Amethyst Review

Cardio Theater

This flock of birds feeds on willingness
to merge with others in a common flight
over our quantum terrain of meaning-
lessness, our perplexed transvection an
object for discussion or disdain or distant
mistrust, at least for as long as our fathers
are still around, seemingly always recited
in the King James translation, “who art”
&c., & who indeed, feeling like Geoffrey Hill
on a Monday afternoon, could be in heave-
n? & still a fixedness gets us, holds us in
arrears, tells me jokes but won’t help me
fix this tie or finish my eulogy, not mine but
one I’m meant to deliver, like fireworks or
cigarettes over a state border, a curve
these same birds traverse every day, some-
times even shitting on it, on the very idea
of separation, as their shifting cloud tight-
ens & then (at last) begins to disperse
into the reddish-pink of this finished day.

Tom Snarsky teaches mathematics at Malden High School in Malden, Massachusetts, USA

abandoned church

hardwood littered with candles and hymnal pages / feel my flesh crawl like cobweb brush, ghost finger caress / half inside half out like purgatory

false idol nightmare face painted above the altar / forever smirking at “til death do us part” / batshit crazy stir crazy Jesus / tired of haunting this place / wanted dead or alive / worship like ghost hunting

draw ouija board on torn out bible page / forgotten psalm

fill the cathedral with flashlight glow / inspect the dirty wound /each time you revisit this place you bleed / blood oath with the ghosts

imagine getting married here / spray painting your vows on the walls beside the bleeding signatures / steeple pigeons sing you down the aisle / wearing dusty tulle drapery as a veil / mummified

feel around in the dark for the secrets the night keeps / written in braille

Rebecca Kokitus is a part time resident of Media, PA just outside Philadelphia, and a part time resident of a small town in rural Schuylkill County, PA. She is an aspiring poet and is currently an undergraduate in the writing program at West Chester University of Pennsylvania. She has recent work in Rag Queen Periodical and Moonchild Magazine, and more work in other places. She tweets at @rxbxcca_anna.

Moving on Water

The wind coming down
is thrown into rock
by the sea’s fist
over and over.

This water is solid
to the touch,
wedge-shaped gulls
are rocking to its beat

and its veins run like a map
of the hand that
is always being punctured
and made whole again.

 

Carolyn Oulton‘s poetry has been published in magazines including Orbis, The Frogmore Papers, iota, Seventh Quarry, Ariadne’s Thread, Envoi, New Walk, Upstreet, Acumen and Ink, Sweat and Tears. Her most recent collection Accidental Fruit is published by Worple Press. Her website is at carolynoulton.co.uk

illumined absences: iii

there is an absolute calm beyond the
spreadsheets of my saudade; the songster
under-souls, I can hear their chirps

and rhythm of the absence

entwined with the sonic
multitude of my mundane contracts.

what can’t be said, must be passed over
in silence, wittgenstein said.

buddha did not utter a freaking word.

absolute silence is a myth, john cage
would have said.

I watch the fireflies coming into life
from the worm-holes of void. I never felt

so complete; so full of rainbowed lack.

 

Sudeep Adhikari is a structural engineer/Lecturer from
Kathmandu, Nepal.  His recent publications were with Beatnik Cowboys,
Chiron Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Midnight Lane Boutique, and
Occulum. Also a Pushcart Prize nominee for the year 2018, Sudeep
is currently working on his 4th poetry-book Hyper-Real Reboots.

And so I say

 

Hypnotic transience

circulates through

the body of time

 

And so I say;

 

Dance with the bones

of your ancestors

until you join them

 

Hedonists sip on the

philosophical

 

And so I say;

 

Burn in the flames

and spread your ashes

to the edge of the world

 

 

Achilles is gone forever and

Sleep is the brother of death

 

and so I say;

 

Light your candles now

before dusk settles

on your eyes

 

Adam Levon Brown is an internationally published author, poet, amateur photographer. He is Founder, Owner, and editor in chief of Madness Muse Press. He has had poetry published hundreds of times in several languages, along with 2 full collections and 3 chapbooks. He also participates as an assistant editor at Caravel Literary Arts Journal.

A View from a Window

after the Charlottesville, VA race riots, August, 2017

The birds like to perch on the leafless tree.
“They have a better view of things,”my husband observed.
A better view whether they sit together,
or on separate branches. Clear all around
to rest a while, test the air, the wind where next to fly.

An artist said, “All I need is a framed window
to view life.” Life that offers the vagaries of weather,
a ballet of light on sun-splintered water,
an aerial show of suspended clouds
and only a squabble between gulls over a dropped clam.

All this far from hate-mongering
herds and white coned creatures wielding
torches and hurling words heavier than rocks.

 

Janet Krauss, a widely published poet, has two books published, Borrowed Scenery(Yuganta Press), and Through the Trees of Autumn(Spartina Press), 2005 and 2007, respectively. She was twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She retired in May, 2017 after 39 years of teaching writing and literature at Fairfield University where she received the Adjunct Award of the Year in 2006. She also enjoys teaching creative writing in the Bridgeport, CT schools. She has participated three times in the Wickford Art Association Poetry and Art exhibit. In addition, she is co-director of the poetry program of the Black Rock Art Guild in Bridgeport, CT. And she attends the Connecticut Poetry Society workshop at the Wilton Library.

Aging, Weston Priory

Who will last longer,
me or this place?
It feels like an old
marriage. We say
to each other, “Don’t
be hurt, but I hope
I go first.” In its
heyday, this hill
Vatican II Woodstock
every Sunday. I never
came then, youthfully
declaiming “if everyone
likes it, there must be
something wrong” forty
years and a conversion
later, hineni
here I am, three
times a year the
brothers grey without
replacement like
an old marriage I
say, “who will refuge
me when you are
gone?” Still
I don’t want
to go first
regardless
of all that’s wrong.

 

Wayne-Daniel Berard teaches English and Humanities at Nichols College in Dudley, MA. Wayne-Daniel is a Peace Chaplain, an interfaith clergy person, and a member of B’nai Or of Boston. He has published widely in both poetry and prose, and is the co-founding editor of Soul-Lit, an online journal of spiritual poetry. His latest chapbook is Christine Day, Love Poems. He lives in Mansfield, MA with his wife, The Lovely Christine

To the moon and over the stars in a cupboard of   love

Sugar lumps; mixed white and brown
rough cut, tumbled up.
One for the cup, one for the pocket
one for the pony (strong, warm, nuzzle up).
…………..Come chil’ see the ripple in my muscle
…………..that’s the ripple of the earth rising up as The Andes.
…………..Climb up here we’ll away and see.
…………..Feel the thrill, smell the fear, sense the   climb.
 
Apples; golden, green or russet
orchard fresh or winter press.
One for the bowl, one with cheese
one for the pony (strong, warm, nuzzle up).
…………..Come chil’ see the steam from my nostrils
…………..it’s the steam from the geysers bursting through Icelandic crust.
…………..Spring up here and we’ll away and see.
…………..Feel the pulse, smell the sweat, sense the   life.

Carrots; round or enormous
long or weirdest of all.
One for the nammet,* one for the soup
one for the pony (strong ,warm, nuzzle up).
…………..Come chil’ see the blaze on my forelock
…………..it’s a lightning blaze across the Mongolian plain.
…………..Hold up here we’ll away and see.
…………..Feel the rain, smell new grass, sense the   age.
 
Water; clear crystal, cold
fresh from the river or tap.
Bowl for the bird, glass for me
bucket for the pony (strong, warm, nuzzle up).
…………..Come chil’ see the waves in my tail
…………..they’r the waves of the sea that meet The Namib.
…………..Ride up here and we’ll away and see.
…………..Feel the spray, smell the dust, sense the   stars.
 
Hay; could only be ‘well got’
sweet and tangled.
Strand behind the ear, some caught in my boot
a bag for the Pony (strong, warm, nuzzle up).
…………..Come chil’ your head on my chest
…………..a place for you to rest.
…………..Slip up here and we’ll away and see.
…………..Feel the cool night air, smell saddle soap, sense the   dreams.

*nammet; term used on the Isle of Wight to refer to a packed lunch.

Ruth Gilchrist is a Scottish based writer. A member of EyeWrite and Dunbar’s Writing Mums. “Writer of the Year 2015” Tyne and Esk. Ruth collaborates with museums, photographers, film poems, radio and musicians. Poems published in Snakesin and Scrivens webzines and the SouthBank poetry magazine Southlight and The Eildon Tree. Also in various anthologies, including the Federation of Writers Scotland.

Consolation to the Assembled

When the bishop
of Tarragona
untied
his own sandals
did his fingers
tremble
with fear
or only joy?

Chanting a blessing
for the fire
he ran toward,
Fructuoso prayed
to be consumed.
Born

to the stars.
The bone collectors
come,
leave through
the vomitorium

folding time,
taking
precious tokens
and holy ash
remnants
of the saint.

While the choir
sings,
entomb them
in the abbey
only reached by sea.

 

Ray Ball, Ph.D., is a history professor, essayist, and poet. She grew up in Oklahoma and Texas, but now lives in Anchorage, Alaska. She is the author of two history books and her verse has recently appeared in Cirque, Longleaf Review, and West Texas Literary Review.