Amethyst Review

River of the Night

We call it the Milky Way – the gleaming 
sweep of stars that crosses, bridge-like,
the clear night sky. But through time 
others have done better.  
The ancient Maya called it the “World Tree”
and in the Kalahari Desert it is named 
the “Backbone of the Night.”
But most cultures see this rift of stars as 
a road or river in the sky.  The Incas called it 
Quechua – the “Sacred River,” 
the Chinese call it the “Silver River,” and 
in Japan it is known as the “Sky River,” 
or as the “River of Heaven.” 
These are better names than ours, by far, 
but still they sell the sacred river short. 
We know today the Milky Way is what we see
of our own galaxy from near its edge – 
and how do you aptly name the view 
of our vast celestial home, of heaven’s gate – 
the starry path that beckons us,
night’s shining river that
reaches to and from forever?

“Richard West” was Regents’ Professor of Classics in a large public university and has published numerous books, as well as many articles and poems, under his own name or various pen names. He now lives with his wife Anna in the American Desert Southwest, where he enjoys cooking and attempting to add flavor to his poems.

Good Neighbor

Morning cooler than usual, the dew glistening.  	
I decide to trespass to get a better look
Ceramic blue and burnt orange
Nicely glazed with fresh violets, marigolds 
And geraniums.

There I observe five pots of flowers 
On my neighbor’s porch
And the shadow of a passing sun
Casting thin draperies 
Of gray across the doorway.   

And now I know I must return 
And replace the stolen look
With something resembling hospitality.
Neighbor to neighbor 
Asking questions, speaking softly, asking

Of the generosity of light, the watering schedule
The ritual of shadow in the windows.
For today I welcome 
The chance to cross over, to be curious
To ask of the little miracles of day

The shadows of birds freckled in the grass 
The wind naming its likeness.
The artistry of returning friendship.
Asking what can a neighbor possibly know of peace?   
Everything it seems, her smile like a rainbow in the sky.  

Keith Melton holds a Master’s in City Planning from Georgia Tech and a BA in Economics and International Studies from the American University. His work has appeared in Amethyst Review, Compass Rose, The Galway Review, Big City Lit, Confrontation, Kansas Quarterly, Mississippi Review, The Miscellany, Pure Slush, Monterrey Poetry Review and others.

Sunday Morning

Night’s last winking star is tinkling out
On songs for strings and xylophone.
It dawdles down the scale
And brings back up a purple sky.

A voice that whispered loving words
As I was half-asleep
Still curls around my ears
And tickles in the cold of still-wet hair.

Today was made with bakers’ conscientious work.
With gentle palms He pressed
And spread the highs and lows.

All I see’s a mass of lacy veils
That’s moving to the church,
And sunlight cracking through the frost
And all I hear’s a cello strain,
Now close enough to silence it could wet its toes,
Yet rising. 

Anton Getzlaf is a poet living in Portland, Oregon. He works as a school custodian for a living.

Spiral


A silver spiral, the clean curve
	of a hand-crafted earring gaining weight
		as each loop orbits the first.
	Light lands gently,
lifts it like a sacred symbol, a sigil
	that is constant in nature —
		the whorls of a shell
	the core of a tornado.
I think of a labyrinth on a Scottish shore
	its journey of stones marked in the sand,
		how the path curled to a cairn,
        a feather, seaweed, driftwood
and how I stood
	not knowing who made it
		or what it meant 
        content to reach its still spot
feel myself unwind

Barbara Hickson’s poems have appeared in anthologies and journals including Poetry Salzburg Review, London Grip, Channel, Echtrai and Finished Creatures amongst many others. They have also won prizes in major competitions. She has two poetry pamphlets, A Kind of Silence (Maytree Press, 2021) and Only the Shining Hours (Maytree Press, 2024).
Barbara lives in Lancaster, UK, with her husband and is a keen fell-walker, organic gardener and nature conservation volunteer.

Aubade

4:00 a.m., wide awake. 
Coffee, toast, a book. 

By 5:00, exhausted, poor excuse 
for being human.

I slip outside into the last of the cool night air.

A breeze strokes the birch’s 
dangling branches into the mane 
of a tender beast.

Tell me, why am I on this earth?

I hear my good friend laughing, 
what she’d say,
You are here. Simple. 
That’s it.

And mostly she’s happy.

The rose petals of the impatiens
flare from the dark.

How long can I stand here praying 
and to what? 

To have loved, 
that is the thing.
 
The crickets churn like a quiet engine 
turning earth toward the day.

Kathleen A Wakefield‘s first book of poetry, Notations on the Visible World (2000), won the 1999 Anhinga Prize for Poetry. Her second book Grip, Give and Sway was published by Silver Birch Press (2016). Her poems have appeared in such journals as the Alaska Quarterly Review, Blue Line, The Georgia Review, Hubbub, HumanaObscura, Image, One, Poetry, Rattle, River Styx, Sewanee Review, Shenandoah, and Visions International. She has taught creative writing at the Eastman School of Music, the University of Rochester, as a poet-in-the-schools, and share poetry through public libraries.

Confession in Gold

Once declared a deliverer 
from slavery. Once overlaid 
the inner sanctuary. On Dura’s plain 
brought threat of fire and fury. Still gifted 
to the child of Mary. 
Perishable, and stones could sing 
in praise of kingly glory; and yet 
your ways are infallibly sturdy. To descend, 
pure as glass, the street, the heavenly city. 
Yet still I speak foolishness 
to the Almighty. 

So arise Lord, 
silence my tongue, break my bones, 
refine me.

Andrew Senior is a writer of poetry and short literary and speculative fiction, based in Sheffield, UK. His work has appeared in various publications including Ekstasis, Fathom, Crow & Cross Keys and Postbox Magazine. Visit https://andrewseniorwriting.weebly.com/

What I have learned

always is
	as long as 	right now

forever is	the sun’s tall shadow
		across one grasp of	 green yard

it is today.

& i cannot break your promise-

i am told time expands		in every direction at once
there is a world	where this is the world,
but for every 	is			there is 	not:

so, in love-		do right	by both

fall laughing,		 & land	in the shattered mirror of
									grace.

swift is not certain

certain is	the sun’s tall shadow
		held loosely		in the copse where children
					turn branch to armament;

we are then called home.

surrender yourself,
	wager your full heart upon
		the game worth losing

	as the ocean gambles its fullness
	upon the shore,

		as the sun stakes its weightlessness
			upon the earth.




Stephen Joffe is an award winning actor, musician, writer, and sound designer based in Toronto. He has previously been published as a playwright, songwriter (Birds of Bellwoods, etc.), and poet.

Land 

Crates of ruby rhubarb, 		
at the city market,		
tall stalks of pink and green, 

sour soldiers of the spring,
born in lines beyond the village: 
light Rhineland soil, 	

come closer, 		
step past the conflicts, 
mind the fallen,

hear the cherry tree 
in its swirling cape of snow, 	
call us to the garden.	

Jill Husser-Munro grew up in the north of Scotland and has lived and worked in Strasbourg, France, for over thirty years. Her work has been published in Poetry Scotland, Amethyst Review, The Alchemy Spoon and Dreich Magazine.

Anniversary 

Good Friday came and left.
I recalled a few years before 
when my sister died. 
We lived in a common sadness 
that was ordinary and blue.

When we sat together, 
light entered from the window.
The beams were undistinguished
but whole in their holy attention
to the detail and clarity of each 
human face. Our invisible breath,
our words, rattled around in that 
luminous air. The light streamed in
like a river without gravity
that ran through time’s windows. 

The entry was triumphant
and lasted the morning while we sat
together, before the light staled. 
And it happened like that every day—
no matter how much we lost, no matter
how many times—that lustrous silence
always came back, and our minds
leaved and flowered through the sky
where we dreamed of following.  
 

Jesse Breite’s recent poetry has appeared in Tinderbox Poetry Journal, The Pinch, Terrain, and Rhino. His first full-length poetry collection is forthcoming from Fernwood Press. Jesse teaches high school in Atlanta, Georgia, where he lives with his wife and two kids. More at jessebreite.com.

A Tree’s Hashkiveinu

Let my roots dive deeply and drink
of soil that has never been tainted
by blood unjustly or otherwise spilled.

Let my trunk grow so wide
that no one can encompass me
alone. Let my strength 
make parent and child,
refugee and soldier,
rabbi and stranger and
lover and lover and lover
join hands to embrace me
and then each other.

Let my branches become
weighted with the privilege
of bearing nourishing fruits
more valuable than rubies
for any who hunger 
for sustenance and sanctuary,
for those who do not have
the means to shelter themselves. 
Let my leaves be a canopy
for those who need solace and rest

And do not let your enemies—greed and fear
and wickedness—sully your heart and
cause you to take up your swords and your axes against me.
Instead, polish your metals
until they shine, and
eschew the mirror.
Raise them skyward, 
and ask God to look at Himself.

Katherine Orfinger is a writer, artist, and MFA candidate at Rosemont College. She draws her inspiration from her Floridian hometown, love of nature, and Jewish faith. Katherine’s work has appeared in The Write Launch, Beyond Queer Words, Touchstone, Aeolus, and many others. She currently resides in Pennsylvania with her partner.