Author Archives: Sarah

For the Sorrowing

There is a tree down by the river.

By a stubborn piece of bark
a solitary branch clings to its trunk.

We are so frail,
yet by a stubborn piece of hope
we cling to a life dug deep.
At a given moment
we may be seized
by a wind so strong,
or ice so cold,
or heat so unbearable
that it may be too much.

Too much.

But let it not be so much
for the wayward mercy,
which comes
following
on a wing of the breeze,
that bears us up
in our sorrows,

and returns us
to our joy.

.

Melissa Chappell is a writer native to South Carolina where she lives on land that has been in her family for over 130 years. Besides writing, she also loves music, and plays guitar, piano, and lute. Music and the land are her great inspirations. She lives with her family and two miniature schnauzers.

Who Stopped?

Forgetting begins
when we leave
a world of beauty, belonging,
imagination;
tactile closeness to clouds,
the stars, the leaves;
as if there’s no separation;
no distance to travel.
Reaching, reaching
yearning to touch; reunite.

We turn from the world that is a net;
a weave that holds us all;
all things.
Remember when you’d lie spread-eagle
looking at the sky,
and it was there for you;
rushed to meet you,
close as an embrace.
Who stopped hugging first?

Marjorie Moorhead writes from a New England river valley, surrounded by mountains and four season change. She is an AIDS survivor, and mother, who tries for a daily reverent walk. Finding a voice in poetry has brought Marjorie much joy, and a needed sense of community. Her work is found online at many journal sites, in several anthologies, and two chapbooks.

Southwark Cathedral

If the gnarled veined fingers
Of an old grey man,
Stretched up a hundred feet
Above my head,
With fingers interlaced,
And nails silver painted,
And wrists all decorated,
By the dead

Then I could believe
I was in the cathedral,
And it may say something
For the soul of stone,
That the cool crisp vaulting
Still conveys some benediction
From the trees outside
To the carved oak throne.

And the snarling gryphons
In their bright new livery
Watch the snarling traffic
In its jostling lanes,
But the cathedral echoes
To the peace of plenty.
And the organ echoes
With the growl of trains.

.

Edward Alport is a proud Essex Boy and retired teacher. He occupies his time as a gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry published in a variety of webzines and magazines. When he has nothing better to do he posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse.

The Second Hand

Names leap ahead like hunting hounds,
with the belief they clear the road
of the journey’s unexpected obstructions.
— Luljeta Llshanaku

When a mountain was reshaped by a wing,
coins fell from an emptied pocket,
and a second hand
shaped by Buddha’s breath
paused.

Names fell away as a gate opened
within an emptied jar. Ahead
a radiance, obscuring
thought, action, remorse.

Mirrors mirrored nothing;
words unrequired.

And when the second hand
turned again, Buddha paused
at the edge of a stream,
to watch our names sprout
from the loam at his feet.

Joseph Murphy has been published in numerous literary journals and authored four poetry collections, The Shaman Speaks, Shoreline of the Heart, Having Lived and Crafting Wings. He is a member of the Colorado Authors’ League; for eight years was poetry editor for a literary publication, Halfway Down the Stairs.

This Wasn’t What I Thought

Not orange leaves, but wings
called wanderer—black-veined brown
found resting  on winter’s lawn.

Perfectly still— this monarch blends
in. No harm done, in spite of its weight;
its barbed feet anchored to sand.

Left untouched, meaning
this wasn’t what I thought—
that I have never truly understood

how insignificant death is until it happens.

M.J. Iuppa’s fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017).For the past 31 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.

The Uncertain Samaritan

The little brown bat was in my study
under my hat. I’d made a bat house for them
but it had never occurred to me that
one of them would work its way inside and
up the staircase to find its own dark place.

We took it to one of the windows,
opened the screen and placed it on a ledge,
hoping it wasn’t deranged by rabies,
and left it to find again the bat house.

There were no injuries that we could see,
no innkeeper to pay for food and wine,
and little chance that I’d ever see it again.

John J. Brugaletta edited South Coast Poetry Journal for ten years. He has published seven volumes of his own poems, the latest of which is Selected Poems (Future Cycle Press, 2019).

Feminist Angelus
Our Lady

Hail Mary
Woman of power
Prophet of God
Bringer of light
All generations have called you blessed
As mother
Lover
Resistance fighter
Pray for us as we turn to you

Gabriel reached out to Mary,
And trembling asked if she could, world
Yes,
she hugged her knees tight
And her belly became full

Hail Mary
Woman of power
Prophet of God
Bringer of light
All generations have called you blessed
As mother
Lover
Resistance fighter
Pray for us as we turn to you

Smoking by the bike sheds
Kissing boys with immature lips
Carrying, holding nurturing God
Her body shifting with fearful joy

Hail Mary
Woman of power
Prophet of God
Bringer of light
All generations have called you blessed
As mother
Lover
Resistance fighter
Pray for us as we turn to you

Through anger and shame
Hiding God under a school skirt
There came a light
Gushing waters of hope, and a gentle cry
That turned the world upside down

Hail Mary
Woman of power
Prophet of God
Bringer of light
All generations have called you blessed
As mother
Lover
Resistance fighter
Pray for us as we turn to you

Mary
Hold us like you held your baby,
A cry in one hand, bottle in the other
Those late nights when we encounter Christ, step by step
As mothers
Lovers
Resistance fighters

Always turning to you

Lu Skerratt is a non binary Anglican exploring embodiment through Christian leadership and queer non conforming experiences of faith. They are currently doing a DthM at Durham University looking at bodies and boundaries at the Eucharistic table, and are part of St Mark’s, Sheffield.

Bestowal

Have been waiting atiptoe
for a correction to take place.
It is hunky-dory or not doable?
In such a tenure
is griffonage ready to record
a thank-you-note to oneself?

Markings predate us.
Only those who are wet
behind the ears
envision it another way.
Ingenerate fealty is His grant.
Welcome it with winsomeness.

Sanjeev Sethi is published in over 25 countries. He has more than 1200 poems printed or posted in venues around the world. Wrappings in Bespoke, is Winner of Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux organized by the Hedgehog Poetry Press UK. It’s his fourth book. It will be issued in 2020. He lives in Mumbai, India.

If I Wake

If I wake up to a knock
at the door, I will need to
pull the resin from my eyes—

My partner will ask if I
heard the noise. I won’t
understand what he says
at first as my nerves try

to regain life

after a deep sleep in which I
dreamt of an event in my honor
that I was unable to get to no
matter how hard I tried.

The knocking will stop but I will
get out of bed anyway,
remembering
very suddenly the night
before when I was driving

in my car,

my dog asleep in the backseat,
the sound of her breath
synonymous
with the slow-growing grass
near the side of the road.
I will remember the way my
skin felt full of oxygen and
words. I will think of the

people I heard earlier who
spoke about mothers and
fathers and children and
brothers and nieces.

When I wake up, I will
recognize the teeth in
my mouth as a kind of
faith, a place of

strength and blood.

Kristin LaFollette is a writer, artist, and photographer and is the author of the chapbook, Body Parts (GFT Press, 2018). She is a professor at the University of Southern Indiana (Evansville, IN, USA) and serves as the Art Editor at Mud Season Review. You can visit her on Twitter at @k_lafollette03 or on her website at kristinlafollette.com.

Marcescent Leaves

Snow is only on mountain peaks;
their sides are brown, most trees barren.
Oak leaves stay on low branches;
slow wind turns them east. Lake also
flows slowly, like our slowing,
our white hair, old clinging.
These dry leaves still hold their form,
some function serve though green is gone.
What life they have is all that’s known―
tree, water, blue sky, birds and lake,
to stay in this strange paradise
until harsh message sent―release.
Oak tree slowly frees the leaf;
our bodies take the spirit.

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Joan M. Howard’s poetry has appeared  in  the Aurorean,  Lucid Rhythms, The Road Not Taken: The Journal of Formal Poetry, The Deronda Review, Victorian Violet  Press,  POEM, The Wayfarer, Mezzo Cammin and other literary journals. She has written two books: Death and Empathy: My Sister Web in 2017 and  Jack, Love, and the Daily Grail  published by Kelsay Books. Joan is a former teacher with an MA in German and English Literature and is a member of the North Carolina Writers’ Network (www.netwestwriters.blogspot.com) and Georgia Poetry Society, She enjoys birding and kayaking on the beautiful waters of Lake Chatuge near Hiawassee.