Category Archives: Uncategorized

Missing Petals


He says he doesn’t know why he did it 
             and that is the beauty of it. A disfigured flower. 
But it becomes a cramp. Annoying as a hungry dog. 
             So he seeks an answer. But the answer has no voice 
but signs like a butterfly bobs out of reach. 
             Unable to decipher the nods and shakes 
he tries to net the butterfly. But it is elusive 
             as steam is to boiling water. Why becomes a road 
with S turns and a ridiculous number of intersections. 
             Often he trips and falls into weeds 
that prick him, leave seeds clinging to his clothes 
             as if there are a hundred unborn answers. 
He decides it is a secret he does not need to know. 
             Attempts to convince himself a melody 
filled with wrong notes doesn’t matter,
             the dissonance haunting howl echoing. 
He needs a different kind of fuel to continue. 
             One that will burn like dry ice. 

Doug Van Hooser splits his time between suburban Chicago where he uses pseudonyms with baristas, and southern Wisconsin where he enjoys sculling and cycling. His poetry has appeared in numerous publications and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Orison Anthology. He has also published short fiction and had readings of his plays in Chicago. Links to his work can be found at dougvanhooser.com

Moonshining in the Outdoor Clawfoot Tub

Tonight:
Amid the wildly tangled
Fragrances of
Jasmine and honeysuckle,
Hot water fills
The old enameled
Cast iron tub.
Steam rises,
To soften silhouettes.
Young owls screech to be fed
Frogs in the neighbor's pond
Sing.

Tonight
The simplicity of
Soaking in that old tub
While watching Venus and Jupiter
Slow dance
As the moon rises,
Bathing in the moonlight,
Makes everything
Very,
Simply,
Intoxicating.

Terry Donohue is a poet, a short story writer, an artist, curator, a real estate broker, and the mother of a grown son. Terry currently lives and works in Bolinas, CA, an enclave of many artists. Passionate about the arts, Terry enjoys photography, writing, poetry, and origami art in her free time. She comes from a strong creative background, having spent time working in the Chicago theater scene after graduating with honors from SUNY Oneonta and was an Arts Columnist for the Point Reyes Light.  

Spent Blooms
 
In full dark deer graze on the amaryllis.
In daytime the shorn stems join
other evidence of altering.
             Hydrangea heads faded from china blue,
             Daisies gone to seed,
             my shoes peppered with their soft flat burrs.
Gone all the blossoms
             that through spring and summer
             I walked among for their gentle
             and buoyant company.
They swallowed the long days of dew, sun, storm
            swelled, bloomed
            gave all they had.        

We stand at autumn’s farthest edge,
             as on ancient maps where nothing
             beyond was known.
The north wind sweeps away warmth,
            sings of epilogues and endings.

Some will claw their green way up once more
Some are finished, will never taste
            the spacious air again.

Beyond the fading chrysanthemums,
             the shush and roll of the river,
             unstoppable, illuminating,
             show me the secret to acceptance.

Even if there is more to come, time must be well spent.

 

Karen McAferty Morris writes about nature and ordinary people. Her poetry, recognized for its “appeal to the senses, the intellect, and the imagination,” has appeared in Persimmon Tree, Sisyphus, The Louisville Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Black Fox Literary Journal, and Lyric Magazine. Her collections Elemental (2018), Confluence (2020), and Significance (2022) are national prize winners. She is lucky enough to live on Perdido Bay in the Florida panhandle.

Paradox

Flip over and float, 
she said after I confessed 
two-thirds into Deuteronomy
that I wasn’t sure about God
and that my mind was tortured.
She was a Baptist
in a Methodist house,
I was a doubter 
in a room full of faith
and there in front of God 
and five witnesses
with their Bibles open to the part 
where it says you may eat any animal 
that has a split hoof divided in two 
and that chews the cud,
a miracle began.
I closed my eyes.
I flipped over and floated.
But after a few months
of God holding my 
bobbing soul up 
till belief returned, 
he let go, gently pushing 
me to the shore
where I’m as certain today
there is no god
as I am that nothing less 
set me free.

Tina Williams lives in Austin, TX. Her poems have appeared in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, the New Verse News and Concho River Review.

December

When the sea is huge and raging                                                                                                                    and early in the afternoon the dark is down;                                                                                                  out there, at the very ending of the land,                                                                                                                                                    an orange softness to the sky, and then                                                                                                                            the clouds are parted for a moment blue,                                                                                                         and all the islands flooded in a brokenness of light. 

You stand and watch and want to be there                                                                                                         in that blessing of the light, and wonder                                                                                                          if anyone is standing in its midst and bathed,                                                                                                     baptised in this December’s breath of light. 

There is no need for envy:                                                                                                                                   it is enough to wait for light to fall                                                                                                                  and in the waiting know that one day it will fill                                                                                      your hands, your heart. 

Kenneth Steven is widely published as a poet, a writer of fiction and as a translator (from Norwegian). The lion’s share of his work is inspired by Iona and the Celtic Christian story. His volume of selected poems Iona was published a couple of years back by Paraclete Press in the States.

Hard 
 
Last night. Watched a video  
on YouTube. Some therapist.  
Spiritual. I think. Saying the  
same thing they always say.  
You know. That we should  
love everyone. That it’s  
the healthy thing to do. To  
love them all. The good. The  
bad. The clueless. Everyone.  
No exceptions. And yet,  
and yet. Don’t they know?  
Don’t they? How hard this is.  
I mean. Really. Don’t they?  
And it is. Hard. For me. Not  
that I haven’t tried. You know.  
To love everyone. I have.  
Again and again. I’ve tried.  
But I always blow it. I do.  
So I’m wondering. How do  
the mystics do it? You know.  
All those holy people. How  
do they love everyone? I mean.  
Even Amelia. Just look at her.  
Sitting in my lap. Nothing but  
love in her eyes. And that face.   
Geez. Life would be easier.  
I think. If I were a Chihuahua.  
Trust me. Yes. It would. 

Laura Stamps is the author of over 50 novels and poetry collections. Most recently: “The Good Dog” (Prolific Pulse Press 2023) and “Addicted to Dog Magazines” (Impspired, 2023). Recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and 7 Pushcart Prize nominations. Lover of feral cats, Chihuahuas, and Yorkies. www.laurastamps.wordpress.com   

Credos


Carceral frames are an offshoot of jadedness. In
an unkind ecosystem, the kind clan is isolated.
Your beat lights my landscape, even though
the holders are faulty and the bulbs fused. How
do I know this is for real? I volplane towards
you: the caret remains. Faith is our password.

Sanjeev Sethi has authored seven books of poetry. His latest is Wrappings in Bespoke (The Hedgehog Poetry Press, UK, August 2022). He has been published in over thirty countries. His poems have found a home in more than 400 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. He edited Dreich Planet #1, an anthology for Hybriddreich, Scotland, in December 2022. He is the recipient of the Ethos Literary Award 2022. He is the joint winner of the Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux, organized by Hedgehog Poetry Press, UK. In 2023, he won the First Prize in a Poetry Competition by the prestigious National Defence Academy, Pune, in the “family members category.” He was recently bestowed the 2023Setu Award for Excellence. He lives in Mumbai, India. 

X/ Twitter @sanjeevpoems3 || Instagram sanjeevsethipoems

Labyrinth

I look into the world: 
so many paths
bewilder me with multiplicity.
Which do I choose?
Where do I start?
What way will I go?
How will it end?

Then I see
there is only one path,
the one named
Who am I beyond appearances?
I pick up this thread
and walk.

Back and forth
around and about
distant and close
backtracking, backsliding
foregoing, forgetting
but following, following
till I come to the center,
the heart.

My heart
your heart
our heart
the heart of hearts
still center of silence
pulsing with faith.

There the thread of love
leads me outward again
to rejoin myself
to collect, to connect
the fragments broken
through heartlessness.

So hope is born
in the restful place
where nothing moves
except
everything.

Lory Widmer Hess is an American currently living with her family in Switzerland. She works with adults with developmental disabilities and is in training as spiritual director. Her writing has been published in Parabola, Heart of Flesh, Solum Journal, Ekstasis, Time of Singing, and other print and online publications. She blogs at enterenchanted.com. 

A leaf in the shape of a faerie 


in the shape of a leaf slipped 
upon the twilight’s pink 
& retreating winds. 
The rays of the sun scattered 
across the earth’s atmosphere, 
& as the globe tilted toward 
nightfall, I could see you clearly 
in the shape of a word

as if a great blue heron 
slipped along the water, 
the dark muck of lake 
retreated & ripples spread
in concentric circles, 
the sounds of each letter 
holier than the one before.  

If you happened upon the scene 
at that moment, you would have heard 
what sounded like a star exploding 
in another galaxy, for that is what happened 
on this solitary fall day into night.  
And the word was lovely,  

the word was germane, the word  
settled my heart where it made 
gossamer feathers whereby all my traumas 
lay down their burdens & their wings 
expanded across the rich, strong muscles 
of their backs like Gods in flight. 
I sat at the edge of the forest—

all my traumas lifted upon each leaf’s 
spine & dissolved by the mercies 
of acceptance. I wanted to follow you, 
chaste faerie, into the nothingness 
of night, but you left me there, 
settled in the dirt with rocks 
in my shoes & a word 
on my tongue that tasted 
like honey & went down 
like the juice of one hundred
hallowed pomegranates, each seed 
its own blessing. I finally knew 
the way to save myself—
I rose to my feet & headed home. 

Alicia Elkort‘s first book of poetry, A Map of Every Undoing was published in 2022 by Stillhouse Press with George Mason University, after winning their book contest. Alicia’s poetry has been nominated several times for the Pushcart, Best of the Net, and the Orison Anthology, and her work appears in numerous journals and anthologies. She reads for Tinderbox Poetry Journal and works as a Life Coach in Santa Fe, NM. For more info or to watch her two video poems: http://aliciaelkort.mystrikingly.com/

The Secret Life of a Winter Angel

The old man of winter reaches for immortality.
His name is a colloquialism for the winter season 
derived from ancient mythology. Transformed

into a modern adaptation, he rides upon icy winds 
with a lengthening shadow, explores the aging process 
and presents darkness as a comfort rather than a fear.

A blue vector explorer, he milks the sky of cobalt,
recreation and adventure as I proclaim: He's a comin' 
he's a comin', on a cold and frosty morning. I chant,

sing notes only dogs and my secret demon can hear,
am the original angel who fell and fell. I offer you 
my free song of the month: girl singing, singing,

singing, and am renowned for quick response time,
excellent communication and warm winter clothes. 
Lost heaven is never further than a breath away.

Rupert M 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).