Author Archives: Sarah

The Rice Fields


I want to run again and not feel tired 
along the edge of a rice field
golden plumes heavy with grain
brushing on bare legs
a carefree child 
on holiday from the city.

I hear the rustle as stalks sway
to the song of the wind,
whisper chants from bowed heads
as if aware of their fate,
send up a multitude of prayers,
a million grains each encased by hard shell. 

A woman passes, on her head
a basket of freshly cut sheaves.

From the white stupa in the distance
temple bells ring. They mingle
with the chirp of paddy birds as they hover,
uninvited guests to a feast.
Bright patterns drift
as dragonflies chase small wings.

I want to float alongside them 
in this untimed existence -
to roam, to lounge, to dream
untethered 
I can begin to see beauty in life again.

Nirma de Silva grew up in Sri Lanka and currently lives in London. Her dual cultural identity influences her writing. She has been a research analyst and school teacher and now indulges in her love of poetry. Her poems reflect on nature, history, travel and loss. Her work has appeared in UK poetry magazines Acropolis Journal, Green Ink Poetry, Roots (a publication of the Wee Sparrow Poetry Press) among others.

My Heart is Like a Bend in the River

My heart is like a bend in the river, 
and the dusty road that leads there is lined 
with razor wire, and signs in several languages 

warn of unexploded bombs.  My heart is like a bend 
in the river, and when you finally get there, 
the water runs muddy brown, and reeds and willows 

crowd the banks, and all around is desert, 
dry as bone.  My heart is like a bend in the river, 
where the water shallows and slows, 
and Jesus may have come, and knelt, and risen up, 

streaming, though there are other bends in the Jordan 
where he may have entered, too, and heard 
the Father’s voice, and seen the dove descending.  

We can never really say who we are. 
We all have a secret even we don’t know.

Chris Anderson is an emeritus professor of English at Oregon State University and a Catholic deacon. He is the author of a number of books, most recently a book of poems, LOVE CALLS US HERE, published by Wildhouse Publishing in Boston.

Magnolias

I read vastly
in those days   seeking
comfort of both Christ and
Krishna   poets and prophets
             sophists too    craning
each crease of my fingers
for truth
or what I 
wished was true

I was quick to see
the flower    but only
for its fading    how
by April’s end
magnolias only
crumpled like fists
clinched against
the sky

Of course by August
they were ancient    but
from among the deep
shadow and shine of leaves
the swell            the swell
of something more feeble
more eager to lean    trusting
as much the inevitable
as what is less readily seen

Connor Brown is a writer and mental health counselor in training based in West Chicago, IL. His poetry has previously appeared digitally in Ekstasis Magazine and in print in Solum Journal (Vol. V).

The Stone Masons

Early fall, cool, dry morning. Two men 
wash and scrub the wall, scrape stubborn 
moss, remove broken sections. 
The stone saw whines. 

All day on their hands and knees. One
cuts and shapes the stone. His backward 
ball cap, sleeve tattoos. The older man - 
clean work shirt, Ricardo over the left 

chest pocket, trowels mortar, places each 
piece. I watch them shape, fit, and tap 
stones into place. Their movements 
a precise dance, the wall their jigsaw puzzle. 

Standing, stretching sore backs and knees, 
the masons check the lines of their work.
Faces and coveralls coated with dust, chips. 
Stones are removed, reshaped, replaced. 

They work in earnest. These are the last 
warm, dry days. The oaks have already 
dropped their leaves. Nights intensely 
black and soundless. But now 

the young mason struggles with a pile 
of new stones in the bed of the old 
pickup. His partner continues cutting 
and repairing. 

Dusk and the dust-covered radio plays 
norteño music. The men spread tarps 
over stones and tools. Tomorrow they 
will finish their work. 

The wall is perfect. 

Fredric Lee Hildebrand is a retired physician living in Neenah, WI. He is the author of two poetry chapbooks, Northern Portrait (Kelsay Books, 2020), and A Glint of Light (Finishing Line Press, 2020). His recent poetry has appeared in The San Antonio Review and Sky Island Journal. 
When not writing or reading, he plays acoustic folk guitar and explores the Northwoods with his wife and two Labrador retrievers.

Why Is Everything Spinning?

                         God drove out the man, and at the east of the garden of Eden,
                          God placed the cherubim and a flaming sword
                            that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life.
	                                                                               ~Genesis 3:24

It’s only when we’re disoriented that we get it.
We fall, hit our head, and then it’s like we see
things as they really are according to science:

every particle of the universe is whirling.
It’s not a problem that everything is spinning.
It’s just a problem that we can only feel it 

when we “fall.” It’s actually when we fall
that we get up. Science still seeks
the reason for twirl from top to bottom,

but they are barking up all the wrong trees,
unable to see the forests for all of them.

We who have fallen know why 
everything is 
spinning.

Megan Wildhood is a writer who helps her readers feel seen in her monthly newsletter, poetry chapbook Long Division (Finishing Line Press, 2017), her full-length poetry collection Bowed As If Laden With Snow (Cornerstone Press, May 2023) as well as Mad in America, The Sun and elsewhere. You can learn more about her at meganwildhood.com.

Sometimes Grace 

arrives like sun leaking 
through arrogant evening clouds 
or like a breeze rustling
full-bodied iris leaves 
or like embers whirling 
around a muttering fireplace
and sometimes 
it’s disguised as an angel 
sifting through the world 
finding truths veiled in rules 
craving revisions every day 
and sometimes 
it’s the latest god or whatever 
this abstraction’s called  
who loves ambiguity 
and turns regrets 
into disappointments 
into surprise
and sometimes 
it announces amiably
humans are human 
on both sides of a storm
where nothing is just itself 
nor has ever been

Carolyn Martin is a recovering work addict who’s adopted the Spanish proverb, “It is beautiful to do nothing and rest afterwards” as her daily mantra. She is blissfully retired––and resting––in Clackamas, Oregon where she delights in gardening, feral cats, and backyard birds. Her poems have appeared in more than 200 publications throughout the U.S., Europe, and Australia. For more: www.carolynmartinpoet.com.

Murmuration

A word to love: “Murmuration,” a kaleidoscope
of Starlings sweeping and swooping. Call it poetry,
call it a song, call it mesmerizing as a cloud 
of black-tipped wings spreads and funnels -
an avian air show beyond the window
where we watch, distracted from
our morning activities, 
our earthly anchors,
our wishful
vespers. 

Some say this mass movement protects the flock
from prey; others say it’s an ornithological banquet,
a coffee klatsch, a swirl of chatty birds jazzed up 
on fermented blackberries or ripened rose hips; 
still others say it’s an invite, “Hey, over here, 
we’ve got grubs, we’ve got bugs, we’ve got food 
to spare, come on.” 

Our murmurs know no such performance;
warped heartbeats from blood flowing
through tight valves or vessels blocked 
like summer traffic or tourists gawking 
at an accident.  Only a stethoscope
can pick out our heart sound –
When my lover murmurs in his sleep, 
mostly it sounds like distress, a bad dream
playing out alone in the theater of melatonin 
that he can’t remember to share in the morning.

Starlings, you socialites, your swarms invite other families -
together, gregarious aviators, you mimic red-tailed hawks, quails,
Bobwhite crows and more, humans, phones, car alarms. Oh, Starlings,
original chat GPT, you out-Bot us all with your winged iridescence, 
your stand-up, beat-all communal voice, your seminal song dance,
while we, ground-bound, watch you 
from below, our hearts tick-ticking as we hopefully
flap our missing wings.

Ellen M. Taylor teaches writing and literature at the University of Maine at Augusta, an open access university, and in the Maine Prison Education Program. She has published in regional and national journals and has three poetry collections published by Moon Pie Press. She lives in the hills of Appleton, Maine.

Surprise Visit
June 7, 2024

A dream like none I've ever had before,
a visit from the light.
A presence felt - and known - from crown to core.
A meeting with a deep and warming flame.
A call to reunite
with one transcendent.  You would know his name.
So unexpected.  Why?  We'd never met.
At least, not that I knew.
Or I'd rejected each approach... Forget
that past, the message was.  No words exchanged,
but light and love came through.
And just like that, we are no more estranged.

Joseph A. Carosella firmly believes that if you look, Every Day Is a Beautiful Day.  He hikes avidly in the Adirondacks, Spain and the UK.  He loves nature, reading, ice cream, travel, language(s), and spends a lot of time writing poetry and dialogues with God.  His first book, Making Friends with God: A Year of Dialogues, is available at Amazon KDP.  His poems have appeared in Adirondac, Adirondack Almanack and Ridgeline.  [Instagram: josephaicarosella; Substack: josephacarosella]

Peticiones

I know asking for a life without worry   		
is not a reasonable request, 
and the sun cannot shine down 
on me brightly every day.
And still, I long for a reprieve
from the crazy world’s cares.
Give me a pelican’s confident plunge, 
the sandpipers’ humorous offering, 
ospreys floating humbly 
on waves of wind.
Give me the glistening ocean foam 
and sandy bottoms 
where I can touch down unharmed.
Give me a warm autumn breeze
lofting scents of summer and salt, 
fresh air that fills my wishful lungs.
Give me light and all-encompassing love. 
More light and love. 
I know, I always ask for so much.

Carolyn Chilton Casas is a practicing Reiki master and teacher who often explores ways of healing in the articles she writes for energy and wellness magazines in several countries. Her poetry has been published in numerous journals and anthologies including The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace and Renewal and Thin Spaces & Sacred Spaces. She lives on the central coast of California where she enjoys nature, hiking, and beach volleyball. More of Carolyn’s work can be found on Facebook or Instagram and in her newest collection of poetry Under the Same Sky.

Garden House Speaks Again

Maggie Warren is a queer and disabled poet who writes about love and toads. They work as an adjunct English instructor at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, where they earned their Master’s Degree of Fine Arts in Creative Writing and Media Arts in 2024. Their work has appeared in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Half Mystic Journal, and Bear Review. You can find more of their work at www.maggiewarren.com.