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Lost Child

Come away, O, human child! For the world’s more full
of weeping than you can understand. W.B. Yeats

Listen. One hushed winter night I rushed
westward over the moors. There waves

of moonlight rayed the storm breached
shore. I don’t believe in chance

for omens, visions, saints,
are my everyday life. Far off,

Fanad Cove’s beams swept mercifully
to-and-fro. Gail winds wailed

while a monk seal whelped
over her pup’s corpse below.

My mood went apocalyptic given the merciless
squalls of the sea, which is when I breathed

a benediction for the mother-to-be. I entered
the stone-heeled cottage of the coracle maker,

to the mother’s screams and crossed
myself thrice. And as though in a dream

caressed on her breast, she was kissing
the stone-cold seal pup, or so it seemed.

An at the hearth her husband moaned,
why is our son so cold? The child’s eyes closed,

lay lifeless, cord tied in a Celtic Knot.
Midwives know the womb’s meant to be a poem

of joy, no tomb. And as I clombed home
the craggy cliffs were covered in the snowy

whiteness of seabirds in clamorous song,
………………….keening the child who was gone.

Moná Toirésa Ó Loideáin Rochelle’s poetry collections are On the Brink of the Sea (Cave Moon Press, 2019) and Mourning Dove (Finishing Line Press, 2014). Her awards include an artist residency from Fundación Valparaíso, Spain, and a writer scholarship from New Camaldoli Hermitage, Big Sur, California. Her poems appear widely or are forthcoming in The Southern Review, American Journal of Poetry, Notre Dame Review, Spiritus, and Southword. She volunteers with Doctors Without Borders and Catholic Relief Services. visit https://monalydon.com/

Poem with Lines Stolen from Peter Dent

They’re building new futures over what I saw as mine,
territorial claims involving self-pity and a quiet life,
events foreshadowed by imaginings and shouted warnings.

Self-medication was nothing, a world walking endlessly
towards more of the same, seasons going out of fashion
as dreams swing this way and that. It’s no wonder

things don’t change, they’re not worth second opinions.
I was surrealist before that school opened its doors;
put it down to time travel and synchronicity.

Unless I speak don’t join in. Existence is nothing,
do not dream me up. It’s not a question of belief,
more about millions of words spoken in dismay.

© Rupert M Loydell

Rupert Loydell is a writer, editor and abstract artist. His many books of poetry include Dear Mary (Shearsman, 2017) and The Return of the Man Who Has Everything (Shearsman 2015); and he has edited anthologies such as Yesterday’s Music Today (co-edited with Mike Ferguson, Knives Forks and Spoons Press 2014), and Troubles Swapped for Something Fresh: manifestos and unmanifestos (Salt, 2010).

Trespass

You told me you were sorry,
but for her condition only
……..not for your actions
and inaction

that placed us here, impotent
with the thickest of dread
……..life in the balance
touch and go.

Forgive me my trespasses
as I forgive those
who trespass against me.

The condition exceeds my faith.
If I must first forgive him
……..in order to receive Your forgiveness
in order to free my spirit

from soul-suffocating burdens
……..I fear I shall be lost.

David Peterson began writing poems one year ago as a way to cope with his wife’s admission to the ICU following a botched “minor” surgery. Shortly after, during his wife’s 85 days in the hospital, David began reading a great deal of poetry and taking classes. A few months ago, he started submitting poems for possible publication, recently being published here, in Amethyst Review‘s July issue. David’s early poems focused on topics related to the hospitalization and spirituality. His reading and workshopping have moved his writing into a much broader universe of ideas and content. David is a retired public educator living with his super-human wife in Anthem, Arizona.

The Lake Mist

When the sun sets west
and the night birds sound,
the warm day’s air cools soft,
and a certain peace 
falls lightly all around.
I take to the secrets of the woods.
A path is hidden by the dark, 
but it is there.
I know where.
I follow it, light-footed
like the other creatures here
who prowl the night.
I seek the sight of the lake 
that waits under cover
of gray mist filled with midges
in restless flight.
I take a last step on the path.
The lake appears.
I am drawn to the shore 
by the beckoning hands 
of the slight lapping waves.
I move toward them
and stand silent on the sand,
rapt in prayers of mortal praise.
I sing in my soul
the song of the mystic mist
that sits softly on the water,
at rest in its reunion with the lake –
just as I am.
We stay transfixed together
in unbound time.
But the midges scold me
with their flitting darts in the dark. 
They want no part of me. 
My intrusion upsets
the balance of lake and mist
and midges in flight.
I breathe in the night and sigh,
then turn back and take to the woods
to follow the secret path
that darkness hides
and be led from the holy mysteries
of world and time.

Cynthia Pitman, a former high school Advanced Placement English teacher from Orlando, Florida, has had poetry published by Amethyst Review, Right Hand Pointing, Three Line Poetry, Third Wednesday (contest finalist), Vita Brevis, Leaves of Ink, Ekphrastic Review, Postcard Poems and Prose, Adelaide, and others. Her book, The White Room, is forthcoming.

Mablethorpe

In village chapels I believed
preachers’ words could prompt the word
for those who chose to enter there;
sometimes silence did the same,
as hosts of messengers beyond.
Trained in craft, I’m taught,
discard unimportant stuff;
uncover sacred, unlade, then end.
One early homily I brought,
minor illustration, east coast,
grabbed from air, passing caught,
now, was it Mablethorpe?

The man, back pew, was stationed there,
(leaving handshake, told me so)
and there he stayed till closing hymn,
not hearing sermon which I preached.
Now did this god speak over me?
The question is (my answer ‘yes’),
can his Mablethorpe be redeemed?

His heavy pack and secret stash,
bewilderment at leaving home,
friendships lasted fifty years,
scared of seen to write to Mum,
first achievements, passed exam,
comrade’s funeral yet again,
rescued him from dire straits,
guilty darkness he alone,
supportive laughs among the din,
wet cold fear on his own,
overcoming toughest tests.
All real, reflecting with his god,
so pack and stash laid down at last.

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from Methodist Church ministry, has had pieces accepted by Nine Muses Poetry; Voices Poetry; Eunoia Review; Runcible Spoon; Ink Sweat and Tears; The Poetry Village; From the Edge; Gold Dust, The Seventh Quarry & Allegro Poetry Magazines. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/

Talking to His Higher Self

My son, your body is the Shrine of Spirit,
speak to it through an actor’s mask, both
as One beneath the Tree quenching knowledge,
attaining perfection as deeds of youth rising
and falling to a sigh, an image, a word, a kiss.

The Dark Earth, a pool of white stillness with
long caressing strokes, embodies the ego and
richness of separation from Divine Strength,
the likeness of new life in your mighty pulse;
pierce the Mortal Light, my son, leap among

the beauty of vowels, like walking in a field
of wheat, lure embryonic-seed of hope with
promises. Notice your Guardians in ceremonial
wraps glancing out the shadows, eyes like the
the first day of creation, reach to them, Live!

Michal Mahgerefteh is a poet and artist originally from Israel, living in Virginia since 1986. She is author of four poetry collections, managing editor of Mizmor Poetry Anthology, Anna Davidson Rosenberg Annual Poetry Award selecting editor, and The Poetry Society of Virginia student award judge.

Scrap Yarn Bag

My bag of scrap yarn
crammed, seams unraveling
this year
leftover threads, short, long,
earth browns to rainbow variegations
a decade of project remains,
favorite colors, bright designs
of thoughts and fancies

Decades knitting, child learned—
thank you, Grandma!—
knit, purl, cable twist,
knit 2 together, yarn over,
pick up lost stitches to weave in
a sweater, a hat always waiting
for my do-it, do-it self

Tie one end to another, joining
old and new
untangle skeins gone awry
vigilance for snags and knots

Pattern joys in what-next dreams
yarn store colors, textures
nubby and fine
lacy christening robe
bathtub rug
dog bed square

John Muir said that if you
pull on a string, everything in the
universe is hitched to it.
Spider and his web, claimed Chief Seattle,
if you pull on the thread
everything is stuck to it.

My scrap bag—half a ball of wool,
baby yarn a soft marble,
tough acrylics, sliding cashmere—
if I pull on a loose end
what lies at the bag bottom?

The Purity of Water

He said I was in need of a baptism,
for there was something unholy
housed in me. I told him I was his,
do whatever you want with me, I said.
I had no questions. No hesitation for he
was a holy man and knew sin in all its
incarnations.
He walked me to the edge of the ocean;
me in white from neck to toe, him
in a long black robe with a thick white
collar, reminiscent of a puritan minister.
We stood still for a moment, as waves hit
our ankles with force, daring us to continue
our course.
It was a moment where time mimicked us.
I waited, my weak quivering heartbeat
keeping pace with the back and forth
of the tide. He took my hand and we
moved forward in silence. He stopped
suddenly then; the sea at his waist,
hungry and calling out for a sacrifice.
Closing my eyes, I waited for a sudden
backward dip; waited for the flow of water
over my entire body. Waited for the removal
of my sins, so that I could be brought into the light.
Seconds extended into minutes, but there was nothing.
No movement, no sensation of water flowing
over my head, no words of blessing by the minister.
I opened my eyes and he was gone, lost to the desires
of an unforgiving sea.

Arlene Antoinette is a poet of West Indian birth who grew up in Brooklyn, New York. She graduated from Brooklyn College and worked as an instructor with disabled individuals for many years. You may find additional work by Arlene atFoxglove Journal, Leaves of Ink, 50 Word Stories, Cagibi Journal, Spillwords Press, Bull & Cross, Okay Donkey, CafeLit, Poetry Pacific, Nightingale & Sparrow, Lost Pen Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review, Back Patio Press, and Your Daily Poem.

This Breath

This breath is
a silver road
my life follows
it has an end

It doesn’t belong to me
it’s borrowed
no one owns it
or ever will

This breath
had no voice
until it
found me

This time
this time only
it carries my sound
and no one else’s

You know an instrument
can only sing
when it’s picked up
by a musician

You who come after me
won’t know my name
still you’ll take
this breath and sing

Thomas R. Smith lives in Wisconsin, USA, and have seven published collections so far, and was included in Diamond Cutters, edited by Jay Ramsay and Andrew Harvey. He has also edited several books, most recently Airmail, the correspondence of Robert Bly and Tomas Tranströmer, published in the UK by Bloodaxe. Windy Day at Kabekona: New and Selected Prose Poems is was published in 2018. His first prose book, Poetry on the Side of Nature: Writing the Nature Poem as an Act of Survival, is forthcoming from Folded Word Press in 2020.

Matt Pasca is a poet, teacher and traveler who believes in art’s ability to foster discovery, empathy and justice. He has authored two poetry collections—A Thousand Doors (2011 Pushcart nominee) and Raven Wire (2017 Eric Hoffer Book Award Finalist)—and serves as Assistant Poetry Editor of 2 Bridges Review. In his corner of New York, Matt curates Second Saturdays @Cyrus, a popular poetry series, and spreads his unwavering faith in critical thought and word magic to his Poetry, Mythology and Literature students at Bay Shore High School, where he has taught for 22 years and been named a New York State Teacher of Excellence. www.mattpasca.com