Category Archives: Uncategorized

Pie Pellicane
for VM

Then shall the fall further the flight in me. -Herbert

i.
Light with extended wings
unhinged from sluggish dawn
came veering on
feathering waves,

sheering the way a seabird shaves
the wind,
dipping in obverse gleams.
Of each long crumbling dark

the hurtling arc
is like a pelican
skating its own unfazed

reflection,
grazing its mirrored
turns.

Water and light and seabirds
do with ease
what soul learns

hard.


ii.
The ocean baffles thirst
while lines the waves rehearse

stymie my ear
with more than I know how to hear:

light footsteps on the waves,
“It is I” in their octaves.

And how can mortal eyes take in
Christ passing in the pelican?

Watch how reflections totter
where Logos walks on water.

More than I can read’s twice written –
pelican on pelican.


iii.
On my incohesion, 
on my toss, 
on my submergence, 

walk across. 
I am the image faltering. 
Draw me so I'm drawn 

while I erase. 
So that my altering 

poises
in convergence, 

pace 
to pace.

Isabel Chenot has loved, memorised, and practised poetry all her remembered life. Some of her poems are collected in The Joseph Tree, available from Wiseblood Books.

Prepared

I am missing some of me, parts
that Spirit sent perfectly yet
omniscient knew would need
renew, the gracefully sculpted hip
two knees that learned to
freeze and lock, interrupted
ease, crushed to a pulp
pared breasts like 4H fruit
blossomed beyond proportion
a distortion a surgeon repaired
in fact, every modification
improved my life, what may
seem like strife a blessing

should we be addressing
as well the losses we can’t see
the divot in the swell of love
every baby brings, the pluck
the shuck of casual unkindness
the wreck of neglect and sometimes
the awful shudder of crimes mean
and deliberate, those calculated
forays to which none is immune
yet some disintegrate and flatten
while others accept a boon
and, since character fattens,
they have leapt beyond the battens

the soul has laid its course, the
constant plums that come disguised
can be a fortune that we mine
avoid recoil from the test, which may
lead us to our best, and nurture
the hallowed still intact (even when
we have been racked) as another
sort of prayer that will sift the glutted
air, rain benediction meant for you when
a throttling sends a surge that few
expect and cannot ride because fear’s
allowed to squelch the tide   all we
need resides inside for the taking

Rose Bedrosian is a California poet and artist. She received her B.A. in Literature from the University of California, Santa Barbara, where she edited the literary magazine Spectrum and won The Frank W. Coulter Prize for poetry. She was a first-place winner of the Santa Barbara Independent poetry competition. Her work has been widely published and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is the author of the chapbooks The Anatomy of Answered Prayer, Sparkle in the Dark, and What the Spaniel Knows.

 
 "When you leave this earth, you will not
  be able to take with you
  anything that you have received... 
                       Only what you have given."
                          
-- St. Francis of Assisi

S C A T T E R

... Far-flung-- as if, at first strung
from the wind's nail, impaled
on its tempest of time
then freed-- unfurled-- to go
where the Profane 
courts-or-collides
with the ethereal Sublime-- 
either to descend or climb
such stairways, rung by rung.
Above, or Below-- so as to know
those regions where fate
might lure or lead, to then go on
in choice, as both Heart & Voice,
to become, Oneself, the breadth
& scope of an entire driven World.

Marlene M. Tartaglione is an artist whose creativity manifests poetry, children’s literature, visual arts. Her work has appeared in presses nationally & abroad. Ms. Tartaglione has won 4 poetry prizes, her work presented at venues such as the Brooklyn Museum, M.O.M.A, New York Book Fair. Her poem, S C A R E B, has recently been nominated for a 2025 Pushcart Prize. Ms. Tartaglione’s M.B.A. studies were conducted at NYU; Ms. Tartaglione also holds a B.F. A. from the Cooper Union, where she studied with poet/ educator/ scholar, Dr. Brian Swann.

A Prayer

Seconds are history’s dust
seen buoyant in sun-shafts.
We are present, all,
willing or not.

May our particles
be neither dirt, nor glitter,
nor lung-scratching refuse.
but clean silver
even gold,
that we might
reflect. 

Prudence T.K. Vasquez is a poet living and writing in her own quiet Rivendell amidst the misty mountains of southern Appalachia.

Ballad of the Sun’s Stagehand

CDB is a poet from NYC. You can read their serialized poetry collection, scapegoat lessons, on Substack.

Chasing Contentment

You elusive thing, you
essential element of the ordered soul,
paragon of the unhindered life—

You are sedentary, yet I must chase you;
selfless, yet you give of yourself only with struggle

with hard struggle

and so quiet I must drown the world’s enfolding noise 
to hear you whisper ancient wisdom.

Your modest presence adheres to no trends
and seeks no compensation from your followers.

You could never turn a profit
in these days of endless want.

Would that I could slow
my chase enough
to find you.

Annelise St. Clair is a writer and higher education program manager in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Her poetry has previously appeared in The Harvard Ichthus.

Hair Care

Luke’s Gospel assures that 
Even the hairs of your head are numbered.
I think of my mother,
coppery rivulets of dye pooling in the wrinkles of her face
as the colour ‘took’ under a tin- foil cap.
Visitors at the gate, a hullabaloo of bamping car horns,
my mother ducking her head in a bucket of water,
towels daubed with peroxide, kicked out of sight.
I think of old women, with old men’s faces,
sparse patches of hair thinned with alopecia,
or young women’s heads cropped close before the chemo
and the bald white dome.

God of emergent stubble and frail feathery strands,
have mercy.
God of young girl’s heads streaked cerise and turquoise
keep vigilant when the dye job goes wrong. 
God of bob and pixie, of mullet and fade, perm and highlights
look after all those handsome Turkish barbers
who set up in Irish towns, their salons decorated with pictures of Izmir,
the Blue Mosque, the Grand Bazaar.
Protect the black sheen of their hair from all that encroaches to turn it grey.
God of youngsters on work experience
who sweep up the wet, spiky trimmings, deliver on their dreams of better.

Margaret Galvin is an Irish poet and memoir essay writer who lives in Wexford. She has published six collections of poetry and prose, lyrical narrative in style. She was awarded the Francis Ledwidge Poetry Award 2025. Her essays are frequently broadcast on national radio in Ireland, particularly in a programme called ‘Sunday Miscellany.’ She holds a degree and a Masters in Social Care and works as a creative writing facilitator for supported groups in cancer care, enduring mental illness and disability.

Prevailing 

Tell me, tree, of the wild easterly wind
that scythes up the valley floor towards you
bends you away from its in-your-face blast
freezes you in a state of perpetual flight

Tell me how they speak of it in these parts;
the hushed tones they use to call it prevailing 
Despite its worst efforts, I see you still standing 
It’s clear to me that something is prevailing here

Grant Shimmin is a South African-born poet who has lived in New Zealand since 2001. His passions are words, humanity, justice, the natural world. He has work published in more than 30 journals worldwide.

Ambition –  An Interview

What is your great ambition?
Immortal fame.  To write the best poems ever.
And when you realized
that was unrealistic?  That never
happened.  I just toned it down.
Submitted everywhere.  Took part
in competitions.  To this day,
every rejection breaks my heart.

What was your first ambition?
To be a saint.  My model was Teresa
of Avila.  And when you realized
that was unrealistic?  At Easter
I think of it.  But holiness
must be an accident, like sin.
There are such beautiful temptations,
and bliss in giving in.

Gail White is a formalist poet, contributing editor to Light Poetry Magazine, cat lover, long-time resident of South Louisiana. Laissez les bon temps rouler!

Grace

Listen to the nothing.  You can hear it
In between your heartbeats for so long
That your lungs have centuries to rest. 
Understand your death and do not fear it. 
Dying is the moment in a song
When the singer has to fill his breast
And a note is waiting.  To appear, it
Finds the pitch where feeling will belong.
Where it lands, its frequency, is best
Sung an octave higher than your Spirit. 
Listen to the nothing.  It is strong
In the blessing given to the blessed. 

Poetry by Stephen Lefebure may be found in his own volume, Rocks Full of Sky, and in Wild Song – Poems of the Natural World and Going Down Grand: Poems from the Canyon, two anthologies of nature poetry. His work may also be found in journals like Wilderness, The Literary Review, Chicago Studies, Weber Review, Bombay Review, Carmina Magazine, and Bangalore Review. He lives in Evergreen, Colorado, USA.