There are secrets hidden in
of movement, of letting go
the secret web that holds
I know how to feel it,
to release restrictions
and invite fluidity.
I can teach you
this visceral language,
how to breathe into your pelvis
the ways of knowing your
held tight into the body
and letting her go on her way.
You and I are done
living someone else’s life.
It doesn’t mean we forget them,
their fight to survive,
it means we can separate
who lived whom
in this body cradling our souls.
Jennifer Rodrigues currently lives on the sacred Powhatan land of Fairfax, VA. She works as a certified yoga therapist, is a Reiki healer, military spouse, mother to a creative daughter and a black cat named Miss Yvonne. She has been published in The Muleskinner Journal, tiny frights.
This attic broods Dickensian cold,
the spiders moan about the frost.
Her little voice wants to be loud,
be heard above the creeping gloom.
Like a soprano in chapel air
rising to hush the cobweb doubt.
A hostess flees from her abode,
the ballroom of a Danube tune,
that weightless waltz of gowns. Her prayer
in flame warming the garret ghost.
A little voice soars to the clouds.
Joy whispers in shivers of spiders.
Phil Wood was born in Wales. He studied English Literature at Aberystwyth University. He has worked in statistics, education, shipping, and a biscuit factory. He enjoys watercolour painting, bird watching, and chess. His writing can be found in various places, including: Ink Sweat and Tears,The Dirigible Balloon, The Wild Word.
Chapel on the Porch
Strangers gathered late afternoon on the porch
under pines, overlooking a lake.
A divorcee, one on the brink of, another happily married
one whose job it was to marry, a nun once married
one who never married. We were different. We were the same.
Wine was poured, bread broken
stories of great love, great suffering were passed.
We placed the doses of wisdom on our tongues
chewed, swallowed hope.
I’m gluttonous. Pocket every crumb falling
for the days that I’m starving.
I look around, see the splendor in this unlikely mix.
There are days when the world holds your hand
looks you in the eye, nods and says, I see you.
I am you.
Angela Hoffman lives in Wisconsin. Her poetry has appeared in Solitary Plover, Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets’ Museletter and Calendar, Agape Review, Verse-Virtual, Visual Verse, Your Daily Poem, and Writing In A Woman’s Voice. Her first chapbook (Resurrection Lily, Kelsay Books) is scheduled for release in 2022.
So many layers of silence wrap this dark
it’s hard imagining a sound inside
could work its way through them in just one night.
Such quiet clears the mind, down to the stark
and bell-shaped cavern where old phantoms hide
no longer fit to frighten or take flight.
Such clarity can’t last. Yet while it does
it echoes with its silent ancestors
in memory of brisk streams that cut through rock
the flocks above on hillsides never heard.
A summons to a world that never was
can’t be resisted. Lush or barren shores,
dense wood or desert, each confers that shock
from outside saying something has occurred.
We cannot do without the dark, the hush,
the uncreated world, the undipped brush.
Dan Campion‘s poems have appeared previously in Amethyst Review and in Light, Poetry, Rolling Stone, and many other journals. He is the author of Peter De Vries and Surrealism (Bucknell University Press) and coeditor of Walt Whitman: The Measure of His Song (Holy Cow! Press). A selection of his poems was issued by the Ice Cube Press in July 2022: https://icecubepress.com/2021/10/01/a-playbill-for-sunset/
I plastered leaf with spit to
My bare breast, it fell to
The earth, drenched in
My feeble attempt.
Desperately, I drew silt –
Still, it did not stay.
Stuck in a thickening crust
He handed me piercing
Bone and stiff vine
Together, we wove –
Hoping for bird feathers,
Danielle Page is a truth-teller, writer, and educator. When she’s not reading up on composition theory, she’s scribbling in her moleskine journal or hiking a mountainous trail. Her work has appeared in the Whale Road Review, Calla Press, Poetry Pacific, and elsewhere.
the womb of light,
under the stars
we gaze at fire.
In the circle
how a forest
speaks to itself,
leaf to root to
synapse shoot –
the magic of it,
Over embers we toast
life in the afterglow.
And then we go
as fire fades
into the night –
born into a
the one from
which we came.
Dominic Palmer grew up near Oxford and studied at the University of Cambridge, which means he never fails to vicariously win (or lose) the annual Boat Race. He now lives in Manchester with his wife, teaches English in a secondary school, and enjoys cycling, gardening, and playing music.
The Spirit Sky
The dark half falls off a hummingbird’s wing;
the light half shines through its eye.
A hawk flies out
from its nest in the sun
and the weather sends a shower
of mourning doves.
a piece of sky come down to Earth
and morning opens wide
the window. The mountain tumbles through,
pulling moods behind it
from the gleam of optimism at
a cloud’s golden edge
to the doubt in a rumor of storms.
There’s a blue desert
beyond vision’s reach.
Fiery first light
burns in the east: a quiet prelude
whose fanfare is glitter
rising from the far
Over city, over
wooded lands and shining cottonwoods
and where the hills
cannot rise any higher
clouds begin building
their layers of shadow and rain
above the Gray Hawk’s cry
that pierces the air
with a monsoon breeze combing
his feathers and an itch
in the claw that holds
to a bough.
building. Cymbals flash
light and sound together
for as long as the universe
grants rain to the land.
Along the road
across open country
that offers itself to heat and
infinity, the view takes flight
and goes on and on to sunset
when history rises from the canyon
red as the rock of its walls
and for minutes every day
the dusk transmits the signal
Afternoon’s last lizard
climbs the backyard wall
up and ever closer to the clouds
that mass above the rooftops
as continents of steam and light
with foothold enough
when the tail turns into lightning.
A thirsty mountain
rolls over in its sleep
and the animals who live there
begin their nighttime wanderings
flash by flash
with the bones
inside them shining. Even on
a quiet street there’s drama in the moment
a lonely heart knocks twice
at evening’s door
in hopes of finding solace there
when the spirit’s glow holds on
to the ridgeline as long as it can
before the great horned call
speaks soul to soul
and night has a wingspread as wide
as the world.
in the tame world: no borders
in the mind. Instructions arrive
from a storehouse of dreams
the storm begins to gallop
word comes from above
that thunder is the sky praying.
David Chorlton is a transplanted European, who has lived in Phoenix since 1978. His poems often reflect his affection for the natural world, as well as occasional bewilderment at aspects of human behavior. His newest collection of poems is Poetry Mountain from Cholla Needles Arts and Literary Library in southern California.
The Virgin Martyr
It wasn’t just that she refused to doff
Her honor to a lie so she might live.
What really pissed her persecutors off
Was that her love did nothing positive
For the economy. Why not do what
Her father said? He wanted her to be
A dowry not some flitting spirit’s slut.
Instead, her lap and torso formed a C
Around the unknown life that entered her
When she was praying all alone one day
Beside a lily. When she felt it stir,
To get it out they burned the C away,
But only saw a mote. Nobody knew
It was the seed of charity that grew.
Andrew Frisardi is a Bostonian living in central Italy. His most recent books are Ancient Salt: Essays on Poets, Poetry, and the Modern World (Wipf & Stock) and The Harvest and the Lamp (Franciscan UP). His annotated translation of Dante’s Convivio was recently reissued in paperback by Cambridge UP.
—for Joe Bruchac and Jerry Ramsay
O plumed, light-shot fountain. Hydraulics of the Holy. O!
As a kestrel hovers, wingtips quivering
on unmoving air, so the lullaby
levitated, feathery. Or a trace
of sound of footfall on the forest floor
in spruce-green Monhegan’s Cathedral Woods.
So much depending on the interplay
of melody and drone, his listeners drawn
in, borne aloft, an ancient weightlessness.
When the Abenaki storyteller
finished, he put away the chambered flute,
lifted a water bottle, & gazed down,
briefly, before sipping it. Not thinking,
but a prayer, he told us, to the Spirit
who’d granted Creation the sacred spring.
In the quiet after, a friend told me
he’d recently placed a kestrel box
in Bucks County, where the Holicong Road
meets Quarry. Where the underground river
ran beneath the feet of the Lenape.
Where every September from my third-floor
window I’d see the aged sugar maple
on that corner heralding fall, lifting
copious gallons of water to shimmer
its gold-vermilion leaves, & at night, when
I lay sleeping, releasing an outflow
back into the soil, so the wildflowers
rioted around it. O plumed, light-shot
fountain. Hydraulics of the Holy. O!
Steve Myers has published a full-length collection, Memory’s Dog, and two chapbooks. A Pushcart Prize winner, he has recently published poems in journals such as Callaloo, Hotel America, Paterson Literary Review, The Southern Review,Tar River Poetry and Valley Voices.
Jesus with No Hands
In front of Ascension Church
in New York City
is a statue of Jesus.
White folds are carved down
in a curve to naked feet.
His hands are missing.
Did someone chop off his hands?
Could the plaster no longer bear
the weight of his open arms?
An old woman stands before Jesus.
A bandage of rosary beads
are wrapped around her hand.
Maybe she’s praying
for the hands to be returned
so all will be whole
on 107th Street.
Christine Penney lives in New York City. She co-wrote and performed a one- woman show on the life of German activist/artist Kaethe Kollvitz. She acted in theater productions in the Bay Area and NYC. Recently she had several poems published with Hole in the Head Review and in Porter Gulch Journal. Readings include the Poets and Writers intergenerational Program and Goddard Riverside for Women’s Month.