehem,
Whose blood still flows in bitter tears?

Lights now hang merrily on our own
Window frames, holly wreaths on our doors, 
Reveling in the joy of Christmas,

The startling midnight clarity of a world 
Dividing into before and after, 
God’s brazen flight into Time.

Shibboleths against another slaughter 
Of innocents? Our daughters and sons 
Spared another year? While we celebrate, 

In the gift of a Son,
This unimaginable rent of worlds? 

Maryanne Hannan has published poetry in both ALL SHALL BE WELL: A POETRY ANTHOLOGY FOR JULIAN OF NORWICH and THIN PLACES & SACRED SPACES. A resident of upstate New York, USA, she is the author of ROCKING LIKE IT’S ALL INTERMEZZO; 21ST CENTURY RESPONSORIALS.

Mysteries 

Jackie taught me how to make
toasted peanut butter and margarine 
sandwiches so everything was
melt in the mouth perfect.
She always knew the important
stuff. She told me I was born
in the time vortex between 
the northern and southern
hemispheres which seemed
as plausible as any explanation.

She said there was a whirling mass
of air that ushered in calves 
who waited for me to open my eyes.
On that day of celebration
their brown and white bodies
cavorted in the meadow.

Kristy Snedden has been a trauma psychotherapist for forty-plus years. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net and for a Pushcart Prize. Her poetry appears in various journals and anthologies, most recently, CV2, storySouth, Door=Jar, and Gnashing Teeth. Her debut collection, That Broken Tooth, That Blue Tattoo, is forthcoming from Indolent Press in 2026. When not working or hiking, she love hanging out and listening to her husband and their dogs tell tall tales. She writes poetry because she can’t stop herself and loves connecting with other poets and creatives of all kinds.

Mountain Peace

The mountains where I walk
instil me with a deep sense of peace,

a shimmering lightness 
of relief and bliss in a place 
where my lungs can inhale 

a green breath of delight. 
My green hiking boots laden 

with mud stains, similar to 
the palate of a rainy day painter.

Each day for the past year, 
I have climbed this hill, 

ears snatching the sounds of chirping 
blue jays and other secrets whispered by nature.

To the left, a sleek stream flows, 
a gentle reminder of my own call of nature, 

as I meander between the bushes 
of the rocky path, squat in its magic, 

wipe and cover up, like my ancestors
did way before I had a chance to notice.

The silence and fresh air massage
my neurons and every moment here

is cherished as I rejoice in the wonder 
of what the creator whoever he or she is,

has left here for me to enjoy even 
if I must return to earth tomorrow. 
 

Diana Raab, MFA, PhD, is a memoirist, poet, workshop leader, thought-leader and award-winning author of fourteen books. Her work has been widely published and anthologized. She frequently speaks and writes on writing for healing and transformation. Her latest book is Hummingbird: Messages from My Ancestors: A memoir with reflection and writing prompts (Modern History Press, 2024). Raab writes for Psychology Today, The Wisdom Daily, The Good Men Project, Thrive Global, and is a guest writer for many others. Visit her at: https:/www.dianaraab.com. Raab lives in Southern California.

After the lambing 

I’ve seen photos of you 
in your father’s, mother’s arms 
 -one day, five, seven days old- 

but until I run 
my fingers round your toes
in, over crease and fold 

feel the warm weight of you
musky sweet 
fresh as the winter rose

I am like an old ewe looking 
for a lamb she will not find 
missing the trail of afterbirth 

pink cirrus in the snow
no, until I see you with my own eyes
I will not believe.

Jill Husser-Munro grew up in the north of Scotland and has lived and worked in Strasbourg, France, for over thirty years. Her work has been published in Poetry Scotland, Amethyst Review, The Alchemy Spoon, Wildfire Words and Dreich Magazine, Causeway Magazine.

Sunflower Sea Star
Old Home Beach, Trinidad, California, June 17, 2007


Luminous on dark wet sand, like a tiger lily 
in redwoods’ shadow. Left behind by low tide, 
over two feet wide.

A central disk and twenty arms 
radiating from it, moving in graceful ripples, 
while the tube feet on their underside extended and retracted.

A dance, I hoped, not a cry for help.		
Awe, and a wish to wash away 
the sand on your surface,

bring out the bright orange dotted with white spines,
willing the tide, just turned, 
to rise faster, kiss your arms, take you back.			

Six years later, a wasting syndrome appeared, 		
spread, wiped sea stars from the West Coast. 
"Functionally extinct" scientists say,

and search for a way to reverse your decline,	
so you can swallow purple sea urchins,  
sea urchins stop devouring kelp,
and the kelp forest can survive.

I must record this	
or I will soon think you were a dream. 

Why didn’t I wait to see you off? Did I leave 
to avoid being saddened by your departure?

No beachside breeze foretold that first encounter 
would be, to date, our only.

I still look for you at low tide, luminous 
like a tiger lily in redwoods’ shadow.

Simona Carini was born and grew up in Italy. She writes poetry and nonfiction (memoir, food, the outdoors) and has been published in various venues, online and in print, including the Amethyst Press anthology Thin Places & Sacred Spaces (2024). Her first poetry collection Survival Time was published by Sheila-Na-Gig Editions (2022). She lives in Northern California with her husband, loves to spend time outdoors, and works as an academic researcher. Her website is https://simonacarini.com

Just a Few Steps								

She sits in a wooden swing
on the wide porch
of the old farmhouse 
cradling her broken leg 
and watching the sun 
drop lower and lower,
closer and closer 
to the horizon, and suddenly, 
the day is over.
Darkness envelops 
the yard like a shroud. 

Before she can pick
up her crutches and move
back indoors, a light set high 
above the barn door comes on, 
inscribing a bright circle 
on the hard-packed earth below.

With just a few steps, she could, 
herself, be within that ring of light, 
and she recalls something
Pastor Hansen said in his sermon 
that very morning, something about 
stepping forward into the light 
of the Savior, that all we need 
to do is to take that next step,
but how can she, with her broken leg?
And would she, if it were not broken?

Would she step into that light?
 

Mary Ellen Shaughan is a native Iowan who now lives in Western Massachusetts. Her poetry has appeared in Red Rover, Amethyst Review, Gyroscope Review, Califragile, Winnow, Skipjack Review, Blue Moon, 2River View, a&u:America’s AIDS Magazine, and in several anthologies. Her first collection of poetry, Home Grown, is available on Amazon.

How to Monk the Morning

In younger days a longbeard told me the sun will rise without my help but every monkish praise and prayer followed the zodiac of 

the Egyptian sky and even the milking-goats and hen-lays/leaven here and everywhere every 

earthly cell makes the daily round from 21 to 28 hours and splits the difference, you get the sharps and flats 

in the melody of days and the quarter-tone chants right the wobble, when the empty moon barren of 

clouds and shadow shines the brightest the howling desert is filled with silent music stirring and swept, 

ridden by single notes and simple songs, the out-breath of the fertile cosmos blows on our faces just the same. The mystics of the east 

rise one morning at a time, boil the water for tea. The wisdom of the desert is no more no less than the here and the now. Make your own monks 

or become one yourself: all that breathes and beats together/on each other follows the asceticism of hop-toads 

the ways of widow skimmers and bacterial blooms heron struts and bobs bobcat
whiskers woodchuck whistles slow clams/marrows 

and jams, bucksnorts gnatcatcher wheezes homewoods liturgies of whippoorwills (and like jackals/ruffian doves of the 

Sahara) evening coos and coyotes. Give your palms to the dawn and fingertips to the moon and give a little push,

bend at the knees feel the springs in your hips, pogo your chakras and belly-up 
the sun, wake with the dawn and the dawn with you. 

Jack Phillips is a Lebanese American poet and founder of The Naturalist School, an organization devoted to intergalactic ecology and wild creativity. He has published numerous poems, articles and a few books on ecology and ecospirituality. He teaches ecopsychology and ecospirituality at Creighton University School of Medicine.

Altar of Spice

Grandmother created with cinnamon and salt.
Scents of baking live in the deepest brain
forever. Like prayers we taste even in our dreams.

We use and are ourselves the usefulness.
Words another fragrance, indelible.
Someone’s wheel forms the idea 
of a vase. A threaded loom
the bones of a beautiful blanket.

My neighbor is out planting with faith 
there will be sweetness. Down the street, 
someone is grooming a horse. Its whinny 
of pleasure echoes all the way to my back door.  

I hold a comb, a needle, a measuring cup,
a pen, to feel the body’s urgency. 
Our talents form the altar of the world.

Joanne Clarkson‘s sixth poetry collection, Hospice House, was released by MoonPath Press in 2023. Her volume, The Fates, won Bright Hill Press’ annual contest and appeared in 2017. Her poems have been published in such journals as Poetry Northwest, Nimrod, The Schooner, Alaska Quarterly Review and American Journal of Nursing. Clarkson has Masters Degrees in English and Library Science, has taught and worked as a professional librarian. After caring for her mother through a long illness, she re-careered as a Hospice RN. Currently, she teaches writing classes at a farm for retired and rescued horses.

Solstice Hymn

Glory to the troposphere,
	precious ring of loving air—
Glory to the thunderstorm,
	greening winter into spring —
Glory to the stratosphere,
	shielding ultraviolet glare—
Glory to the water’s course,
	cycled through each living thing—

May the shortest day
	show that our time is full
May the longest life
	share every beauty known

Glory to the mesosphere,
	burning errant meteors—
Glory to the rocket’s flare, 
	subatomic fairy ring—
Glory to the thermosphere,	
	buffering ionic force—
Glory to the colored air,
	borealis glimmering—

May the longest day
	stretch possibility
May the shortest life
	stimulate urgency

D.W. Baker is a poet, father, and teacher from St. Petersburg, Florida. His work appears in Sundog Lit, ballast, Overtly Lit, and Green Ink Poetry, among others, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He reads for several mastheads, including Variant Lit and Cosmic Daffodil. See more of his work at http://www.dwbakerpoetry.com