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Meditation with Weights

The turf is my temple,
the sled my altar—
each white line a mala
to help me remember
my breath. I remember
my breath and my legs,
my feet and my hips,
my hands and my arms.
I remember each person
who helped heal my body.
The white lines compel me
to move on in spite of
exhaustion, sore muscles,
depression, and age.
My heart pounds a message
that life courses through me,
though I may feel distant
from life and its source.
All that I know is: keep
pushing and pushing—
reminding myself
that my breath is my life.

The Communion of Saints

Every Sunday I declare that I believe in it.
Those women torn apart in the Coliseum,
Brigid, whose father was a Druid,
Lioba, almost buried in the same tomb as her cousin Boniface
Therese, the youngest, with her shower of roses.
But also Margaret Slavin Higgins, hugging me in the kitchen,
Fannie Denlinger Kauffman, who died when my mother, her daughter, was seven.

Holy cards don’t do them justice.
On Sundays, I feel their cloudy presence
Which surrounds me like the scent of Spring hyacinths
In the air of the garden,
Thicker, sweeter than incense.

Anne Higgins teaches English at Mount Saint Mary’s University in Emmitsburg Maryland,  USA. She is a member of the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul.  She has had about 100 poems published in  a variety of small magazines. Five full-length books and three chapbooks of her poetry have been published: At the Year’s Elbow, Mellen Poetry Press  2000; Scattered Showers in a Clear Sky,  Plain View Press 2007; chapbooks: Pick It Up and Read, Finishing Line Press 2008, How the Hand Behaves, Finishing Line Press 2009, Digging for God,  Wipf and Stock 2010,  Vexed Questions, Aldrich Press 2013, Reconnaissance, Texture Press 2014, and Life List, Finishing Line Press 2016. Her poems have been featured several times on The Writer’s Almanac.

The Gentle World

There is a gentle world.
Mushrooms send their healing
mycelia through the mossy earth,
trees listen with their sensitive leaves
to the weeping in the wind,
and communication runs through stone.

There is a gentle world. And it must be so
because the mountains are so large,
with millions of human feet smoothing
and indenting the ridges of rock,
and our faces shine
from caresses, too.

Love is a mist. There is pain
but with empathy, veins of justice
in the worn-down cornerstones of towns;
and we uphold the basics
like strangers calling people Darling
for those who like that endearment,
advice for one who loses hope,
sedatives for one with too much hope.

There is gold drifting down,
brilliance in the scales of fishes,
carved bowls overflowing with seeds,
enough macerated plums
for us to feel grateful.

Joel Moskowitz, an artist and retired picture framer,
lives with his wife and cat in Maynard, Massachusetts. His poems have appeared​ in J Journal, Naugatuck River Review, Midstream,
The Healing Muse, and Whiskey Island Magazine;  and the online journals Muddy River Review, Boston Poetry Magazine and Soul-Lit. He is a First Prize winner of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire National Contest.

Paradox

for strait the gate and constricted the way leading to Life and few are those finding it. -Matthew 7:14

I pray from my diaphragm.

Adoration travels up
Through my body
Shines out of
My face to become
An expansive embrace
Beyond me.

The narrow way encourages
Such overreaching.

LA Felleman is currently an accountant at the University of Iowa.  Before that, she was a seminary professor. Prior to that, she was a pastor.  She moved to Iowa City with her husband in 2016 and started writing poetry soon afterwards.  In order to learn this new craft, LA attends the Free Generative Writing Workshops and participates in local poetry readings.

Architecture

Palisades forbade entry to the glade
Perceptions fade in the jade mind of a young renegade
Cascades fall as the façade crumbles through the raid
Deranged I wade through the rubble that I made
Aid comes in rays illuminating everything to the bay
Intricately laid relaying a story through lines and ways
The changing times interpreted through structures for days
Telos creates form like a cay or a fay
I’m gay like a piece of hay in the beak of a jay
No life, no cry tears of bliss caress my cheek as I lay
No days off, I lead with no delay spreading radiance like May
Nay, you say? I discovered beauty without pay
Inspiration in a part of my mind caving in from decay

Mugabi Byenkya was born in Nigeria to Ugandan/Rwandan parents and is currently based between Kampala and Toronto. Mugabi is a writer, poet and occasional rapper. His debut novel, Dear Philomena, was published in 2017 and he recently concluded a 30 city North America/East Africa tour in support of this. https://theysaidishouldtalkmore.wordpress.com/

Working Royalty

My father climbed into his semi
like a king onto his throne.
His skin was stained brown by
the harsh sun, unprotected
by the tractor he commanded the eve’n before.
His sleep came inside an old coffee thermos,
the one thing he was never without.

My mother watched as her beloved chased
yet another paycheck down the highway;
her calloused hands wiped my tears
as confidently as they ruled our little home.
You could see the worry she held
by the way she always double-checked
that our doors were locked at night.

A steady flow of tenderness and faithfulness
radiated from their worn faces.
The endless hours they toiled
taught me the meaning of work
and I began to realize that it’s best done
when done out of love for another,
not love of thyself.

Torri Brooke is an undergraduate senior currently pursuing a degree in English and Creative Writing. Torri is also the managing editor of a Nashville based literary journal, The Cumberland River Review.

The Monarch

He floated in, as if he had been here before, as if,
strangely,
He knew his way.

He stayed, moments only, perhaps,
Strong in the warm summer breeze,
Confidant
Of his ability to fly away at any time,
allowing me in,
Ever briefly.

Dancing the fragile dance,
That afternoon
Both strong apart —
Fragile,
Together.

He fluttered, opening his strong wings emblazoned with bold orange and
Black so dark it appeared blue
Powerful,

Gentle.
Until the moment his colors
Burst into flame,
And he was gone,
Leaving only his imprint
On my soul.

Christine A. Brooks is a graduate of Western New England University with her B.A. in Literature, and is currently attending Bay Path University for her M.F.A. in Creative Non Fiction. Most recently a series of poems, The Ugly Five, are in the summer issue of Door Is A Jar Magazine and her poem, The Writer, is in the June, 2018 issue of The Cabinet of Heed Literary Magazine. Three poems, Puff, Sister and Grapes are in the 5^th issue of The Mystic Blue Review. Her vignette, Finding God, will be in the December issue of Riggwelter Press, and her series of vignettes, Small Packages, was named a semifinalist at Gazing Grain Press in August 2018.

Perfect Vision

In Sunday School today I saw Jesus
open His eyes–well, one of them–as He
hung there on the Crucifix. Miss Hooker
was talking about something, I forget
just what, when my eyes strayed like little sheep
up the hillside of the wall where Jesus
is nailed and as I stared and stared–and I
confess I was sleepy, I don’t get much
of that on Saturday night and too much
of my comic books but–I’ll swear that I
saw Jesus peeking over Miss Hooker’s
shoulder on a stack of Bibles. I mean
I’ll swear it on a stack of Bibles. And
I damn near pointed but it came to me

that if I squealed on the Savior I’d be
just like Judas, or not much better, and
would’ve sold Jesus out a second time
and I’ve got problems enough as it is,
being short for my age and then I failed
second grade not because I’m stupid but
because I didn’t care. Oh, alright, I’m
stupid then, stupid in a different way.
Or maybe not, I’m not smart enough to
judge though that never stopped me before and
judging is a sin but somebody has to
judge me and it might as well be me if
not God, or I’ll let Him do the big part

when I’m dead. And then I thought I’d raise my
hand and tell Miss Hooker what I saw but
I don’t think she would’ve believed me, I
can hardly believe it myself, and light
plays tricks with your eyes sometimes and of course
my classmates would’ve laughed at me so what
could I do? I saw Jesus’ eyeball
moving, too, wandering a little like
Miss Hooker’s lazy eye until you think
she’s looking right at you but somewhere else
as well, out the window maybe. Jesus
could control His, though, so He brought it back
until it was looking steadily at

me. It rested on me, I guess it was.
I propped it up, you might say, by being
in its path, almost like it created
me. Nobody can stare down Jesus so
I blinked and blinked–it’s not a shame for God
to get the best of you, it’s evil that
we have to face down–and then I opened
my two eyes again to Jesus’ one
and saw that His was shut, or shut again,
I guess I’ll never know. Then Miss Hooker
asked me what was wrong so I told her that
I had something in my eye–in both eyes
–which was both a lie and good enough for

truth. I blinked and blinked again. Then I said
I’m better now, and smiled, but sometimes smiles
mask fear and not so well. Just barely. But
after class when all the other kids had
left I crept up to Miss Hooker’s desk and
cleared my throat to get her attention and
she looked up and smiled. I was close enough
that her lazy eye could par her good one
like a matched pair of buggy mules so that
it didn’t stray and would plow right through me.
Yes, what is it, Gale, she asked, putting down
her hymnal. You look like you’ve seen a ghost,
which was funny because that’s what one of
the characters in my comic books said

last night, though not to me, of course. Yes ma’am,
I said. I got something to tell you and
I hope you don’t think I’m going bats but
–then I looked over her shoulder at Him,
the Son of God, but on the wall He’s wood
just like His Crucifix, if you come near
you’ll see that they’re one piece instead of two, which
is pretty fair carpentry, I must say,
I know because my father sells lumber.
I mean he works down at the lumberyard.
I mean he used to before he was fired.
Yes, Gale, Miss Hooker said. Is something wrong?
Oh, no ma’am, I said–it’s just that I want

to ask a question and my question is
Do you think Jesus would’ve worn glasses
or contact lenses, I mean if His sight
wasn’t already perfect? Miss Hooker
smiled again and said, I don’t know, but why
don’t you pray about it before you fall
asleep tonight? Yes ma’am, I said. I will.
Then I left but stopped at the door and turned
around and saw Miss Hooker gazing up
at Jesus. Then she took off her glasses.
Then I left before I could see too much.

Gale Acuff has had poetry published in Ascent, McNeese Review, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Poem, Weber, Maryland Poetry Review, Florida Review, Slant, Carolina Quarterly, Arkansas Review, South Dakota Review, Orbis, and many other journals. He has authored three books of poetry, all from BrickHouse Press: Buffalo Nickel, The Weight of the World, and The Story of My Lives. He has taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.

Lost in the Choir

A sun rises
among the voices
on the stage

glowing on the lakes
of their eyes
the dunes
of their cheeks

a golden-pink
uprush of glory
that takes
even the singers
by surprise

the sunburst
spills over the edge
of the stage

and now a warm river
swirls through the audience

sweeping tables, chairs,
plates, glasses,
purses and cell phones
toward a brown
and burnished delta
on the eastern horizon

where no one can tell
the singers

from

the song.

Scott Waters is a poet and songwriter living in Oakland, California, with his wife and son.  He graduated with an M.A. from the San Francisco State creative writing program, and has published previously in The Santa Clara Review, The Pangolin Review, Oblivion, and NatureWriting.

Art is magic delivered from the lie of being truth–
Theodor W. Adorno

I Inhabit A Simple Crystal Vase,

it’s my hyaline avocation. Flowers I clutch, not
so much an enigma, at least to me. My betrothal,
an entrustment of emotion, witnessed in equal

proportion, that of art & science. The bloom is
my palette of joy that I calculate, in all its
telling. So in keeping, I say a long stem rose

may have longevity but is soon forgotten in the
allure of dazzle & delight. Conversely the
hypnotic orchid, though short-lived, is not so

effortlessly abandoned. I’d say in matters of the
beauty of la vie & de mort, there is no enigma

of apportionment; it’s the orchid’s peloria of
petals, lips that keep the hush of eternities
sorrows.

Dan Cardoza has a B.A. in Psychology and a Master of Science Degree in Counseling from California State University, Sacramento. Partial poetry credits include: Ardent, Better Than Starbucks, California Quarterly, Curlew, UK., Esthetic Apostle, Poetry Northwest and Vita Brevis.