Author Archives: Sarah

Timing


We each one have our own
particular idea of at what hour,
say, what minute, the Resurrected
roused and stretched, scratched 
and blinked, hard, twice, 
and arose.

From the dead.

We some have it daybreak
when He soldiers forth, a squirrel, 
a Middle Eastern squirrel, the tiny, 
witless witness of the day the world
changed. God loved one squirrel 
that much.

We some have Him shake off 
the shroud like silky cobwebs 
in the middle of the night, feel dew 
deeply in the darkness as He first fills, 
refills, lungs. Feet loving wet grass,
toes happy. The whole world fast asleep.

(The book does say: 
resurrection of the body.
Resurrecting any other bloodless thing
is of no interest to me whatsoever.)

So, we will have body, 
if not bawdy, boldly please.
Not only toes, but turban hair, cramp, 
wrinkle, myrrh perfume, a drench.

There are of course others 
have Him rising later
—six-fifteen, six-thirty – 
there approaching dawn, the only 
one who sees him, stumbling home,
a drunk, who does not know he’s 
there, who does not know He’s there.

That is who God comes to,
dripping glory on damp sand.
But at what hour, 
seen or gone unnoticed, 
that’s more difficult to say.

Linda McCullough Moore is the author of two story collections, a novel, an essay collection and more than 350 shorter published works. She is the winner of the Pushcart Prize, as well as winner and finalist for numerous national awards. Her first story collection was endorsed by Alice Munro, and equally as joyous, she frequently hears from readers who write to say her work makes a difference in their lives. For many years she has mentored award-winning writers of fiction, poetry, and memoir. She is currently completing a novel, Time Out of Mind, and a collection of her poetry. www.lindamcculloughmoore.com

This Life

There are those who hike swiftly to the top,
who take the shape of bent crosses,
shoulders leaning forward,
 
and others who drift among the ferns
and moss, ghostly footprints, scarce
patterns in the fronds and stalks.
 
And there are people like me,
who prefer to climb sideways
and in all directions,
 
noticing. We are the ones who think
this is our work, in this body,
to give attention to the mountain laurel
 
and beneath it the dead leaves,
fertilizer where the roots tunnel
into this winter’s sleep.
 
Let me reach the top
gently and lay down my head
on the welcoming rocks.
 
Forget about my Sunday clothes,
rings taken from my fingers,
white hands folded over my chest.
 
Don’t undress me
for the crematorium,
turning me to cinder and ash.
 
Let me take my sleep
here near the cave,
this life’s sanctuary,
 
where my cheeks freeze red
to match the winter berries,
and there is nothing left to fear.

Kristy Snedden’s life work is as a trauma psychotherapist.  After a long love affair with words, she began writing poetry in June, 2020 and her poem, “Dementia,” was awarded an Honorable Mention in the 90th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition (August, 2021). She has been taking classes at The Writer’s Studio since September, 2021. 

Columbia Communion
 
A lady bug
lands on my finger —
Red, yellow, and black, a smiling face.
A leaf falls;
The river begging it home.
When I die,
scatter me splintered
into the water.
We are one and the same,
merely formed into different shapes.
And for once I am not afraid
of the scattering.
So mundane it is sacred -
Transcendent
Transgender
Triumphant.
 
My bones, feral foundations.
My body, carpentry of cathedrals.
My breasts, sanguine stained glass windows.
My breath, a waving willow.
My ribs, anointed altars
My scars, a haunted hallelujah.
My voice, a change in tempo.
The whole ocean in one drop.
My blood, crimson confirmation -
I am that I am that I am.
My clitoris, the red lamp calling holy home.
My orgasm, transubstantiation.
My eyes, the vine that climbs to climax -
Circling cemetery walls -
Full of careful clergy, crucified saints, and careless Christians
who don’t know ancient cathedrals when they see one.
 
My genome, sacred synergy.
My body, trans tabernacle
We worship at its edges.
Another leaf falls,
Ripples the rio with gentle grace.
When I die,
Scatter me whole in this holy water;
One and the same -
Forever Calling me home.
I am unafraid of the scattering.
One day you’ll see me,
This reckless reckoning.
This trans cathedral.
 

Dr. Kayden Vargas (they/them) is a nonbinary psychologist by day and poet by moonlight. They enjoy utilizing psychological, religious, and spiritual themes. They are originally from Brewster WA, and their longest lasting love is the Columbia River. They currently reside as an activist, scholar, and therapist on Yakama Nation land.

Otherworlds

Physicists go trailing after poets:
Dante saying distanced things may show it’s

Just one space they share in Paradiso;
How the strings of harpsichords could be so

Entangled with some hyacinths (a world
Away) that unexpected fragrance curled

Into George MacDonald’s sitting room
And tinged his Lilith’s page with its perfume…

Since thinnest places are a fragile screen,
Inspect the mounds where fairy folk were seen,

Mull the spirit kingdoms of the muses
And sluice of silver rain no bard refuses,

Weigh the way, the cost of sacrifice,
The radiance, the shores of Paradise.

Marly Youmans is the author of fifteen books of poetry and fiction. Her latest poetry collection is The Book of the Red King, from Phoenicia Publishing in Montreal, 2019, and her latest novel is Charis in the World of Wonders, published by Ignatius Press of San Francisco in 2020.

Winter Desert Sky, Joshua Tree

I swear I saw forever last night
at midnight from my bed
from my bedroom window in our tiny
desert rental but that it could have been
high noon, so full and bright was the moon
out over the desert. I swear there was no ground,
no yuccas, no cacti, no shadows underneath
the yuccas or cacti, no animal carousers, only
blackness and black sharps pointing like fingers
at the distant mountains that I swear looked
like a long serrated knife held up against a throat
of blue as if threatening it, threatening
to free itself in search of a better heaven
maybe but I swear I heard 
no howl at the slide of jagged steel
on celestial flesh but that it left its mark 
along the blade’s edge and in the tint
of wound on the cosmos like the froth
I’ve seen at the seashore that it tipped from navy
to burgundy to lavender to salt white foam
like an ombre chiaroscuro I swear looked
like the sky was bleeding alone
in utter darkness at her demolishment
at the violence but that she held fast
to her mantle so determined was she to birth
stars she tossed about her like they were nothing, like
they were white caps on an open sea and I swear she
pulled her mantle closer around her and to the desert,
dear earth, as if by prior covenant so intent was she
upon protecting what was sacred, this place, this creature
pleasure, this minute, this hour, hers, ours
an honor she bestowed in her embrace that burned
like a secret between us, an oath between lovers,
brothers, sisters, strangers
no more, better because one dared
to rouse to witness and one dared to be
what she was
 
an ocean of sky. 
 

Maryrose Smyth lists her passions as: art, family and preserving a one woman artist’s preserve in the tiny canyon where she and her family live in Los Angeles where she says humor and a working blue Bic pen are her basically her only policies.

How a Thai Garuda Made Me Laugh

After a dire day, I was watching the sunset from my backyard stoop. However, my evening was interrupted by a Thai garuda. Its enormous flapping wings caused quite the commotion as he perched on my citrus tree. Once the ornate half-man, half-bird settled atop the tree, he unnervingly stared at me. I stared back at him with equal intensity even though I was scared. Then, unexpectedly, he asked me about my day. I responded with shock and silence. By the time I realized I was being rude, he let out a belly laugh that rippled toward the heavens. I began laughing, too. As they say, laughter is contagious. Once the Thai garuda saw me laughing, he flew away into the celestial sky. What an unforgettable evening. Now, every time I have a bad day, I remember the day I met a Thai garuda and how he made me laugh. It’s amazing how a day can turn right around when you least expect it. Laughter truly is the best medicine.

Tanya Sangpun Thamkruphat is a Thai-Vietnamese American poet. Her poetry has appeared in Button Poetry and Z Publishing House. Her poetry chapbook, Em(body)ment of Wonder, was released by Raine and Rose Co. in 2021. Currently, she lives with her two feline overlords and her partner in Southern California. 

Refraction


It is early evening, yet the moon,
a half-sliver shy of its full glory,
rests above a billowing streak of melon
on a muted purple canvas of sky.
Only an hour before, the sky was deep indigo,
and the burnished gold of autumn
leaves, mirrored on the water’s surface,
made me wonder how Monet 
might have captured the moment.
I consider my retinas, the millions 
of cones thriving outside of my awareness,
firing messages to my occipital lobe,
merging my eyes, brain, and heart
in a unity that transcends science.
I study these complexities, 
approach them with curiosity.
But I am not a scientist,
and I will never fully understand.
It is enough, however, to know
that I can walk under an indigo sky,
see myself in a shimmering mirror 
of liquid gold, and satisfy my hunger
with a generous slice of melon moon.

Diane Elayne Dees is the author of the chapbook, Coronary Truth (Kelsay Books), and the forthcoming chapbook, The Last Time I Saw You. Diane, who lives in Covington, Louisiana, also publishes Women Who Serve, a blog that delivers news and commentary on women’s professional tennis throughout the world.

Eckhart Ice Dialectic 

The same eye in which I see God
Is the same eye in which God sees me

Monotheistic God morphs merging with 
Forms of the divine femme, Sophia

Rose Knapp (she/they) is a poet and electronic producer. She has publications in Lotus-Eater, Bombay Gin, BlazeVOX, Hotel Amerika, Fence Books, Obsidian, Gargoyle, and others. She has poetry collections published with Beir Bua Press, Hesterglock Press, and Dostoyevsky Wannabe. She lives in Minneapolis. Find her at roseknapp.net and on Twitter @Rose_Siyaniye

Visitation

Sunset invades Palestinian villages apocalyptically. After dinner at the makeshift restaurant he was invited to linger for the rest of the evening. Beside the traditional cube-house with its shallow dome, a path led to an outer staircase, the path concreted over apart from a gap for a cable of vine-stem to twist up through, and out of sight, over the roof. ‘Go up,’ they said, ‘Itla’ fooq’.
Above, the plastic chairs were arranged in a rough circle with their backs to the walls of a spacious upper room: their feet rubbed on the polished concrete floor. 
‘Ahlan wa sahlan,’ the grandfather announced in welcome. Around a dozen family members were sitting in the room, and a somewhat ceremonious conversation ensued. Anise tea in glasses was brought in, on a tray, and handed round, and later, coffee. 
At half past ten some of the group made a move to leave, whereupon, ‘Badri!’, the grandfather objected, ‘It’s early!’ Everyone remained for another half an hour – this was the daily ritual.

***

On an afternoon of afterglow, they walked through the unnamed corridor-streets of the village – old stone, infrequent windows, gently veering and climbing ways. Round a corner, in line with the houses either side of it, was a dilapidated and seemingly abandoned structure, perhaps two stories, but the ceiling between them too low for ready entry into the shadowy space underneath. This building was said to be the oldest in the village, variously reckoned as Roman, Byzantine, or Ottoman. 
‘Is this the Roman ruin?’ he asked, lingering in front of it. 
‘It’s just a cattle-shed!’, she laughed.

***

The church was dedicated to the Visitation, its site one of a number claimed as the event’s true locality. A protective curtain wall draped round the complex. He arrived at the hour of the evening blush, as a small crowd gathered in the pebble-cobbled plaza in front of the church’s west face – talking, playing, settled on the girding bench-steps to wait – electronic bells rang out from the tower, pulsing over the hillsides, olive groves, and the red earth. 

Martin Potter (https://martinpotterpoet.home.blog) is a British-Colombian poet and academic, based in Manchester, and his poems have appeared in Acumen, The French Literary Review, Eborakon, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Poetry Village, and other journals. His pamphlet In the Particular was published by Eyewear in December, 2017. 

       Incantation


“Wisdom could not find a place in which she could dwell:
but a place was found (for her) in the heavens.
Then Wisdom went out to dwell with the children of the people,
but she found no dwelling.” 1 Enoch 4*


Ah, Wisdom, how could you not stay?
Were you not there in the glistening dew?
Did you not hide in a flaming leaf’s stem?
Did you not rest in a well of sweet sand?
How could you float in the vibrant scent 
of newly mown hay, of pines in the wind, 
of earth in the rain, and still say no, 
no place for me?

We ache for you in saffron sun’s rays, 
embraces of trees, ephemeral snow, 
the stillness and wild storm of sea,
but you are not there.

I have left you the Word, 
can you not hear 
on the lips of the bard,
can you not see 
in the hand on the page,
can you not know,
in the voice of all flesh?
Listen and see, learn
from the Word.


We’ve corrupted the Word till we speak
nothing true. The lines on the page drift,
then dissipate into the breeze,
mere odors. The bard can’t be heard
in the clatter of hypocrites, frauds.
We’re perishing, can’t find our way.

Ah Wisdom, inhabit the Word and dwell
in us. Come, find your place in our hearts.


*Source: The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, Vol. 1, p.33, ca. 100 BCE

Mary Hills Kuck has retired from teaching English and German in the US and Jamaica and now lives in Massachusetts with her family. She has received a Pushcart Prize nomination and has published in a number of journals, including the Connecticut River Review, SLANT, Tipton Poetry Journal, Burningword Literary Journal, From the Depths, Splash, Poetry Quarterly, Main St. Rag, and others. Her chapbook, Intermittent Sacraments, was published in June, 2021, by Finishing Line Press.