Author Archives: Sarah

A Sacred Migration

They arrived from a larvae dimension,
blew past me in a magical blur,
whirling in steadfast discipline,
a zillion yellow, black, and white
migrating butterflies
fluttering in syncopated rhythms.
A series of rapid wing movements
while everything else stood still.

As the Monarchs migrated south,
nothing got in their way.
Not the tall buildings or the oak trees,
or even the dark mysteries crossing the sea.
They were on a sacred mission
to find a warmer place to reside,
to ease their population flow,
and to see the holiest of holy in Mexico.

Mark Tulin is a former family therapist from California.  He has a poetry chapbook, Magical Yogis, and two upcoming books, The Asthmatic Kid, and a poetry collection, Awkward Grace. He has appeared in Fiction on the Web, Free Verse Revolution, Leaves of Ink, among anthologies and podcasts. His website is Crow On The Wire.

Dusting

I always believed there was more to praying than kneeling
or reciting a prayer holding hands. In the silences the hidden
prayers came through. Doubts, sighs, a child
giggling in a pew. I always thought that praying
was more about dusting—wiping greasy
fingerprints off glass doors and sweeping up dried mud.
Not the hymns themselves but about placing
the ribbons back into the hymnals. Vacuuming
the altar, sweeping up cobwebs, brushing off the cross.

Kim Malinowski earned her B.A. from West Virginia University and her M.F.A. from American University. She studies with The Writers Studio. Her chapbook Death: A Love Story was published by Flutter Press. Her work has appeared in Faerie Magazine, War, Literature, and the Arts, Mythic Delirium, and others.

Keen to eat

(Reflecting on Painting: Talitha Kum)

It is the keening I notice,
news cameras eager to record;
though propaganda can call zealots
when scoped drones are on the loose.

Grief is heartfelt naturally –
the west alone not knowing loss –
despite embassy commentaries
or as heard generals observe.
Timed slot cabled to comfort
seeks simple judgement, poorly served.

Yet professional wailing,
crooning women and men, both,
priests following rubrics
told when to beat their breasts,
Hearts bled to correct formula
sharp-cold paid-for keening crowds,
contracted funeral musicians,
are confusions quick dismissed
in the enlightened sleeping room.

Loud crying easily translates
to put-out laughter scorn.
In synoptics’ column piece –
maybe subtle first lunar case –
sleeping, handed little girl
walks secretly, is fed.

Babbling ivory overlook
denies compassion’s way,
and leads to bleeding from the skull,
this old reality.

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from Methodist Church ministry, has had pieces accepted by Nine Muses Poetry; Voices Poetry; Eunoia Review; Runcible Spoon; Ink Sweat and Tears; The Poetry Village; From the Edge; Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry & Allegro Poetry Magazines. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/

Hiking

The antelope looks at me and then runs off, carrying his world in his head. There are hills behind his eyes, secret fields and backyards only he can visit. Suddenly I am back in my original self, watching him bend his neck down to graze and entering a moment of total thoughtlessness: I am nothing, and the only thing that matters is the eternal instant of the present. But once he spots me and runs away, the trees feel even older than before.

Clayton Arble is a poet from Holyoke, Massachusetts.

A Walk Through Orleans Cemetery

Under a parish of birds
headstones limp uphill,
bones arranged in time’s neglect.

Names remembered, Crosbys,
Doanes, and Snows of long ago.
Sea captains, strong wives,
and innocent children,
with lives of storm and joy.

We imagine stories—
epitaphs from the age of sail.

~

Here, lichen covers, damp as sea grass
where all present, set aside
a day honoring a life
prepared for history.

Family by family
arranged in a half-circle,
gathered and stood
shoulders touching
as they laid you down in peace
consoling
and blessing family names as they did.

~

And above,
battered trees watch
then, in an instant

flight,
……..a lifting off of spirit.

Writers, storyteller and educator Judy DeCroce, and husband, artist/writer Antoni Ooto are based in upstate New York.

These two creative souls gather inspiration during their morning poetry sessions where they present, critique and revise their work together over a pot of coffee. (Trader Joe’s Morning Blend)

Judy DeCroce, has been published in Plato’s Cave Online, Amethyst Review, Tigershark Publishing, and CultureCult: Nocturne Anthology.
Antoni Ooto has been published in Soft Cartel, The Ginger Collect, Amethyst Review, Young Ravens Literary Review, and both have been published in many others.

They are collaborating on an upcoming book.

December Meditation

When winter stalks into view

let the fringe of day stir,
finches and bluebirds mimicking the sun

let buds shaped like nails
pierce magnolias waxy leaves, blossom

let the lazy buzz of a wasp
remind you that summer soon greens

let dawn’s chill and later flame
fill you with tomorrow’s promise

KB Ballentine’s fifth collection, Almost Everything,
Almost Nothing, was published in 2017 by Middle Creek Publishing.
Published in Crab Orchard Review and Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal,
among others, her work also appears in anthologies including In Plein
Air (2017) and Carrying the Branch: Poets in Search of Peace (2017).
Learn more at www.kbballentine.com.

Volte-face

Beardless old man’s beard,
unflowered honeysuckle,
brambles dead in alive
above the hillside-cutting path,
hanks entwined,
scrabbling ivy latched
onto sad firs in plantation ranks.

On the brink
shrugging downy oaks
stealing footholds, uninvited also
among this lightless throng;
stationed along the track,
juice-green saucered spurge
targets earth space.

The black-breached bank
sucks in the eye,
tree-dark magnetic paradox
pulls us in to touch the dank,
threatens thorns: keep out
the unrooted, always running,
washing our earth from their hands.

Below, slopes shorn, scattered
rusted iron-black rocks, cold stones
Above, matted grasses slump
fringing the wood barred
by tree heather’s dried bouquets.
One sword lily, shouting Schiaparelli.
If only.
Her spike points another way,
valley-wards,

where crumpled rock roses
inch to the other side,
straddling scree, pink pin-pricked
with thyme, sprigged with lavender,
sprayed with heather
still dabbed in white,
fingertips dipped in cream that tastes of honey,
downy oaks stretching
breeze-swept limbs in light.

Jane Angué teaches English Language and Literature in France. Writing in French and English, work was longlisted for the Erbacce Prize 2018 and 2019 and has appeared most recently in Le Capital des Mots, Ink Sweat & Tears, Acumen and Poésie/première. Her pamphlet des fleurs pour Bach was published in August (Editions Encres Vives).

Gust

Only as I reach the bottom of the long slope
and embrace the curved limbs of the bridge,

does it catch me, in the otherwise stillness,
with a sideways swipe, an unexpected blow

to the ribs, a setting-off of sleeping neurons,
and the car staggers erratically, counterwards

for a second, trampling over the regular dash
of lane-lines. Then a rush. Grabbing for the wheel,

I drop everything I was carrying. All those
oversore words rained down in the tired hours,

with the two of us lying, seething, back-to-back,
stop their continuous, murderous looping.

For a moment, no more whispers of a pain
from deep within; no argument with the gods.

Robert Ford‘s poetry has appeared in print and online publications in the UK, US and elsewhere, including The Interpreter’s House, Brittle Star, Butcher’s Dog and San Pedro River Review. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com/

Precision of the Minute Hand

The dark of October carries my darkness
in an empty birdcage, in not saying a word
to air that whispers incessantly, just below
my ear— dark face to face— I can’t look in-
to the eye of waking in the scent of camphor
& cedar— the fate of keeping something
wrapped in plastic.
…………………………………..For how long?
There, and not there—sad, or is it beautiful
brocade dress— once worn perfectly, and
now who will it fit? Who does this belong
to? Why am I putting it on in the dark?

M.J. Iuppa ‘s fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017).For the past 30 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario.  Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.