Author Archives: Sarah

Photographs in the Book


You tire after
paging through Treasures of the Buddha,
while I read captions and fill in
some anecdotal information, 
such as Avalokiteshvara being a bodhisattva
with many arms so as to be able
to embrace all those who suffer,
which makes me grateful for my two arms
and how I try to support you
through your further descent
into your narrative into unknowing.
You say that you want to be noticed
for what you know too so I acquiesce
and you interpret what you see
from the photographs in the book 
to what patients are doing in their event circle,
when I say aloud, “I hope these images
nourish you and find their way into your dreams.”
After I walk you back to your room
I assist you into your bed but you resist;
you are aware our time together  
for the day is over, yet you are overtaken 
by exhaustion, nearly immediately go to sleep.
Driving home, I feel the tug of your absence.



Wally Swist’s recent essays, poems, and translations have appeared in Chicago Quarterly Review, Commonweal, Helaling Muse, Illuminations, Pensive, and Your Impossible Voice. Forthcoming titles include If You’re the Dreamer, I’m the Dream: Selected Translations from The Book of Hours, from the poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, from Finishing Line Press. Kelsay Books will publish his book, Aperture, poems regarding his wife’s struggle with Alzheimer’s, in the summer of 2025. His book Huang Po and the Dimensions of Love (Southern Illinois University Press, 2012) won the 2011 Crab Orchard Poetry Prize.

Prayer

After William Morris’ blown glass sculpture, Standing Stone, 1985 
(photo by Christina Hulet)

The mighty glass sculpture stands tall 
on its pedestal. Its milky white surface 
translucent, more moonstone than pearl.
I see how it radiates the museum’s spotlight 
as if lit from within. How the smooth, steady
ridges widen base to top, drawing my eyes up.

It reminds me how much I wait for You
to call me by name, to tap me on the shoulder, 
and deliver map and compass and comfort food.
Send me angels, I say, with megaphones and flares. 
Light my path, I beg, even if just with votive candles. 
But all I hear You say is: Be still. Be you.

Christina Hulet lives on Bainbridge Island, Washington with her husband and two boys. She has spent her career doing public policy and community work, including as policy advisor to a former Governor, as an elected school board member, and through her business helping organizations improve outcomes in health care, equity, and other initiatives. She has participated in several poetry workshops, including through Fishplate Poetry and Poets on the Coast.

Decommissioned

Echoes of ancient hymns 
and hushed words of worship mingle 
with dust motes that float above obsolete pews. 
Only the kneeling pads, finely stitched
with names in elaborate script,
remain as proof of a long-gone parish. 

Outside, beside the lychgate, a For Sale board 
offers permission to convert,
not to some obscure religious cult
but to flats with plans for inner walls 
that would slice from nave to apse
creating compact homes for the retired. 

One flat would boast the chancel window,
its still-vivid stained-glass panels 
depicting Jesus surrounded by disciples. 
Here nights would be filled 
with the gentle harmonies
of hymns and Gregorian chants.

Another flat would contain the small side window
that some say was propped open for lepers
who, returning from Holy Land to lazar house,
would seek reconciliation and forgiveness,
the window allowing confession at a distance. 
Here nights would shiver with the uncanny.

Today the For Sale board leans
against a lichen-pocked headstone
whose inscription is worn smooth with age.
Potential developers have viewed, 
considered and declared the site unsuitable 
without quite knowing why.

Rosalind Adam’s poetry has been published in a variety of magazines including Allegro, Green Ink, The Copperfield Review, The Pomegranate, The Ekphrastic Review, and Under the Radar. She is the author of three children’s books and has had short stories and articles published in a number of UK periodicals. In 2018 she was awarded a distinction for her MA in Creative Writing at The University of Leicester.

The Swell

Sitting in an indigo
faux leather chair, 
I am thirty thousand feet 
up in the air.
And it is too dark 	
to read a magazine,
and I am too
careful with how
I am perceived	
to press the dolphin
grey bulb hanging        
over me. Siloed
in my insecurity,
my heart is
pacing, racing
through seas of sky.

Staring out the porthole
on the starboard side
of this small plane,
I see the spark	
of every soul 
stipple the flat land
west of the Mississippi.
With mottled strokes,
each trim and slick 
their oil wicks to say:
this darkness now
is not our home,	
one flame is dim,
but not alone.

And from this lofty
point of view,
a tapestry unveils
this buoyant coup—
against the swell
of swirling night.
We are anchored
by the light.	

John McMeans is a transplant to the Texas Panhandle, where he lives with his wife and sons. He received a degree in Geography and works for Refugee Language Project (refugeelanguage.org). His writing has appeared in Amethyst Review, Texas Poetry Assignment and elsewhere. You can find him on social media @jsmcmeans.

Calling at Night


When he phones his daughter
In San Diego
Or his oldest friend
In Philadelphia
His first words
Will be exuberant
To avoid sounding vulnerable,
To conceal the fear
That he will close his eyes
And never open them again.
Instantly their voices
Soothe his spirit
As it becomes a blue rose
He will name Tenderness
For the affection
He will always offer—
He has never once
Picked a rose
From his garden,
Wanting each one
To live, to gradually
Unfold into light.

Michael Miller’s poems have appeared in The Kenyon Review, The Sewanee Review, The Yale Review, and Raritan. His new book, War Zone, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

Light

From beyond, darkness looms.
Not seen but felt, its tentacles 
threaten to entwine me.
I spread my arms wide,
slide down the dew-dampened hill,
dive toward the horizon,
and crash into the hard sky.
I feel its cerulean blue
crack into pieces, each piece curled
like in a sunbaked lake bed.
My bones crushed,
I slide easily between the cracks
and glide into the dark universe
spotted with starlight.
I swallow the light of each bright star
until only I shine.
Now I, my Self, am made full 
with His Light.

Cynthia Pitman from Orlando, Florida is the author of three poetry collections: The White Room, Blood Orange, and Breathe (Aldrich Press, Kelsay Books). Her work has been published in Vita Brevis anthologies Pain and Renewal, Brought to Sight & Swept Away, Nothing Divine Dies, What is All This Sweet Work?, in journals Amethyst Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Third Wednesday (One Sentence Poem finalist), Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art (Pushcart Prize fiction nominee), Red Fez (Story of the Week) and others.

Blue Moon

Someone told me tonight was the night
There would be a blue moon.
So wakeful at 2am, I went to see and it’s true
It wasn’t blue, but it was hanging there
Vast and rather scary, in its size and majesty.
I thought I’d make a cup of freshly brewed tea 
And savor the taste of tea and moon
And soak in whatever magnetic or magic rays, 
Extending towards me and earth on this special night.
The man in the moon must have thought it was a game
A fun hide and seek peek because as I disappeared to stew
The aromatic leaves, the moon disappeared behind murky cloud
Teasing me with rays, with phantom silver light, still bright enough
I could make my way back to bed, disappointed.
I had the promise of a rare moment, of a celestial sighting 
But it winked at me just for a moment. 
It’s like life, I think. Rare appearances of beauty, mystery, magic
Making a sleepless and sheet-tossed night, special.
Frustrating. Leaving me regretful. 
Wanting more.

Wendy Westley was a successful nurse, midwife and therapist for many years in the UK. She now writes short stories and poetry. 

Heartfast
after the visions of Catherine of Siena

The color of beloved is red. I’ve bathed in it, his lambsblood—
	worn his foreskin ‘round my
finger; what better gift is there for a lordsbride than four 
	wounds: father, son, holy spirit—I
knifed my hair, threw food in the fire, wrapped my mother’s
	wishes ‘round the legs of fledglings 
	and shoved
	them from the nest.

If the mind is a cell, then what is a heart? A pyre made by blue
	wefts, palm-eerie, so easily snuck out
of a chest. I neglected it—scarletstone of my own, I prayed
	for hollowness, for the whirl of ashes,
prayed for cleanness notyetseen. Christ-beloved planted a thrum
	with his thumb. His holy heart so hot—
	wanted by all 
	but buried in me. 
.
I try to speak of it, but the tongue does not know this dance. I
	can show you, instead, my flesh: ribscar 
smiling beneath my breast. Touch these bones after I am dead.
	Starlight is but a dew drop compared
to God’s love, hot. I spend hours seeking to name it. My heart. 
	My whispering bloodpeach. Christ
	tells it a secret
	before he hides it in his sleeve.
 

Kale Hensley is a West Virginian by birth and a poet by faith. You can keep up with them at kalehens.com.

Shrine

The deeper in our cave we go, the more
the nature of a shrine comes clear. A house
on stilts, a cabin on a Blue Ridge slope,
a lodge in view of Everest, the same.
A wikiup, a yurt, a sidewalk tent,
the same. A white house, red house, blue house: shrines,
cenotaphs, and sometime mausoleums.
Some people think of them as coliseums
where rivalries play out, bright armor shines
and clashes until every strength is spent.
Some people light a candle, watch the flame,
see promise in it or, at least, a hope
for friend or sibling, parent, child, or spouse.
I feed the fire to hear the heartwood roar.

Dan Campion’s poems have appeared previously in Amethyst Review. He is the author of A Playbill for Sunset (Ice Cube Press, 2022), The Mirror Test (MadHat Press, 2024), and the monograph Peter De Vries and Surrealism (Bucknell University Press, 1995). He is a coeditor of the anthology Walt Whitman: The Measure of His Song (Holy Cow! Press, 1981; 2nd ed. 1998; 3rd ed. 2019). His poetry has appeared in Able Muse, Light, Measure, Poetry, Rolling Stone, Shenandoah, THINK, and many other journals.

Neo Native

They leave as soon as they have stretched
and purchased gasoline and maybe food

at truck stops on the interstate.
“It’s hot –  can we go now?” is all the children say,

confirming what they all agree –
they cannot wait to leave.

I was like them once.  I came and

smelled the heat-perspiring rocks
and saw the overwhelming sun.

Blind to arid beauty,
I could not see the desert for the sand –

the cactus for the thorn.
But as I stayed, I saw the desert’s soul unwind

in days of warm abounding light
and nights of sapphire dark,

with bright … unnumbered … myriads … of stars.
I came to see that I am of this land –

that I am also made of dust.

Richard West was Regents’ Professor of Classics in a large public university and has published numerous books, articles, and poems under his own name and other pen names. He now lives with his wife Anna in the beautiful American Desert Southwest, where he enjoys cooking and attempting to add flavor to his poems.