Amethyst Review

Long-Tails

 
These late season winter snows
…..we don’t know,
crane our heads
trying to see
top of the swaying tulip tree –
is that it, tiny, snug in the forked v-
cavity of the highest branch?
Archetypal, these birds are
exemplary recyclers,
everything in the garden
…..has to go –
all the delicacies of her peccadilloes,
her most elusive cryptic signs and sigils,
her mossy rites, silks, cocoons, spiders.

Just as the smallest matryoshka
the tiny egg’s kernel’s set
in the core of the green gold-wrapped nest,
…..warp and weft
weave a multilayered text,
lichen-lore zaps along branches of the oldest apple-tree
and spiders pluck harps
on arbour’s skeined rose.

We do know
moving in and out
the cold doors
of our own comfort zone
that tucked away, high, hidden
in the long-tailed tits’ iconic nest-home,
is the sanctum,
our wild birds’
…..Book
of Hours.

In recent years Julie Sampson‘s poetry has appeared in a variety of magazines, including Shearsman, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Journal, Amaryllis Poetry, The Algebra of Owls, Molly Bloom, The Poetry Shed, The Lake, Amethyst Review, Poetry Space and Pulsar. Shearsman published her edition of Mary Lady Chudleigh; Selected Poems, in 2009 and a full collection, Tessitura, in 2014. A non-fiction manuscript was short-listed for The Impress Prize, in 2015 and a pamphlet, It Was When It Was When It Was, was published by Dempsey and Windle, March 2018.

 Darwin’s Questions

Upon reading Oliver Sacks, The River of Consciousness

We evolve together
in the way of orchids
and pollinators –

Bats, bees, moths,
hummingbirds
in the dance
of co-evolution.

Why are there night-blooming
orchids?

…………….Moths
appear, at night.

The orchid’s pollinia–
a circle of pollen —
seeks
a certain pollinator.

On the Isle of Reunion
the bee orchid lures male
bees.
……….The orchid’s iridescent
……….wing patterns
……….resemble the female bee,
……….creating allomones,
……….which mimic the scent
……….of female bees.

How could the star-shaped orchid
with a nectary a foot long
be pollinated?
By whom?

the hawkmoth, reaches into the white
star
of the orchid.

Deborah Leipziger is an author, poet, professor, and mother. Her chapbook, Flower Map, was published by Finishing Line Press (2013). She is the co-founder of Soul-Lit, an on-line poetry magazine. Born in Brazil, Ms. Leipziger is the author of several books on human rights and sustainability. http://flowermap.net/

The Elephants

He loved elephants above all things.

‘Did you see the elephants in the bedroom?’ he would ask every day as if he’d never asked before. ‘Yes, I did.’ I would answer. ‘I like them a lot.’ That left him satisfied, at least for a time. From his bed I could see the elephant pictures, clipped from old calendars and National Geographic, taped to the door.

‘Did you see the elephants in the kitchen?’ he would ask. Yes. Two solid silver elephant bookends stood sentry at the kitchen window. Not many books left in that house for them. I did find an elephant bookmark, all long trunk, next to the remote on the table by his favorite chair, a wingback he got some lady to re-cover in hideous maroon nubby synthetic in exchange for an antique vanity of my mother’s. He never was good at business, my brother said. From that chair he would often watch Hot Bench and NASCAR. He didn’t seem like a Hot Bench NASCAR kind of guy. Nevertheless, they were right up there on the list of things loved, after elephants.

One Christmas I had given him an elephant decoration. Soft, gray, with sequins. When he went into the home, I pinned it on the wall so he could see it from his bed. ‘I love that elephant,’ he would say every day. ‘Can you see how it sparkles when the light hits it? Can you see it? Come over here and see it!’ ‘Yes, I see it, dad.’ I would reply. ‘I love it too.’ That left him satisfied, for a time.

Years ago, when the circus came to town, we would walk over to 23rd street to wave at the elephants on parade. When Barnum shut down last year, the elephants went to a sanctuary in Gainesville. We talked about going up there, looked at the elephant pictures on the website, how great it would be, to get that close, to see the elephants happy and free. ‘What is that,’ he’d ask, ‘a four-hour drive?’ Sitting that long, for him the pain would be unbearable. ‘Maybe after I get that operation we can go.’

Only one thing dad made us swear. Return to the Long Island beach club where he and mom met as teenagers and put their ashes in the ocean. We kept the promise. It was a spectacular day. Not a cloud in the sky. My brother and I walked out on the rock jetty and watched as the ashes washed away in the waves.

Yesterday a friend sent me a video of two elephants swimming off the coast of Gabon. Side by side they moved together, their majestic heads rising and sinking in the waves, trunks reaching out of the water for air now and again. There was a long way to go before they would get to an island off in the distance. But then they always were terrific swimmers.

Jennifer Reek holds a PhD from the Centre for Literature, Theology and the Arts, University of Glasgow. She is author of A Poetics of Church: Reading and Writing Sacred Spaces of Poetic Dwelling (2018) and co-editor of the forthcoming Thresholds of Wonder: Poetry, Philosophy and Theology in Conversation.

Gematriyot [1]

All those old Kabbalists
sitting in dark rooms, with
mystical abaci
counting and pacing and
counting some more, spin meaning
to fit each letter, so,
when called, they are filled with
sorcery: ordering
the universe bit by bit,
pattern by pattern,
shamanistic wallpaper
for the rooms in our brains.

As planes and syllables
slide along their axes
especially in your voice,
I cannot help but hear them
there, commanding
the letters to line up
and march, but some refuse:

some let go of the neat
arrangement and careen on echoes,
rejecting the order of the world and spill out.

This is what my rabbi
means, I think, when he says
some things are just not ordained.

Sarah A. Etlinger is an English professor who resides in Milwaukee, WI, with her family. In addition to writing, hobbies include cooking, traveling, and learning to play piano. Look for her work in The Penwood Review, The Magnolia Review, Cliterature, and many others. Her chapbook, Never One For Promises, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books in 2019.

[1] Gematriyot (or gematria) is a Jewish version of numerology, where each character is assigned a number and, when “added” up, the numbers can be said to have a particular meaning. However, this is not a traditional practice, as it is found in the Kabbalah—books of Jewish mysticism.

three of swords

some say all that suffering
leads to something better
than sand flowing through
broken-hearts…….going forward
finally grasping…….love lacking depth
is no love at all

thunderstorms pierce my heart
pouring tearing grey clouds
and I count myself lucky
for there is no white bull
to charm me or climb upon
reckless abandonment
snared an emotional trap
that…….other…….love

and I’m still snivelling sadness
shedding loss…….lamenting
loneliness…….howling heartbreak
grievingly grieved…….healing upheaval
embracing destructive love
by letting go…….lessons from
an unknown…….third party rush
this shallow gal got hooked on

pain lacking patterns missing depth
because I didn’t see a clearing
path ahead…….true love
isn’t really encouraged
or even understood
making my eyes flood
down on me like rain knowing
there are jewels in teardrops

loves-superficiality verses nurturing
togetherness…….deep longing
didn’t work…….and we tried
fluff attracts like lint
on cloaking and we’re
all sold on addiction
romance addicts
not truly hitched
insecure romantics
bewitched with objective affection
he knew…….knows all that
old material…….things died
rekindled…….rebirthed deepened love

and its darned hard work
some don’t work at
unpleasantly getting through
readjusting disappointments
moving closer together
new ways of loving…….far removed
from neurotic love enshrined
in movies

I closed that door…….looked ahead
crossed an ocean…….rented a room
with a view…….for me
and didn’t look back
because my love…….is…….too thick

Ruby McCann is a creative practitioner who holds degrees from Trinity Washington and University of Glasgow.  She has published work in publications, You Don’t Look British, Anti-Heroin Chic, Gaelstrom-1 Magazine, Invisible Cities, Poetry Scotland, Journeys, Word Rhythms, and many others.  She lives in Glasgow, Scotland next to the River Clyde.  Nature and walking inspires her writing.

Sacred Soil

I wear no shoes
touching the earth
kissing the crush of dinosaur bones
tribal art of Indian’s
clay, mosaics, arrowheads
pointing to legends and lovers

My soles need soil
drawing truths through my pores
through roots of fern and moss

Do plants thirst, greedily gulping memories?
the veins of roses bleeding
carrying the vibrancy of shades past?
My toes touching
dinosaurs and diamonds

Heather M. Browne is a faith-based psychotherapist, recently nominated for the Pushcart Award, published in the Orange Room, Boston Literary Review, Page & Spine, Eunoia Review, Poetry Quarterly, Red Fez, Electric Windmill, Apeiron, The Lake, Knot, mad swirl.  Red Dashboard   published two collections: Directions of Folding and Altar Call of Trumpets.  www.thehealedheart.net

Iglesia 1953

no one sweeping the stairs
no one comes and goes
no services posted
a soundless congregation

(curious thoughts of a young child)

on this German-Irish-Italian block,
Dutchtown’s misplaced immigrant
foreign, mysterious,
marks time in silence––

alongside Lou’s butcher shop,
lacking sacramental staging,
this small chapel––
more a landscape where people pass by,
hear little
see no one

curious

Holding Open 

“The gates made of light swing open.
You see in.”
-Rumi

I want to enter the Gate of the Beloved.
Wait for me there
Holding open the gates of light.

Your blue eyes beckoning,
Bid me enter your city
Ancient, lovely, petrified.

I enter your gates with offerings —
Pomegranates and honey dates.
All that I will be is here.
Entering.

Deborah Leipziger is an author, poet, professor, and mother. Her chapbook, Flower Map, was published by Finishing Line Press (2013). She is the co-founder of Soul-Lit, an on-line poetry magazine. Born in Brazil, Ms. Leipziger is the author of several books on human rights and sustainability. http://flowermap.net/

A Hummingbird Suite

I
. . . and their image was impressed
upon land the rain scarcely knew, in limestone
that endures the passing
of the sun, so they can be seen
by the gods of light
when their time comes to seek
refuge on Earth.

II
In the age before, an evil spirit
gambled against the sun
and lost,
…………….then in his anger spat
lava enough to burn all
the Earth. Where the tall and mighty
failed, a hummingbird
went out to gather clouds
from which
……………………the rain extinguished
every fire. Daily now
the bird appears atop the sunrise
displaying on its throat
the colors it acquired
flying through the rainbow.

III
From any window, at any given time, one
may be seen to hover
by the desert willow, at the lantana in bloom,
in a tangle of mesquite,
…………………………………….with a heart
that beats two hundred times
each second, and sixty seconds
in every minute of its life.

IV
The oldest story is
that people lived inside the ground
until they sent a hummingbird
up and out to see
what was above. The newer version
has us burdened with ourselves, all darkness
and anxiety,
……………………but the fluorescent
reflection in a falling raindrop
says to live on.

V
The elders could not see beyond blue sky
to know what forces
gathered there for good
or evil, or
to keep the planet’s place
within the universe,
……………………………………so they freed
the hummingbird from the tendrils that bound it
to them and waited
for it to return and describe
the other side of existence.
So it came back
………………………….even brighter
than it had been, and hovered in air
to display itself as part
of the only world created.

VI
At two o’clock each afternoon
thunder breaks and the sky
pours down into
a forest where lightning
spears an errant leaf
from the tip of which a Violet Sabrewing
drinks green rain.

VII
Of lichens, down, and spider silk, the nests
can float on storms
and when the eggs have hatched
expand. After fledging time
it holds a while
to the branch like a purse whose only penny
bought redemption.

VIII
A Costa’s hummingbird, each afternoon,
rests on the slender inches
growing out from an ocotillo stem
and prints a silhouette
against the air, moving only
for preening as he lifts a wing to scratch
beneath it and briefly spread
his tail before he turns his beak a few degrees
to be a compass needle for the sun.

IX
Because we have no better explanation
we shall say
that fallen warriors ascend
to the sun, where they become
hummingbirds and return to Earth. We
shall say that each moment spent
watching their feathers glow
brings us more than a lifetime
in war.

X
We see
but do not hear
the Anna’s hummingbird until
it is close
and the wings vibrate in sympathy
with the red
gorget.

XI
While the larger birds enlisted
to defend the skies: the hawks
and eagles with their wings spanned wide
and talons unsheathed,
those who occupied the deserts and
leafy canyons called
……………………………………on hummingbirds
to dazzle any threat that came their way
with drops of color flashing. While condors rattled
in their armor
high above the world,
the Emerald and Woodstar
colluded with a Thorntail to reclaim with grace
what fate and force
had stolen.

XII
Then we shall say they bring rain.
For in a lasting drought we have
no other hope. And if rain does not come
we shall say we lived in beauty
to the end.

David Chorlton is a transplanted European, who has lived in Phoenix since 1978. His poems have appeared in many publications online and in print, and reflect his affection for the natural world. His newest book publication is Shatter the Bell in my Ear, his translations of poems by Austrian poet Christine Lavant.