Sunday Morning Bananas slouch in the fruit bowl next to apples that loll like beached buoys. An aspen tree rattles in the wind. Sparrows settle in the yard like curled leaves, while the sun, defrocked of clouds, dangles like the bottom of a banjo after being played. A faint moon, that ventriloquist of light, slowly fades, turning its gaze back to the dark. sunflower burst the kettle singing atop petals of flame Down the hill and past the field, as if it had been birthed in gravel, a train unhooks itself from silence and blows its horn, heaving the freight of its two-note chant into the day. The incense of diesel lingers in the air. A cicada, out of season, is fixed fast in its genuflection upon a tree. On the riverbank, turtles, like the beads of a rosary, bask in untamed light. The porcelain bowl inside the house waits to spill its secrets . . . empty turtle shell a hand-carved chalice waiting for wine If only the spider pulsing in the woodshed web would recite its single sin. beneath the desert a host of red-spotted toads ready to rise Keith Polette has published poems in both print and online journals. His book of haibun, pilgrimage, received the Haiku Society of America’s Merit Book Award in 2021.
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A Little Less to Cut – a poem by Edward Alport
A Little Less to Cut I know where I will lie, Down where the hawthorn and the blackthorn Hide the water and the sea, And keep the goats at bay. I may not know how many times I’ll cut the grass and trim back the hedge. Every year a little less to cut, Another patch to weave the mower round, Another friend of mine, named in stone Another face who knew me as a kid. They all wait for me, and to them I’ll always be the kid, and always was. I know where I will lie. Part of the village memory. A name. A place, ordered in a record book. ‘Wasn’t he the poet?’ That’s what’s left of me.
Edward Alport is a retired teacher and proud Essex Boy. He occupies his time as a poet, gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry, stories and articles published in a variety of webzines and magazines. He sometimes posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse.
Life Labyrinths – a poem by Mark D. Stucky
Life Labyrinths Nothing frightful lurks in sacred labyrinths. No Minotaur inside waits to devour us. No complex branches exist to confuse us. Only a single, circular path, winding back and forth, silently invites us. A path sketched on the ground. A path for prayerful healing of any monsters in our minds. A path intended for mindfulness, peace, and private pilgrimage toward contemplative centeredness. As in life, our path curves and endures sudden detours and substantial reversals. Our goal comes closer to us but then recedes from us over and over again. But we can be certain we’ll eventually enter that elusive center.
Mark D. Stucky has degrees in religious studies, pastoral ministry, and communications. After being a pastor, he moved into communications and has been a technical and freelance writer. During his day job, he has documented diverse technical products. In free time, he has written articles, stories, and poems on a variety of topics. He has received over three dozen writing and publication awards. For more information, see linkedin.com/in/markstucky and cinemaspirit.info.
Upland – a poem by Edward Alport
Upland Why do you come to the moor? Where the paths are mere skinny tattoos on the beast’s skin Drawn from memory of sweating herds and flocks and swearing men. Why do you look for silence? Where the steady breath of the beast heaves in its sleep And incurious sheep rip at its hair with vindictive lips? Why do you grind at its wounds? Where your cleated boots gash the tattoos on its sleeping flank And the mud weeps, glistening and red, puddled on its skin. Would you care for the beast to stir? It’s many years, and many, so many years more Since the moor was ripped from the dry bone bed And writhed and thrashed and bended and bled And was tamed by the work and the patterns of men. You came for the silence. You came for the blood. Do you want to wake it again?
Edward Alport is a retired teacher and proud Essex Boy. He occupies his time as a poet, gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry, stories and articles published in a variety of webzines and magazines. He sometimes posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse.
The Seas Ring – a poem by Tom Bauer
The Seas Ring I never thought about it, but hear it now; the omniworld of clicks and surges, barks and pops of blaring fishes as they sing. And are those sirens chuckling down below? I need to know, following chirps and squeaks through murky depths of night. Gliding past cliffs into the deeper sea, faint veils and wisps of bubble thread expire on lichened rocks. A pressure bulb blossoms in jellied water, expels a spray of sounds from hidden depths. Is there no place that doesn’t blast a note? The dense formless everything, choired in light, crashes musically in frothy waves ashore. It’s everywhere, the ocean’s full of song.
Tom Bauer is an old coot who did a bunch of university and stuff. He
lives in Montreal and plays board games.
a widow’s mite redux – a poem by Jill Crainshaw
a widow’s mite redux “don’t take those coins” mama says in her scolding voice as the girl dips into the wishing fountain toward a sun-polished silver orb the girl jerks her hand back hides it in her jeans pocket peers side-eyed into the sparkling water “you don’t want to steal the wishes other folks whispered into that old pocket change if only alice would get well if only raymond knew i love him if only a nickel for passing tomorrow’s math test a silver dollar to see daddy one last time a dime for snow this christmas a quarter for the violence all of the violence all of the violence to end and who wants to carry any of that home” the girl squints at the magical water-spray and then just over there where silver-white curls spray out in the march wind but the woman seems not to notice as she searches through a well-used handbag “she looks lonely” the girl stuffs her hands deep in her pockets digs out a blue lego the yellow eraser she found in her desk in mrs harvey’s 2nd grade reading class grandpas old car key a piece of red yarn and two brown pennies she reaches out to the woman “one for me and one for you and we can wish at the same time mama always says be careful what you wish for” and the two of them old and young pitch a single cent each coin somersaulting into the water slipping through the surface down down on top of nickels dimes quarters woman and girl watch till the ripples quiet enough to mirror their faces reflected side by side
Learning to Pray…Again – a poem by Gloria Hefferman
Learning to Pray…Again When I was a child I prayed like a parrot, a hatchling swallowing the food from its mother’s beak. But I am not a parrot. And if I were, I wouldn’t spend my time repeating everything I heard. I would quietly preen my emerald feathers and fly away to a rain forest in the mountains of Costa Rica where I would hear only waterfalls and the raucous caw caw caw of my own kind. And what sounds like random noises would be my prayers uttered from a perch high in the trees because I would be closer to God’s ear there and wouldn’t have to squawk so loudly to be heard. No, I am not a parrot. And I am not a child. And the prayers that spring to my lips are not the words inscribed in the Baltimore Catechism, or memorized in Sunday School half a century ago. But I trust God hears them. So I kneel beside the bed once more and press my forehead to the cool sheet and beg, Lord help us.
Gloria Heffernan is the author of the poetry collection, What the Gratitude List Said to the Bucket List (New York Quarterly Books) and Exploring Poetry of Presence: A Companion Guide for Readers, Writers, and Workshop Facilitators (Back Porch Productions). Her work has appeared in over 100 journals including Chautauqua, Presence, Dappled Things, Braided Way, and Magma. She leads workshops on poetry as a spiritual practice.
Make a Tree Good – a poem by Ryan Keating
Make a Tree Good Make a tree good and its fruit will be good… Matthew 12:33 I I am tempted to staple a fig To the branch from which is has fallen Unburied brown in piles of failed fruit That cover the shame of shallow roots Turn the flat bruised side toward the trunk Wipe it clean and shake off the tan worm Paint it purple with faded green spots Spray it with a fruit essence perfume Keep it moist and sterile, sanitized Step further back and admire the work Because I am afraid I don’t know how To make a tree good. II Sure, why not make it good And make it well Sink the roots deep And write the plot thick Keep it secure Commercial free And incorruptible Of shade but not dark On a hill but not steep Cured and decanted Crispy With soft contours And clean lines But free flowing Fresh, fertile Intricate, durable Inspired in season With lots of pockets? That might be a harvest Worth waiting for.
Ryan Keating is a pastor, writer, winemaker and coffee roaster on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus. His work can be found in publications such as Saint Katherine Review (forthcoming), Ekstasis Magazine, Agape Review, and Miras Dergi, where he is a regular contributor in English and Turkish.
Grace, defined – a poem by Caroline Liberatore
Grace, defined i. I am spineless, stiff-armed, coveting guilt. I know my own hands. They’re soaked with ichor, viscous from attempted mercy. Saccharine stain nauseating in wake of a foreign economy. My slitted sinew unravels. Oh, nods mercy, It will be hemmed. ii. Slander slices a carving knife into blood orange and seeps. You peeled instead of mourning, citric carcass rested gently on the sill. Wedge to lips, now take, sip the nectar. iii. Cross-examined, then consoled: We’ll have nothing more to do with that.
Caroline Liberatore is a former English student and future librarian. She has also been published in Ashbelt Journal, Ekstasis Magazine, Foreshadow Magazine, and Clayjar Review. You can read more of her work at carolinelib.wordpress.com.
Natural Light – a poem by Jessamyn Rains
Natural Light The crayons crumble inside their plastic bag and a stick floats around the house, trapped inside like a bug. The Tupperware is muddy, the cardboard boxes soggy, and rocks slide down the chute of a toy cement truck. I feel like a drying-out drunk today, inside a bloated laundry basket with a headache, and my joints are bone on bone, my brain a misfire of thought and emotion. Natural light fills the room through slats of a window blind, alternating bars of dark and light, and the picture on the wall is of a butterfly stretching and drying its crumpled wings.
Jessamyn Rains is a writer, musician, and mother of four. She loves old books and new poetry. She lives with her family in East Tennessee.