Author Archives: Sarah

The Coventry Carol				

Herod the king, in his raging,
Chargid he hath this day
His men of might in his own sight
All yonge children to slay 


a paper boat
on an ocean
the weight of a baby
in your arms

out of the night
come angels 
wise men
and the death squad

the dream
the nightmare 
happen in the dark
hinterland of Christmas

ruthless power
strikes fast
strikes all
Childermas

inside information
flight
exile and biding time
the strategies of the escapee

who never imitates
the warlord tactics
who lets the level in the desert cistern
rise slowly, over thirty years

knowing new men of might
will smash in
achieve the kill 
provoke the overflow

Angela Graham is from Northern Ireland. In Wales she has had a long career as a film maker. She now divides the year between both places. Her collection of poetry, Sanctuary: There Must Be Somewhere was published by Seren Books in 2022 and her collection of short stories, A City Burning in 2020.

Slowness

Thankfulness overspills from the gold
Rim and royal purple of this day’s low
Dawning. On the din of not yet un-
Differentiated clamor of clouds stray
Marbling streaks. None of it could be
Eyed head-on, no scald for nakedly
Receiving day, almost before it’s so
Launched. Slowness becomes our
Dictum.

G. E. Schwartz, former senior researcher for the New York State Assembly, lives on the banks of the Genesee River, Upstate New York. He is the author of Only Others Are (LEGIBLE PRESS), THINKING IN TONGUES (Hank’s Loose Gravel Press), Odd Fish (Argotist Press), Murmurations (Foothills Press), and The Very Light We Reach for (LEGIBLE PRESS), and has work in or forthcoming in Dappled Things, America Magazine, Dakota Quarterly, Alaska Quarterly, Comstock Review, Talisman, etc.

Offering

I scan the shoreline, shuffling in and out of waves, 
sifting through shell fragments. I spot one, 
wrapped in a wad of purple kelp—a sand dollar—
whole, crisp, chalk white in a gray-brown array 
of crushed conchs, chipped edges, holes and half cockles. 
My finger traces the smooth, sloped surface. 
Five slits surround five gray petals with perfect 
radial symmetry. I imagine fashioning an ornament—
soaking it in a bucket of bleach, slipping a ribbon 
through the top slit—or slathering it with paint, 
setting it on my bookshelf in a delicate silver stand. 
When I return to the boat, my hands cup several sand dollars, 
sun-warmed, stacked in my palm. I toss all but one 
to the foaming waves. The sea swallows, obliged.

Evangeline Sanders is an MFA student at the University of Alabama and a graduate of Clemson University, where she received degrees in psychology and Spanish. Her poetry chapbook, Flight of the Quetzal, was published with Finishing Line Press in November 2023. Evangeline’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in several literary journals, both print and online, including Sky Island Journal and Delta Poetry Review. Much of her current work engages with biblical themes and the natural world. She teaches undergraduate English classes and serves as an Assistant Editor for the Black Warrior Review in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

Cathedral 

Beautiful the light, the glass.  
Easy to forget once the 
sanctuary empties, all 
those dynamics of art: light 
throwing shifting colors 
that flicker over faces 
raised in song and praise.  

Not the same praise as sunrise 
or bird song, or even the 
turtle’s head, breaking the pond’s 
surface as he scrabbles up 
the side of the fallen log
to bask in reflected heat,
stretching himself up to warm
in summer’s blaze of sun.

But it’s the best I can do 
stretching up toward this glory
in houses of stone, steel, glass.
By grace, maybe close enough.

K.L. Johnston is an author, poet, and photographer whose work has appeared in numerous literary magazines, anthologies, and travel journals as well as a photo illustrated book of meditations.  She holds a degree in English and Communications from the University of South Carolina and her wide-ranging interests contribute to her writing and art.  Her work explores the connections of humanity with the physical, spiritual, and liminal places she has stumbled into in her travels and in her own back yard.   She devotes her unscheduled time to writing and satisfying her curiosity about people and this planet. You can find out more by visiting her Facebook page “A Written World”.

What the Stars Want To Tell Us

The stars, a rowdy, cheerful crowd,
ran to their places, prompt to the call,
and how they sing! since then,
a nightly choir.
Only the comets, their slow tears,
betray the sorrow underneath that steadfastness
for haven’t they seen it all?
− what we do down here,
warping the darkness that they love
into sly coverts for our filthiness.
Poor stars. Don’t grudge them their reprieve
each year, when their paragon, 
their Star of stars, leader of kings,
sets out once more and triumphs,
finds his place, finding the child,
perfect as every new-born.
Here! the Star declares to each of us,
Surely you see – surely – that you
are a Child Awaited,
arrived, naked and beloved, and you,
gift-bearer of nothing,
can stoop under the lintel,
step clean through the needle’s eye.

Angela Graham is from Northern Ireland. In Wales she has had a long career as a film maker. She now divides the year between both places. Her collection of poetry, Sanctuary: There Must Be Somewhere was published by Seren Books in 2022 and her collection of short stories, A City Burning in 2020.

Winter Solstice 

Dawn brushes pink skies.
Birdbath is hard as iron. 
Feathered and furred critters 
peek from bushes and evergreens.   
A squirrel digs through snow dust. 
Deck cap rails frost glazed. 
Bird bowl frozen—a sparrow
perches on the edge
eying a rival’s reflection—
pecks at it, flits away. 
I study the spectacle from my kitchen nest.
They’ll fend without my help. Always have.  
Too damn cold to step to the porch for birdseed.

The radio plays In The Bleak Mid-Winter . . . 
I sigh, open the sliding-glass door. Breath fogs.
I grab birdseed, step down treacherous stairs,  
pour trails of seed on the cap rails, and fill
a bowl with warm water. All is silent as a stone. 
Dashing up, close the door, and soon a Tit lands, 
feasts and a Yellow Finch joins. They scatter when
a gluttonous Jay lands, promenades and primps until
an alpha crow alights—Jay zooms to a distant yard.  
I burst the door open; the crow vanishes in chilly haze.  
A Cardinal scavenges for a few last sunflower seeds.
 “If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb.”

Peter Venable has written sacred and secular verse for many decades. He’s appeared in Ancient Paths, Prairie Messenger, The Christian Century, The Merton Seasonal, Windhover, and forthcoming in Soul-Lit. He is a septuagenarian, happily married, “Poppy” to two granddaughters, a Christ follower, and volunteers at a prison camp. His Jesus Through A Poet’s Lens is available at Amazon. He is at petervenable.com and on FB.

Journeying

Of course I wasn’t there.

But I know that there was a shift in the universe
that shafted into this world and its understandings.

You can give me a hundred reasons for believing otherwise.

Sensible reasons.

Rational reasons.

I enjoy the turning of the earth at the winter solstice,
when the dark begins to be defeated
and the planet edges back to the light again.

I can see how you would feel there is nothing 
more mysterious going on.

I stand at the top of the cold hill on
the edge of the Pennines.
Stare at the same stars as you do
knowing that their shining is because they 
have been burnt up to a crisp 
and the news of planetary passing is still
coming through to us. 

Quite straightforward.

But as I let the hugeness of that understanding
sink into my being,
I try to settle myself into listening …
leaning in towards the asking of the question.

It is uncomfortable to me 
to live in a desert darkness of believing in nothing
whilst ignoring the hunched figures on camels
driving hard towards Bethlehem 
guided by the brightness of a single lode star

that I can see too.


Viv Longley has been writing for her own pleasure since she was a child.  Later in life she undertook an MA in Creative Writing at The Open University, specialising in poetry. As well as having one collection (Tally Sheet, Currock Press, 2021) she is undertaking a number of collaborative publications, notably, Daughters of Thyme. She is also preparing a second collection of her own and a number of essays – the latter to be called I am in a Hurry. 'Now nearing my 80’s, you just never know how much time you have left!'

Driving in a Storm, She Practices  


She has given up predicting the weather
but has to catch herself now:
Will it be visibility zero 
going over the mountain like last time?
Icy rain hammers nails into the windshield, 
trucks rustle white mist from the road, 
her ninety-mile-an-hour 
wipers can’t keep up.

She’s learning to disappear time
by paying no attention to when 
she might arrive. 

Now sunshine, pavement barely damp. 
She breathes, Oh good.

But here’s another sleetstorm—
tires float, wanting to hydroplane.
She slows to twenty-five. 
Ungrips the wheel. It’s all good. 
Ahead, Wolfpen Ridge wears
a gray shawl fringed with hail.

She’s learning to stay present
by keeping her ear on the radio.
S-curves begin as La Bohème concludes:
Mimi is dying but dying beautifully. 
Violins and Rudolfo cry, 
and the little black car flies over
the mountain, tires singing on dry road. 
Clouds brighten to white. 

Karen Paul Holmes has two poetry books, No Such Thing as Distance (Terrapin) and Untying the Knot (Aldrich). Her poems have appeared on The Writer’s Almanac, The Slowdown, and Verse Daily. Publications include Diode, Plume, and Valparaiso Review. She has twice been a finalist for the Lascaux Review’s Poetry Prize. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, USA and spends time in the Blue Ridge Mountains. 

Winter Solstice

I've always envied bears
who, fattened on fish, wild honey, and fruit,
hibernate in their dens all winter
oblivious to discomfort
and eruptions of feeling.

It would be nice not to be cold,
not to deal with the layered bondage of clothes,
the heaving of heavy snow,
and the bone-splintering,
abashing slips on ice.

But being human,
ever the natural antagonist,
I must live unnaturally awake
while the earth sleeps,
resting before the resurrection of spring.

So, in the dark I sit tonight
with a spark from the black sky of stars
burning on a candle, exposed and golden-warm.
Not much against so much frozen night,
but enough so the darkness does not overcome it.

Charles Lewis writes poetry as a way of knowing and unknowing, as prayer and meditation, to share language and feeling, for fun, and because it’s necessary.

Crime Scene

My husband, Jim, and I turn into the parking lot of the small Episcopal church. Full retirement wasn’t my husband’s chosen gig, so a couple of years ago, he became vicar of this church in the city where we retired. Here we are, about to lead the Wednesday morning Bible Study, bickering about something in the drive over as old married couples tend to do. He walks across the street to pick up the mail from the grey, rectangular-domed mailbox, unintentionally making me wait outside to enter the blue-green parish hall. I don’t have a key.

Larry, a member of the congregation who does, pulls his white mini-van into the parking space in an uncharacteristically reckless, speedy fashion. He ignores me and charges across the parking lot, as fast as a fit, 80-year old can, to talk to the man in the van marked “Joe’s Electrical Service.” I pretend to be mellow, as I stand in the sunshine under the blossoming cherry that is long past its spring bloom and wait for someone to open the door. Jim got there eventually.

We walk into a crime scene. I love mystery novels, but I’ll alert you: there is no body, no smeared blood, no mysterious gunshot residue. There is a tall ladder set up at the entrance. We turn the corner, and it takes a minute for our eyes to register what has happened.

Clumps of black dirt are scattered all over the slightly yellowed, linoleum floor. Looking up, I realize that it came from the holes in the popcorn ceiling, made by the heels of clumsy boots walking on the bare flooring of the semi-attic. Bits of shingles, broken lathe have fallen through from the space where the thieves used that first ladder to climb up and steal all the copper wiring from the attic. There is now no power in the little building – no heat, no refrigeration, no point in plugging in the thirty-cup coffee urn that one faithful congregant fires up every Sunday so we can socialize at the round, folding tables after the service. 

Even in its heyday, our little church was the runt of the litter of Episcopal churches in the Pacific Northwest. Instead of a brick-and-mortar social hall attached to the sanctuary, we got a reused, prefabricated, World War II-era mess hall which had outlived its purpose at nearby Ft. Lewis. 

No one living can describe how it got here in 1951, a 100-foot by 600-foot building on the bed of a truck, trundling up the ten miles from the Fort. There was no interstate in those days, so the truck must have waded its way through city streets, cleared of all parked cars, up Pacific Highway South, barely making the corner at Ninety-Sixth Street. What machinery moved the structure off the truck onto the prepared foundation and settled it there on the property where it sits until this day?

Back in the sixties and seventies, there were children and families that worshipped in the church’s sanctuary, across the parking lot from this little building, and ran around on its linoleum floors after church. The kids grew up, found different faiths or no faith and have grandchildren of their own who run around somewhere else now. We are a skeleton church, silently moving forward as one by one our members become less mobile, less alert, die. There are ghosts in the parish hall.

My husband took over in the midst of Covid. When we were able to unZoom our services, we started building friendships, getting to know the worshippers, complete with their foibles, histories, traumas, and relationships. Aging can be an inward-looking process, but with Jim’s encouragement, we added a deacon whose special ministry is to the homeless. The city opened a secure homeless encampment for veterans a mile from the church, everyone got involved, and we started delivering home-cooked meals. 

Positive movement, but when we walked in on Wednesday, the place was trashed. 

All the cupboards were torn open, napkins, plastic plates, miscellany tossed on the floor. The thieves took the carton of Swiss Miss Cocoa but left the big tub of Folgers Coffee. They took all the big garbage bags and the dish towels.

They also tore up Vivian’s artful décor. She had covered each of the tables in the main room with bright yellow fall plastic tablecloths. Fabric leaves, in yellow and green and reds fluttered down the middle as a centerpiece on each, and golden potted chrysanthemums adorned the serving table. She had gussied the place up for Gregg’s funeral. A week before, in a reception for that event, his family and friends sat together in this hall for a late lunch of little egg salad or cream cheese and turkey finger sandwiches that the church ladies had made.

I never met Gregg because he had suffered from advanced dementia since we moved here. His tiny wife, Rhonda, had been caring for him alone since before Covid. The reception was organized by Vivian and the ladies. There was a service in the church, but Rhonda had chosen to say goodbye to her husband at graveside, where the clods fell, by herself. I hoped the dirt and shingles that fell on the décor of his funeral would be cleaned up before she came in the door of the parish hall again.

At least they didn’t get Vivian’s silver. Only the week before, the ladies had been cleaning out the pantry. On the very top shelf, ten feet up, someone discovered a box of silver-plate cups and a tea service, blackened with tarnish. “That’s from my Janie’s first wedding,” Vivian said. “I’d wondered what happened to them.” Janie is now sixty-five. Myself, I’ve researched selling the silver plate I inherited, and it’s not worth anything, but I’m glad the thieves didn’t get Vivian’s.

A week earlier, thieves had stolen a smaller portion of the copper wire. That wiring was in the crawl space under the building, so the destruction wasn’t visible, but that’s why the electrician was there that morning. He was a sturdy working man in his forties, dressed to be able to spend hours in the dingy crawl space and replace the initial missing wires.

“If you find these people, just let me know who they are,” he said. “I grew up around here. I remember this church from when I was a kid. I would drive by and see barbecues and families playing on the lawn. It wasn’t my church, but it was part of my community. People would never have attacked a church then. But just let me handle those guys.”

We opted, instead, to call the police, knowing their response would be supportive but futile. Police staffing is low; there is no way to trace this kind of crime; even if they’re caught, there is little likelihood that the miscreant will go to jail, and the bad guys certainly aren’t in the position to pay restitution. 

The next morning, we had to phone the police again.  At 7:30 my husband had received another call. The side door to the church building itself was wide open.  He jumped in the car and drove the twenty minutes to the parking lot. I sat at home, pretending to write, imagining the same disaster zone in this space we call “sacred,” the altar at the front covered with its floral green frontal, the stained-glass windows memorializing the lives of members who had died, the rows of pews where the Vivians and Gregs and Rhondas and Larrys had sat in responsive worship every Sunday since the high-peaked building was built in the 1960’s. But the invaders had only crow-barred the door and trashed the Vicar’s office. They’d snagged an old laptop. And emptied papers, pulled the sixty years of detritus out of the closet, which I’d been nagging Jim to clean out anyway. The sanctuary was unmarred; the power still on.

How do we respond, as members of a church, as people of faith, as caring humans? Maybe we just let the electrician deal with them. He seems like a pretty tough guy. On Sunday, Jim will tell us that the center of our faith is reconciliation; we will pray for the miscreants. “Love your neighbor.” “If a man asks for your cloak, give him your tunic also”. “Pray for those who despitefully use you.” We will do what we can to non-violently protect our property. New security cameras will be in place, more lighting, more fencing. Maybe the police will drive by once a night. 

I’m thankful I’m one of the very few that walked in on the destruction. I’ve only been here two years; the ghosts in the parish hall don’t talk to me.  I didn’t eat and drink and laugh at Janie’s first wedding, forty-five years ago. The Sunday before the parish hall was trashed, Vivian had stood next to me and told me about how, when Janie’s son, her grandson, died in a car crash, Janie sat on Vivian’s couch for almost five years sunk in a depression. Vivian had been afraid her daughter would never recover. I didn’t cry when she told me, just gently said, “I’m so sorry.” The bone-thin, ramrod straight eighty-five- year-old woman, who only hears you when her hearing aids are working, just said, “I know” and went on to show me pictures of her great grandchildren. 

The Boy Scout troop that meets in the building once a week came in Wednesday night and cleaned up the Parish Hall. Vivian and all the others, living and dead, who sat around the round tables gossiping and planning bazaars and mourning lives long gone will see only pictures of the devastation. Eventually, the wiring will be replaced, the lights turned back on, the holes in the ceiling patched.

The cops tell us this was most likely the work of junkies, looking for money for their next fix. I don’t hate the miscreants, but I would be lying if I said I have the ability to love them or even pity them right now. I don’t have the wisdom to solve the problems of meth and fentanyl that are dehumanizing our community. In my younger days, I might have been self-righteous enough to think there were easy answers to poverty and homelessness and mental illness and crime. 

We can’t give up on solving these problems, but, as I age, I am drained of anger, drained of contempt. Instead, I have a reservoir of sorrow that does extend to Vivian and Rhonda and Janie and the ghosts in the parish hall. It extends to the tired veterans who are moving from a life in the streets and spending a few months in the homeless encampment up the road.  Even if I don’t hate the criminals, the sinners, who tore up our building, the boundaries of that reservoir are not broad enough yet to let me feel any sorrow, let alone love, for them. I know I am disobeying the commandment to love your neighbor. I’m working on it.

Kresha Richman Warnock and her husband, an Episcopal priest,  retired to the Pacific Northwest right before the pandemic hit. Since then she has filled her life writing a memoir and various essays. She has been published in The Brevity Blog, Persimmon Tree, Moss Piglet, Jewish Women of Words, Fahmiddan, Instant Noodles, and the anthologies Pure Slush and American Writer’s Review 2022. For a complete list of her works, please visit her website, http://www. https://kresharwarnock.com/.