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All Saints' Day

          Music is simply decorated time—Sparrow


Friday night, at the Michael Franti show, I see my two grief counselors. 
We group-hug and laugh about meeting each other out in the world.

The opener is a solo performer, guitar and a pair of didgeridoos 
like tusks booming the deep-throated call of Aboriginal time.

When Franti leads a conga line through the crowd, I put my hand 
on his sweaty shoulder. For a moment, we sway in time together.

Driving home, three thousand miles west of Tintern Abbey, I play
Warren Haynes and Railroad Earth performing 'Spots of Time.'

Time was, I had a playlist called The Well of Melancholy, full of
Jason Isbell’s existential angst and Lucinda Williams torch songs.

For the first time in months, I pull it up, and R.E.M. comes on.
All the way home, I replay 'Everybody Hurts,' with those rich

strings recalling a friend who played cello, gone much too young.
And Michael Stipe’s nasal voice is still echoing in my head   

when we gather on Sunday, blurring with the voices of choir 
and congregation until they drown in the organ crescendo 

rising toward the angel band, the church triumphant and eternal 
looking down at rows of guttering candles. Then stillness 

as the names are read. Each one a brief shock, more or less. 
This year no beloved, some dear almost-friends, 

others whom I barely recall having passed 
 			                       into the deep silence of dream time.

David E. Poston is the author of two poetry chapbooks, including Postmodern Bourgeois Poetaster Blues (which won the NC Writers’ Network’s Randall Jarrell Chapbook Award), and the full-length collection Slow of Study. His poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in Atlanta Review, Pedestal, Cider Press Review, Pembroke Magazine, The Southern Poetry Anthology, VII: North Carolina, Typehouse, and other journals and anthologies. A new poetry collection, Letting Go, is forthcoming from Fernwood Press in fall 2025.

Elegy to a Cancer Altar

After my diagnosis we moved West. 
I set an altar in our living room
overlooking Lake Crescent.
For over two years I knelt here
staring at an apex of Creation.
Outside waves chewed my pain.
I longed for deep breaths, release of
resistance: pushed aside tears, the buried.

On the pine table I placed 
dried sage in an abalone shell, 
rattles, a drum, pipe tobacco.
Tools to petition, focus thought
toward Spirit, Inner Self.
Also, gifts of encouragement
in stones, charms, totems.

A leather medicine sac that 
held a miracle ice-blue crystal 
once curbing the backache 
of my friend Ray, 
offered to my palms in ceremony 
before my bone marrow biopsy.

Another pouch, yarn woven, 
contained consecrated eagle ash 
bestowed by a half-Cheyenne sister. 
I carried this to the Clinic in Rochester
& rubbed animal powder
on the hip that housed a tumor.

Plus, grandmother’s wooden round
case shrouding a silver cross,
a heart-shaped rattle from my doctor,
quartz elephant from a healed client,
prayer beads from my mother.

These symbols of care 
formed a semicircle
atop a handsewn table runner 
of eight colors, a chakra
rainbow undertow.

Often I touched the tokens
in relieving lamentation,
to sense family and friends, 
support constant & surrounding.

And prayed by opening 
the Four Directions,
lit bundled sage to smudge 
the ions around my feet, 
legs & hips,
torso, arms, head. 
My energy extended.

I connected to Grandfather above, 
Son & Mother, Mary Magdalene,
spiritual helpers. Earth’s wisdom, 
elements & nourishment.
And All Relations who fly, crawl, 
swim, stand & walk. 
My light swelled in company.

I pinched sweet smelling tobacco 
between index and thumb,
pierced it with tribute, 
appeals for healing, 
entreaties for kin,
our floundering civilization.
Then burned all on the shell, 
smoke litany to Sky.

These pleas moved within me,
strengthened & blessed 
my body, cleansed fear 
& internal yelling.

One day, I examined the altar
& knew it was time to dismantle.
Tenderly tucked the keepsakes 
into boxes, washed the ash
from the technicolor dream cloth,
folded & laid it in cedar.

Despair has departed these mementoes, 
their purport stowed alongside hope,
the emotion now invoked when
I look at Lake Crescent.

I no longer yearned for needles to
fashion fear into sackcloth for tearing.
I no longer sensed my mortality
hung by thread.
I suppose, too, my grief
outgrew the talismans.

The table is spare & clean.
A chapter has concluded, 
not the disease.
My blood is the altar
and swims.

Author Laura E. Garrard is also an artist and CranioSacral Therapist on the U.S. Northwest Peninsula, where she enjoys time with nature. Her poem, “Filled to the Brim,” appeared in Amethyst Review’s Thin Places & Sacred Spaces anthology. She is a member of Olympic Peninsula Authors and has received four scholarships from Centrum Writers Conference. Her poetry and prose have been published in journals like Bellevue Literary Review, The Madrona Project, Silver Birch, and TulipTree Review, which recently awarded her a Merit Prize. She writes a cancer poetry series, Poetry That Fits, on Penn Medicine’s OncoLink.org.

How to Blow Glass

Reach into the crucible
for a gather of molten glass 

                          to poise on your blow pipe.

Roll the glass on the wooden marver,
keep it in constant motion. 

                          Glass cannot rest.

Select from the 400 possible colors: tangerine   turquoise   
cobalt    amethyst

                          Roll the glass over the color. 

Return it to the glory hole,
let it glow like a candy apple.

                          Blowing glass requires another human.  

Slowly move the glass onto the punty. 
This transfer to another person is tricky.

                          Trust the passage of the glowing glass.    

Strike the glass so that is severs from your blow pipe. 
Then into the annealing oven at 960 degrees.

                          Glass is hard to rescue.

Speak the language of the sun
as you blow words into the gather. 

                          Blow prayers. 

Notice the flames on the inside of the glass. 
Cool off the other end of the blow pipe in a barrel of water.

                          Protect this slow cooling.  

You never know if the vessel will break.

Deborah Leipziger is an author, poet, and advisor on sustainability. Born in Brazil, Ms. Leipziger is the author of Story & Bone, published by Lily Poetry Review Books. Her poems have been published in ten countries in such magazines and journals as The Bombay Literary Review, Pangyrus, Salamander, Lily Poetry Review, and Revista Cardenal. Her work appears in numerous anthologies, including Tree Lines: 21st Century American Poems. She is the Founder of the Lexicon of Change, a web-based platform devoted to the words we need for ecological and social transformation.

Weather Forecasting

I loved her…
		Wisdom 8:2


If Unknowing is a cloud, could Love be
A tornado, rope-wedging its way,
A stratosphere of search, 
Seeding atmospheric 
Draft, filaments of
Tang-ly breath
From every
Single
Cell? 

Maryanne Hannan has published poetry in both All Shall Be Well: A poetry anthology for Julian of Norwich and Thin Places & Sacred Spaces. A resident of upstate New York, USA, she is the author of Rocking Like it’s all Intermezzo: 21st Century Responsorials.

Life-size St. Francis in Bronze 
Santa Fe, New Mexico, 2013 

I have reckoned with wolves. 
Snarling killers need admonition 
and an unclenched hand to grasp coarse fur 
before the calm walk into town 
for raw meat and understanding. 

I have felt songbirds’ tiny talons 
grasp my war-wearied knuckles. 
Quick, clear eyes gleam divinity 
as white-throated notes proclaim 
Gloria   Gloria   Gloria 

I have been cast by a maker 
who forged peace upon my countenance, 
who sandaled my feet in a forward step: 
permanent happy progress 
alongside His animal pilgrims. 

John Davis Jr. is the author of The Places That Hold (Eastover Press, 2021), Middle Class American Proverb (Negative Capability Press, 2014), and three other poetry collections. His poems have appeared in The Common, Nashville Review, The American Journal of Poetry, and elsewhere over the last 25 years. He holds an MFA and teaches English and Creative Writing in the Tampa Bay Area of Florida, his native state.

The Afterlife of Riley

Sleet slashes my window with
the undersound of faraway voices.
I watch the twisting 
flames in my woodstove,
hypnotic, like dancers
telling ancient stories
in the season of longnights.
It’s a good woodstove.
It keeps me warm even when
the cold emanates from within.  
Soot forms on the glass of the window in the door
if a log is set too close, releasing shapes
hidden in the sap, remnants of forest and earth and high breezes.
What appears to me now is the shape 
of my old dog Riley, buried just a season past.
Not some vague suggestion.
Not a toasted-cheese-Jesus Riley.
But Riley, snoozing in the soot-stained glass
of the woodstove as he had at my feet
on so many murky nights. 
It’s him, alright.
I know it in the egg-shaped hump
of his body low in the front, high in the rump, 
smoky haunches pulled up, 
the protective curl of his tail, 
even the furrowed brow 
that worried his face so in life, 
now resin stained into the glass.  
Behind his half-opened eyes, 
at rest but still watching, as he often did, 
carnelian embers glow in his pupils.  
He has become knowing, like the eyes
I’ve seen in photographs of the saints – 
Thérèse of Lisieux, she of the Little Way,
José Sánchez del Río, boy rebel and martyr, 
Gemma of Galgani, Hollywood beautiful 
pained by the stigmata.
And my Riley who was just a good boy.
Eyes, all of them, that saw beyond the veil
and burned with a holy fire
they, in their young lives, 
and Riley after death, in this winter gloom	
when the veil is thin and spirits dance in the fire.	
A long while I ponder his image, 
Riley peering back at me from the fire, gaze for gaze.  
Clearly, he is not going back tonight
to his dark bed beneath the pines,
so I leave him three potato chips 
where his dish had been.
And no, I’m not surprised to find them when I wake.
Dogs who run with the Saints have no more need of chips.  
The spirit of offering has left them.  
They are only potato chips now.  
I eat them myself, trusting he received
their salty, crunchy welcome.

Gregory Lobas is the author of Left of Center (Broadkill River Press, 2022) which won the Dogfish Head Poetry Prize. His work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, such as Thin Places & Sacred Spaces, Tar River Poetry, Cimarron Review, Vox Populi, Susurrus, and many others. He is a retired firefighter/paramedic living with his wife Meg and dog Sophie in the Hurricane Helene-ravaged area of western North Carolina

The Ark and its Keeper

It started with stuffed animals,
shifting toys upright on shelves.
I picked lone plushies off the floor
at stores—wishing each one had
somewhere warm and safe to go,
a home to animate with joy.

It began with unbearable terror,
the visceral fear I felt seeing worms
tossed against brick walls at recess—
caterpillars torn apart, cicada broods
smashed alive; precious beings
in pain, helpless and writhing.

What seeded as care for creatures
turned to grave concern for climate.
I grieved kingdoms wiped from earth.
Still I drowned out a mass extinction
of souls unseen and prayers unheard,
built borders on the basis of species.

All my youth I dug tombs. I buried
the struggle of farmed animals deep
in the backrooms of my forming mind.
I silenced what felt strange and wrong
as I breastfed from countless mothers,
cooked their kin’s flesh medium rare.

I spent twenty years loving a cat.
Near the end of her days I asked
what she hoped I would remember.
She said, I’m interested in my life.
I saw that animals are here With us,
fellow travelers through holy floods.

Some watch how I move and make sense
of what matters. Some lean in, see a light
worth reaching toward. Others consider me
with a kind of pity, incredulous and stunned.
I am their cracked mirror, a crypt for questions
they don’t want answered; the ark and its keeper.

Creatures of God set sail where I go, staring you down.
I unleash pigs and cows upon the vile factory tycoons
and they storm forth, gladly. Paired reptiles and insects,
bonded amphibians, rare and mated birds all aboard—
entire histories, sacred and in danger. I make sure
you hear the chicken pray: My life is worth living.

By the time you bring the elephant into the room
I have already found a hundred ways to set her free.

Jimmy O’Hara is a gay writer and editor who crafts science news for a non-profit medical organization. Based on the U.S. east coast, he often focuses his poetry on memory, spirituality, animal rights, social conscience, and a sense of belonging. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Pictura Journal, and Literary Veganism. You can reach him at jpohara4@gmail.com.

Rapture

In feather and in fury | fly the vicious
Eagle, entrance | end the warp,
Forth sunder | in small sun
Like beaded beauty | better than grasp
Talon-tightly | torque and tear;
Ah, small thing | thence you blossom
Stark and crimson | creature like a bloom.
Greatly grasses | gripe them short,
Flurry sudden | such small
Violence, not vengeance. | Vitality in burn,
No time, no time at all | terribly you learn
What learnéd lesson | leases not escape
But dances, dances | down so dim
Ages, and accounts | awfully seeded
Thy ledger lieth not, | look: empty
Stand its lines. | Lack my beastie
Nothing now, | never treasure
Green grass | that groweth more.
Aloft ascend, | alight in transform —
Now sightless citizen | of stranger shore.

Connor Patrick Wood is a poet and Substacker (https://cultureuncurled.substack.com) in Arlington, Massachusetts. He holds a BA in creative writing from the University of Wisconsin-Madison and a PhD in religion and science from Boston University. Before he left academia, Connor’s research on the cognitive science of ritual was funded by the John Templeton Foundation. He has published poetry at the Rabbit Room Substack, Ekstasis, and elsewhere.

celebrate

this cloud billows
once, in all of time
the corkscrew willow
bending—the curve
a grace, a prayer

how the leopard
bears whisker spots
these rosettes 
their fingerprint
and the baby’s
cowlick at his nape

all of us, called—
how precise we are
each one unique
every one required

Amrita Skye Blaine develops themes of aging, disability, and spiritual awakening. She received an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University in 2003. She has published a memoir and a three-novel trilogy. Blaine has been writing poetry steadily since she turned seventy. Her poems have been accepted by Braided Way Magazine, The Penwood Review, Delta Poetry Review, the New English Review, Soul Forte, and Chiron Review. Her first book of poetry, every riven thing, has been accepted for publication by Finishing Line Press and will come out mid-2025.

lessons from a peach

let the woody kernel bleed its pigment
into your flesh

ripening can be savoured 
but not rushed

when it’s time, let your body fall away 
with an ease that calls forth
celestial juice

delight in this fleeting season
then crawl into dark grooves
like an ant searching sweetness

hold the seed
in the palm of your soil
nourish it 

Shelina Gorain is a former software professional, a balcony gardener and a knitter. She writes from Toronto.